12 Rounds (4 page)

Satines’s dark eyes are locked on mine and I want to roll mine, but refrain. Sometimes she gets on my damn nerves. You know some people say they know how you feel, but they really don’t. Satine does that. I know she’s only trying to help and that’s why I pay her, but even after I leave our sessions I feel like I’ll be emotionally scarred forever.

Mentally damaged.

Sealed tightly and closed off.

I wonder if I’ll ever be the girl I used to be. The one who was outgoing. The one who was happy. The one who embraced each new day like she was embarking on an epic journey. Satine’s words fill my head, “You’ll get better with time.” Sometimes I wonder if more than anything that’s just a crock of shit therapists feed people like me. The people with issues.

Time doesn’t heal pain.

You do.

And I just can’t seem to flip that switch.

Dr. Satine Moreau couldn’t possibly understand what I'm going through, or just how difficult it is to put the past behind me and start over again. Satine was never nearly beaten to death or seconds away from being raped. Well that I know of anyway. And if she did go through something like I did she doesn’t show any signs of past trauma so that’s where I base my assumption.

 She sits across from me, tan legs crossed, hazel eyes narrowed. She shakes her head, her short ebony bob swishing back and forth. Then she jots something down on her notepad and I look out the window. Lush green leaves are starting to color the trees, and spots of yellow dandelions are sprouting up along the sidewalk.

“How have you been sleeping?” she inquires.

“Great,” I mutter. Thanks to a beautiful drug called Ambien that she prescribed me a few months ago. With the Ambien I get at least six hours of sleep and that's more than I was getting before she put me on it. Before she put me on sleeping pills I was lucky if I got two hours of sleep. The drug is like a cement barrier that blocks out everything.

The violent nightmares I used to have wouldn't let me rest. I could practically feel hands on my throat strangling the life out of me the further and further I dipped into my slumber. In result, my grades plummeted and I nearly flunked out of my sophomore year of college.

I glance down at my hands. My fingers are trembling and I feel like there's a giant weight pressing on my chest. I clasp my hands together and exhale. Papers rustle against the quiet in the room and I stare at Satine, who now has her hands folded in her lap. “And exactly how long has it been since you've had a nightmare?” Her soft matronly voice is laced with concern.

“Almost four months.”

She takes in a deep breath, purses her lips, and leans back in her chair. Placing her palms flat against each other, she brings the tip of her fingers to her lips. “How have you been feeling as a whole?”

My chin quivers and I can feel all of the pent up emotion inside of me rising to the surface. I close my eyes, swallow hard, and clear my throat. “Weak.”

Satine leans forward the slightest bit and her hazel eyes penetrate my jade green ones. I break away from her gaze and stare at the floor. This is what bothers me the most about everything—that  I'm weak. Before, I never used to be. I was bold. Always ready to try anything the world thrust at me, always ready to stand up for what I believed in, and I'd never backed down to anyone or anything.

I lift my eyes from the floor as Satine gets up from her chair and moves around to the front of her desk. The massive, cherry wood organizer is stacked with heaped over stacks of papers and I watch Satine intensely as she rummages through the top drawer. “Ahh, here it is,” she sighs and walks back to her seat. She sits back down, crosses her long legs, and extends her hand to me. There's a white business-like card tucked between her forefinger and middle finger. “Here,” she urges, “take it.”

I hesitate, keeping my eyes on her perfectly manicured fingernails. She thrusts the card toward me again with insistent eyes. “Whhh—” I stutter, then clear my throat. “What is that for?”

When I take the card from Satine's fingertips she leans back in her seat. “That woman is a good friend of mine. And I think what she has to offer will help you tremendously.”

Scanning the card, the name burns my eyes. “Melissa Thorpe.” Then my eyes roll down to the description under the name. “Self-defense instructor.”

“She teaches at classes over at the Joe’s Gym. Several of my clients who have been through something traumatic just like you have found her classes immensely helpful.”

I'm not sure if I would. A class means a room full of people. I don't do people. At least not since the attack. I have a hard enough time during lectures. Even though I distance myself from the other people in the hall, sitting in the very back, there are still times where I feel like the whole room is closing in around me and I have to call my roommate, Lara, so she can come pick me up.

 “I don't know, Satine,” I whisper as I tuck the card into my purse. “I don't know if I'll be able to handle it.”

Satine stands, positions herself in front of me, and places both of her hands on my shoulders. I wince and take in a deep breath at the feel of her touch, then exhale. It's just Satine. My therapist. She's not going to do anything. She's not going to hurt me. “Hadley, look at me.” Her voice is low yet feminine and nurturing. My eyes meet hers and she nods. “I have faith in you. Not just as your doctor, but as your friend. You can do this. You will get through this difficult time. Believe me, Hadley.”

I nod. I want to believe her, but after everything I've been through sometimes it feels like moving past everything that's happened is only wishful thinking.

~ ~ ~

“Hey there roomie!” Lara smiles brightly as I slide into the passenger seat of her Ford Focus. The radiant sun flits in through the windshield and casts flecks of white against her platinum hair. In certain spots it looks like there are pieces of silver glitter.

Lara and I have been best friends since our freshman orientation. I was actually running thirty minutes late and when I walked into the overly packed auditorium, my cheeks were already fifty shades of crimson when I thought about trying to find a seat,  and interrupting the dean who had to have noticed me. Then Lara came along. I moved forward slightly and she gripped my forearm, yanking me down into the seat next to her before anyone could highlight my tardiness. She smiled and said, “I just wanted to save you from your impending mortification.” I let out a soft laugh, thanked her, and we’ve been best friends ever since.

“Hi,” I reply softly and buckle my seat belt. When the metal prong clicks into place, I place my purse in my lap and pull the card Satine gave me out of the inner pocket. Just before Lara puts the car in drive, I set the card on her thigh.

She picks it up and examines it. “Satine gave you this?”

“Yeah.”

“She wants you to take self-defense  classes?”

“Yeah.”

The smile on Lara's face grows wider and brightens, touching her powder blue eyes. After a second her smile  softens and her eyes move back and forth as she takes in the frustrated look on my face. “Are you considering giving it a shot?”

I shrug and look out the window. “I don't know. Maybe.”

“Well, I think you should.” She sets the card on the dash and pulls away from the curb. “I'll even go with you.”

Slouching in my seat, I rest my head against the window. “I don't know, Lara. You know I have issues.” With a lot more than I would care to admit.

This will be a whole gym full of people and not just women, men too. I'm usually okay around women, at least for a little while. But not men.  At least not unless I know them.

Lara makes a right hand turn and drives down a narrow one-way road. “I know you have a hard time with crowds, Hadlee, but I'll go with you to the classes. I think that Satine is right and they'll help.”

I love Lara for that. I love her period. Following the attack when I was in the hospital she stayed by side every day and she'd tell me, “I will help you get through this, Hadlee. No matter what it takes I will help you get through this,” she told me.

At the time I tried to protest. “But you have your own life and it's just beginning. I'd hate to—”

She cut me off. “Just stop. I love you. You're my best friend. And I know you'd do the same for me.”

I definitely would, but this has been going on for months. Lara is a half a year ahead of me being that she always takes summer classes. She’ll graduate first. She works at a retail fragrance shop in the mall and I know that's not something she wants to keep doing. I know she wants to get out of here and there are times where I feel like I'm the anchor holding her back from what she wants out of life—from her future. And I'm not sure how much longer she's willing to sacrifice what she wants for me. More than anything I'm not sure how much longer I'm willing to let her.

“I'll try then, I guess.”

“That's my girl,” Lara sighs. “I'll call and find out what days they have classes.”

Lara taps the brake pedal and reaches for her cell in the middle consul. She stops the car just before the driveway of my apartment, and flips the right turn signal on while she dials the number on the card Satine gave me. An echo of the phone ringing fills the confined space, and I tune Lara out as someone on the other end picks up the phone, and she starts talking.

~ ~ ~

“Ouch! Damn it!” I swat at Lara who is behind me and has her fingers tangled in my hair. “Easy! You know I have a sensitive scalp.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she mutters and if I was looking at her I know she’d be rolling those crystalline blue eyes of hers. “Well you’re the one who insisted we change your hair color again.”

I have this thing about coloring my hair. After the attack I thought that maybe if I could continually change something about my appearance it would make me feel like a new person. Make me feel different. I’m pretty sure it’s a mental vice now. “I was tired of being a ginger,” I tell her.

“But gingers have a lot of fun,” she jokes.

I roll my eyes. “That’s what you think. If one more person asks me if the rug matches the carpet, I’m going to scream.” She laughs at my comment and I hear her squirting conditioner into her palm. It spits and sputters like someone blowing air through their closed lips. “Lara?”

“Yes, Lee.”

My lease is up on my apartment in three days and I’ll be going to live with Lara in her condo for a while. I’m glad. First of all, I miss living with her. We stayed in the dorms together sophomore year and had so much fun with our late night girl talks, movies nights, and going to parties together. Secondly, sometimes I feel like my issues with the past year are worse because I’m always alone. “Thanks for letting me move in with you.”

She slaps my shoulder gently and tsks. “Lee, no need to thank me. I’m super excited for it!”

“Me too,” I tell her. And that’s actually true. I feel like it’s a new chapter in my life.

Lara presses her weight on my back as she massages the conditioner into my scalp. “There, you big baby. Is that gentle enough for you?”

“Yes,” I pout as I turn on the faucet to rise out the conditioner. The echo of my phone ringing fills the entire apartment and I nod to Lara, giving her the okay to answer it.

Lara beams brightly and walks toward the phone. I wrap a towel around my head and start toward my bedroom, listening to the sound of her voice as it trails down the short corridor. In my room I fall back on my bed and sigh. The bland white walls blur in my vision and anxiety sloshes around in the pit of my stomach. Maybe these self-defense  classes won’t be that bad after all.

 Even though Wednesday is going to be difficult I know that it's about time I took a step in the right direction.

Chapter Four

~Sean~

You were boozing two nights ago!” I’m not even through the door of the tiny gym and Joe is already scolding me. “Don’t bother lying about it either!”

I give him a sly grin and shrug my gym bag off my shoulder, letting it fall on the floor. “Who told you?” There’s no way I can deny it. The man can read me like the Sunday paper.

Joe’s eyes bug out and he raises his eyebrows in a
like I’m going to tell you,
gesture.

He doesn’t need to tell me.

I get this uneasy feeling in my gut and I know who told him. “Damn it, Murph,” I mutter under my breath. “You rat fucking bastard.”

“Don’t get pissed at the big guy!” Joe calls from over his shoulder as he walks into an adjoining, carpeted room with floor length mirrors. I follow him and drop trou, only wearing a pair of basketball shorts. “He’s not a rat bastard. He’s not out to get you. He’s looking out for you.”

Half of that is probably true. The other half, well, I get an idea that Connie probably put money on my next fight and placed Murph in charge of making sure his investment pays off. It’s not Murph’s fault. Everyone knows that if Connor Doyle tells you to take a dump in the middle of Cedar Rd. You take a dump in the middle of Cedar Rd.

Joe puts pads on his hands and takes his place in front of me. “What did I tell ya?” I groan and roll my eyes. Joe whacks me upside of the head and repeats himself. “What did I tell ya? What are the three B’s? The three no-no’s before a fight?”

I let out a frustrated sigh. “No broads, brawls, or booze.”

Joe whacks me on the head again. “And how long is it going to take for you to get it through that thick, Irish head of yours, that those three B’s also apply to you?”

A long damn time.

I’m good with the no brawls part. I’ve learned to hold my temper when it comes to throwing punches at the random assholes of the world who piss me off.

Just last week I had to hold back because some twat in a pearly mafia caddy was scamming on Connie’s turf. Do you believe the bastard was trying to sell blow that resembled fucking laundry detergent? Everyone around here knows Connie’s got the purest shit. And this piece of shit thinks he can upstage Connie with his Dreft? I had to regulate. At first I was nice about it. I said,
“You can’t sell on this corner. Connor Doyle owns this corner. Scat.”
And trust me, that’s nice for me. I could have been a dick and pulled the gat out from the back of my jeans and pistol whipped the bitch.