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Obliques
f·o u r t·a n t a l i z e
I wake up in what feels like a cushiony bed. I rub my eyes, feeling my neck throbbing. I look around and see the white walls with exposed bricks and shelves and things. I’m in someone’s bedroom. Light seeps through the thick dark shreds of curtain. The ceiling carries metal beams and a slow going fan. I try to slowly crawl out. My feet land on coarse animal fur. It’s like one big industrial loft.
I sit still and think. I don’t know how to live anymore. I wonder what Prance is doing. I hope he’s not looking for me. I hope he forgets me. A part of me misses him. My hand raises and brushes my lips. The memory of his soft kiss comes into the foreground of my mind. I’ll never know why he did it. Though, I’ll need to forget it.
I finally get up to my feet. I tug on a drawer, leading me to some clothes. I pull out a hooded jumper and find a shower. There’s only cold water falling through. I’ve gotten used to the steamy baths, but I refuse to file complaints. I scrub my skin, noticing my bruises. I draw my fingers through my knotted hair, untangling it. The chill makes me shiver. I quickly dry up and get dressed.
I head straight to the training center. The gym is empty, luckily. I walk over to a big red punching bag on springs. I stare at it, deciding that I’ll never be the controller of my fate. There’s always someone out there telling me what to do and what not to do. I give the bag a punch with my right hand, blowing air out my lungs. Everything I believe doesn’t exist. I punch again. No one understands how I feel. They all look for a greater purpose. I tried to look further than the present and it always look bleak. Punch. There is no freedom. Punch. There is only oppression. Punch. And rules. Punch. And hate. Punch. All I wanted was to get away from it all. Punch. Now I have to face it all over again. Punch. Now I have to fight it. Punch. I don’t want to fight a battle I’ve already lost. Punch. Punch. Punch.
I keep on hitting the wobbling bag, crushing my hands under the pressure. My thoughts flood me. I’m suddenly out of breath, as I feel a stirring in my chest.
“You’re just going to get tired.”
The voice startles me and I jump, panting. I see the young leader stand there, like he’s been there for a while. I clutch my beating heart, airless.
He throws punching gloves at me, which I fail to catch. They fall, and I have to pick them up.
“Put these on,” he suggests, mocking me, “You don’t want to mess up your pretty little manicure.”
I frown, slipping my hands in the gloves. I do notice that my French tipped fingers are still holding up from a few days ago. I sigh, trying to forget the occasion for them being on my hands in the first place.
“The trick is to find your center.”
I watch him point to his chest, drawing a line down to his abdomen. I watched a little too closely.
“You mustn’t use your arms strength. You must use your core,” he says.
He approaches the bag and swings a single punch, making the bag to spin and fly backwards.
He then looks at me, “You try.”
I tuck my hair behind my ear and take deep breaths.
I imitate his movements, but the bag still doesn’t move for me. I only hurt my hand. I expect him to laugh or snicker or something, but he doesn’t. He just stares at me. My palms sweat. His raven curls are tied back, revealing his face. His caressing dark tattoos show through the rolled up sleeves of his t-shirt.
“What?” I ask.
“You’re a quicker learner than I thought,” he mutters.
His spotty freckles dance over his cheeks, as he speaks.
“What are you talking about?” I ask, viewing the unmoving bag. “I didn’t hit it hard enough.”
“That’s not important.”
I drop my eyes down and look at the ground, “Then what’s important?”
“Knowing,” he says.
There’s pause in the air, as he takes off his gloves. We make eye contact. His eyes are like a dense forest in mid-day.
“Kier,” he says.
“Huh?” I say.
“My name is Kier.”
I nod.
“Oh… I’m Sage,” I tell him.
He glances away, “I know. My father talks all about you, since you appeared.”
I raise a brow, “I thought you said he’s not father, but your commander.”
He looks back at me, raising his own brow.
“I know what I said.”
He walks out of the gym. I debate on whether I should follow or stay. But my legs bring me behind him. I feel tiny pearls of sweat coming onto the bridge of my nose. I wipe my face, breathing through my mouth. It’s as if there is a furnace sitting on me. The heat traveling my body haunts me.
“Listen,” Kier’s voice comes, “I don’t know where you came from, and I don’t care. But you’re in Badok now. You follow our rules.”
“I get it,” I snap.
Suddenly, he grabs my arm and yanks me to him.
“That’s no way to talk to your superior,” he says sternly. I fidget in his grasp, but he only tightens his grip. His touch burns. “You’re a soldier now. Start acting like it.”
He finally lets go and walks away. I quietly scowl at his back.
I sit still and think. I don’t know how to live anymore. I wonder what Prance is doing. I hope he’s not looking for me. I hope he forgets me. A part of me misses him. My hand raises and brushes my lips. The memory of his soft kiss comes into the foreground of my mind. I’ll never know why he did it. Though, I’ll need to forget it.
I finally get up to my feet. I tug on a drawer, leading me to some clothes. I pull out a hooded jumper and find a shower. There’s only cold water falling through. I’ve gotten used to the steamy baths, but I refuse to file complaints. I scrub my skin, noticing my bruises. I draw my fingers through my knotted hair, untangling it. The chill makes me shiver. I quickly dry up and get dressed.
I head straight to the training center. The gym is empty, luckily. I walk over to a big red punching bag on springs. I stare at it, deciding that I’ll never be the controller of my fate. There’s always someone out there telling me what to do and what not to do. I give the bag a punch with my right hand, blowing air out my lungs. Everything I believe doesn’t exist. I punch again. No one understands how I feel. They all look for a greater purpose. I tried to look further than the present and it always look bleak. Punch. There is no freedom. Punch. There is only oppression. Punch. And rules. Punch. And hate. Punch. All I wanted was to get away from it all. Punch. Now I have to face it all over again. Punch. Now I have to fight it. Punch. I don’t want to fight a battle I’ve already lost. Punch. Punch. Punch.
I keep on hitting the wobbling bag, crushing my hands under the pressure. My thoughts flood me. I’m suddenly out of breath, as I feel a stirring in my chest.
“You’re just going to get tired.”
The voice startles me and I jump, panting. I see the young leader stand there, like he’s been there for a while. I clutch my beating heart, airless.
He throws punching gloves at me, which I fail to catch. They fall, and I have to pick them up.
“Put these on,” he suggests, mocking me, “You don’t want to mess up your pretty little manicure.”
I frown, slipping my hands in the gloves. I do notice that my French tipped fingers are still holding up from a few days ago. I sigh, trying to forget the occasion for them being on my hands in the first place.
“The trick is to find your center.”
I watch him point to his chest, drawing a line down to his abdomen. I watched a little too closely.
“You mustn’t use your arms strength. You must use your core,” he says.
He approaches the bag and swings a single punch, making the bag to spin and fly backwards.
He then looks at me, “You try.”
I tuck my hair behind my ear and take deep breaths.
I imitate his movements, but the bag still doesn’t move for me. I only hurt my hand. I expect him to laugh or snicker or something, but he doesn’t. He just stares at me. My palms sweat. His raven curls are tied back, revealing his face. His caressing dark tattoos show through the rolled up sleeves of his t-shirt.
“What?” I ask.
“You’re a quicker learner than I thought,” he mutters.
His spotty freckles dance over his cheeks, as he speaks.
“What are you talking about?” I ask, viewing the unmoving bag. “I didn’t hit it hard enough.”
“That’s not important.”
I drop my eyes down and look at the ground, “Then what’s important?”
“Knowing,” he says.
There’s pause in the air, as he takes off his gloves. We make eye contact. His eyes are like a dense forest in mid-day.
“Kier,” he says.
“Huh?” I say.
“My name is Kier.”
I nod.
“Oh… I’m Sage,” I tell him.
He glances away, “I know. My father talks all about you, since you appeared.”
I raise a brow, “I thought you said he’s not father, but your commander.”
He looks back at me, raising his own brow.
“I know what I said.”
He walks out of the gym. I debate on whether I should follow or stay. But my legs bring me behind him. I feel tiny pearls of sweat coming onto the bridge of my nose. I wipe my face, breathing through my mouth. It’s as if there is a furnace sitting on me. The heat traveling my body haunts me.
“Listen,” Kier’s voice comes, “I don’t know where you came from, and I don’t care. But you’re in Badok now. You follow our rules.”
“I get it,” I snap.
Suddenly, he grabs my arm and yanks me to him.
“That’s no way to talk to your superior,” he says sternly. I fidget in his grasp, but he only tightens his grip. His touch burns. “You’re a soldier now. Start acting like it.”
He finally lets go and walks away. I quietly scowl at his back.