Page 29 of Ravaged From Fate

“Fuck the past.”

It’s more a mumble than a coherent sentence. I feel so exposed saying it.

“Louder, bro.”

Fucking hell.

I punch again.

And again, “Fuck the past.”

“Louder!”

Shut up, man.

Another punch.

“Fuck the past.”

“Again!”

Another punch.

“Fuck the past!”

“Louder, bro. Louder!”

Punch. Punch. Punch.

I’ll give you loud…

“Fuck the past! Fuck the past! Fuck the past!”

I’m screaming now.

“Fuck the past! Fuck the past! Fuck the past!”

I’m barely even punching, just throwing my arms about wildly in the direction of Cyrus, yelling out those words from the pit of my stomach.

And then I’m slowing down. No longer boxing. No longer shouting.

Just exhausted. I’ve run out of breath.

I’ve run out of strength.

Cyrus beams at me, nodding. He’s damn pleased with where he’s pushed me.

“I thought so,” he mutters. “How about we stop for a moment and then let’s have a proper sparring session? Take a seat.”

I don’t say a word. I take the boxing gloves off my hands and throw them childishly at my feet in the middle of the ring.

And I take a seat, in the far corner of the gym, away from everyone else.

Fuck the past? Fuck Cyrus.

I wouldn’t admit this to anyone else in a million years, but it’s like a heavy bag of stones has been removed off my back by saying those words in the ring.

Fuck the past.