Drawn (6 page)

“I enjoy teaching and you obviously need more practise. Your technique is sloppy and your reaction time is poor. If something really did happen to you, I can’t see you overcoming your opponent.”

“What are you talking about? You said yourself that I would be fine against a regular person.”

“And you probably would be. But what happens if your attacker is someone like me? What if they know more than you do? What if you react around them the way you do around me?” he practically whispers, moving closer to me, so our bodies are almost touching. 

I tilt my head back slightly, holding his gaze and fighting my urge to rock on my toes to connect our lips.

“And how is it that I react around you?” I ask, my voice unintentionally quiet and breathy.

“Exactly like this,” he breathes, reaching up to move the stray hair that has escaped from my clip. I hold my breath, unwilling to even blink while he refastens it
, as I refuse to even let my mind acknowledge how much my body is crying out for him. “Now let’s get started. I want you to strike me.”

He takes two steps away from me
, and I literally have to shake my head slightly to remove the fog that seems to have settled on my mind. “Aren’t you going to get changed?”

“Just strike me.”

See, this is what I hate about Aikido – the part where you’re the attacker. You always end up on the floor, and you very rarely get to connect any of your hits. When you’re training with someone who knows what they’re doing, it feels like you’re fighting against air because they are never where your strike lands. The whole point of it is to anticipate your opponent and use their own movement against them. Essentially, they make you feel like a marionette puppet as they take control of your limbs.

“Come on,” he insists, his brows raised as he beckons me forward.

“Do you think you can just walk me through it, instead of making me attack you so you can throw me on the ground?” I ask, hands on hips as my nerves set in. I’m not equipped for this kind of training anymore. It’s been too long and I really dislike falling.

“You can either attack me and train, or I can just throw you on the ground anyway. Your choice.”

“Fine,” I grumble, reaching up and tightening my hair as I ready myself to get this over with.

Rushing forward, I attempt to punch him in the face. I choose the face because at this point in time, I wouldn’t mind it if my fist actually connects and leaves some sort of a mark on that smug face of his. But of course, it doesn’t. Instead, he deflects the blow by pushing my arm to the side, and pulling me past him so I’m off balance
, before landing a blow on my chest that causes me to fall on my arse.

As he did yesterday, he holds his hand out
to help me up, but I’m annoyed. I didn’t really want to be here, and now I’m going to have a bruised tailbone – I really need to remember to roll with the fall instead of fighting it. It’s something I’d do, had I continued with my own training, but now, my natural response is to always fight to remain standing.

“I can get up on my own,” I remind him, although he doesn’t listen and reaches further to grip me by my upper arms and haul me to standing.

“Roll next time,” he says, a seriousness in his expression before he instructs me to work through the move on him.

We continue on with the training session, taking turns as to who attacks and who defends. I’m still not landing properly, so I’m really feeling it by the time I get flipped on my back for the tenth time.

“Enough! Enough!” I say, placing my hands on my face in frustration. He’s just too good, and I’m too tired. I’ve only pulled off two successful moves. The rest of the time he’s out manoeuvred me. I’ve simply had enough.

He holds his hand out to me, pulling my arm to help me up.

“We’ll do this again tomorrow,” he informs me, breathing steadily, despite our vigorous workout.

“What if I don’t want to do this again tomorrow?”

“Then I’ll stand outside your house, honking my horn until you come out.”

“You wouldn’t do that. My dad would kill you.”

“Honestly, I think he’d thank me.”

“For what?”

“Getting you training again.”

“Is that what you’re doing this for? My father’s approval?”

“Not at all. I’m doing this because you’re young,” he says tapping his head, indicating that it’s my mind he feels is young. “You’re inexperienced in the world. You can fight, but you’re too trusting.”

“I am not,” I argue.

“Henrietta. Think about how we met… you’re too trusting.”

“Maybe I’m just good at knowing who to trust. Have you thought about it that way?” I argue, hands on my hips. “Unless of course it’s you I shouldn’t be trusting. In which
case, why would I want you to train me? This makes no sense. I don’t want to train. I want to make it one last week at home. Move out and have a life of my own. This is my last year at uni. I just want to have some fun and feel like a regular eighteen year old. I know how to defend myself Damien. I know how to fight. Most girls don’t know anywhere near as much as I do and they go through life just fine.”

“I don’t think you’re like most girls.”

“What does that even mean?” I ask, feeling confused and frustrated by his inability to answer a specific question.

“It means that I will pick you up
at six tomorrow, and every day after that.”

“Until when?”

“Until you can beat me.”

“What if that never happens?”

“Then you’re stuck with me. Come on,” he says, picking up his bag and heading toward the door. “I’ll take you home.”

“Jesus
Damien. I can walk you know.”

He just looks at me with his eyebrows raised, holding his bag by his side until I concede and follow him.

Once again, he opens the door for me, only this time he is faster than I am, and does my seatbelt again for me.

“Stop it!” I yell, slapping at his arm as he reaches it around me. “I’m not a baby.”

He pauses as the seatbelt clicks in place, keeping his arm around me as he turns to look in my eyes. He’s so close that I can feel his breath and smell the workout mixed with his soap and deodorant on his skin.

Snapping my eyes away, I look down as I speak. “I’m not going to keep training with you,” I tell him defiantly. “Beep your horn all you want. I’m not doing it.”

He breathes in, as if his patience with me is wearing thin and withdraws his arm from around me, walking around the car and entering on his side.

“What’s so bad about training with me?” he asks as he starts the car.

“Why does it matter? Can’t I just say ‘no, I’m not training’ and be done with it?”

“Not if you want me to leave you alone,” he states calmly.

“I quit training because it reminds me of my brother. It’s something we always did together. We would train with dad in the dojo outside our regular classes. Then we’d train together at home. We drove my mum insane with the amount of broken vases we amassed, but we loved it. When all the other siblings hated each other – we still got along; even though he was three years older than me. I don’t want to train with you because I don’t want to be reminded that he’s gone,” I explain as we pull up outside my house.

I put my hand on the door handle, wanting to get out of the car and away from this guy I know nothing about, but who seems to think he has a say in my life. But he presses the button on the console and locks me in.

“Let me out,” I say sternly, flicking the lock upwards by hand. Instantly it drops down again. “Let me out!” I repeat.

“Just wait. We’re not finished.”

“Well I am finished. You made me train when I didn’t want to and it won’t be happening again. I’m done. Training didn’t keep my brother alive. There’s no fucking point. Sometimes shit just happens and there’s nothing you can do about it. Knowing how to disarm a guy and toss him on his back isn’t going to change anything. Just let me out.”

“I’m sorry Henrietta,” he says. “All I want is for you to be safe.”

“Stop calling me Henrietta. I don’t need you to keep me safe. I don’t need another father.”

Sighing, he presses the button again and grants me my release.

“I’ll see you around then, Henrietta,” he says as I go to close the door.

“Fuck you,” I grunt. Stepping away from the car and heading up the path to my front door and the safety of my own home. 

When I get inside, my mother and father are already at the dining table eating their breakfast. “Have you eaten?” my mother asks the moment she hears the door close.

“No. I’ll just have some fruit and yogurt,” I say, trying to seem unruffled by
Damien as I head straight for the fridge.

“How was training?” my father asks, between sips of his tea.

“Annoying,” I answer with a bounce of my shoulders as I take the yogurt over to the bench top and grab a bowl.

“Who were you training with?”

“Damien, of course,” I state, as I slice a banana into my bowl.

“I thought you didn’t want to train. Are you finally interested again?”

“I’m not interested. He made me go.”

“How did he make you?” my mother laughs, knowing me to be incredibly stubborn and unwilling to bend for most people. “You were dead against it yesterday afternoon.”

“He threatened to unleash a cacophony of epic proportions upon our household. You should thank me – I rescued your sleep,” I inform them.

“So he was going to toot his horn until you came out?” my father translates, to which I nod, licking the excess yogurt off my spoon as I carry my bowl to the table. “I knew there was a reason I liked him,” he smiles.

“Oh you like him now?” my mother laughs.

“Our daughter is training again. How could I not like him?” he beams.

“Because he could be trying to make moves on our daughter,” my mother counters, looking at him pointedly.

“No. He wouldn’t be that stupid,” my dad states confidently, to which my mother shakes her head and continues eating her breakfast.

“Dad, your priorities are so messed up. Don’t you mind that he used my love for my family against me? That could mean that he isn’t really that great a guy.”

“You’re training. I’m happy,” he smiles, standing from the table to take his plate and cup to the dishwasher.

“Don’t get too excited. I told him it was our first and last session. I only went because you conveniently forgot to tell him not to train me.”

“I did tell him not to train you. I spoke to him last night,” he informs me.

“Then what the… You know what? It doesn’t matter, I’m not going again anyway,” I state, trying to ignore the questioning voice in my head that is demanding to know what Damien’s deal is.

“Listen, I know going
to this was a big thing for you. But you must know that your brother would have wanted you to keep going. Maybe instead of training with Damien you can start doing the weekly classes again? Craig wouldn’t want you to give up something you loved because of him,” my mother puts in, reaching across the table to squeeze my arm.

“I loved Aikido because of him. It’s just not the same.” Getting up, I deposit my dishes in the dishwasher as well, then head straight for the shower to get ready for uni.

Sometimes I feel like I’m forever being told to live my life as if my brother was still around. But how can I? Everything and everyone is different with him gone. It’s as if his ghost resides in our house, watching and judging everything we do. Although, it’s not his actual ghost, it’s my parent’s perfect representation of the son that died. The one that didn’t sneak out every night, the one who didn’t rebel.

Every time someone says ‘It’s what Craig would have wanted’, I just want to scream, ‘You didn’t even know him!’

In truth, he would have wanted me to run for the hills, to go out and have fun. If I wanted to quit Aikido, he would have been ok with that – as long as it was what
I
wanted. He would never have expected me to do something that makes me unhappy.

These are the times
when I’m angry at him for leaving me. If he had have just accepted the house rules for what they were, he never would have died, and I wouldn’t be so miserable with a set of parents who have spent the last six years too petrified to let me out of their sight. 

Everyone just needs to accept that he’s dead. His wants don’t matter anymore. We all just need to deal with that and move on.

***

“What’s up your arse today?” Aaron asks, regarding me as I take the seat next to him in the lecture hall and twist the desk over my lap so I can set up to take notes.

“Nothing, I’m just tired. I didn’t get much sleep.”

“Well, maybe this will cheer you up,” he says, placing a small rectangular box on my desk.

“What’s this? It’s not my birthday ’til Tuesday.” I glance at him, smiling as I pick up the box and untie the purple ribbon that surrounds it.

“It’s a big birthday. I wanted to be the first one to give you something,” he smiles, watching me as I remove the lid.