Page 51 of Cara

She grabs the knife from my hand, showing me how to pivot, how to place my feet, where to direct my arm. I imitate her movements, determined to master them. She takes a break while I go all out on the bag, using what little I know to establish my own rhythm.

“You aren’t a very good listener, are you?”

Turning, I find the owner of this complex against the wall, his arms crossed.

For weeks, I’ve been trying to get a moment with him, determined to prove I have something in me he can’t visibly see, but he’s been skipping meals, moving like a shadow in the dark, rarely spotted unless he wants to be.

Despite his tone, Isaac appears anything but annoyed.

“I know what I want,” I say.

His lips are pursed in contemplation before he ultimately nods in agreement. “I think you do.”

Walking off, he calls out behind him.

“We’ll begin tomorrow.”

“Hang in there, Cara!”

A breathless voice hails the encouragement from above, a whisper in the wind. My eyes are too swollen to see when the next blow will come, but it always does. A boot to my stomach and what little breath I’d recovered while curled on the ground is lost.

I know the onlookers are whispering. If the ringing in myears weren’t so deafening, I’d be able to make out what they’re saying.

My palms slide as I attempt to shift, blinking through vertigo.

“Block him!”

As the weakest, this room is my personal hell. Combat.

Groaning, I pull myself up onto the bar, silently reciting assurances to myself.

You want this.

You need this.

You’ve been through worse.

My taped knuckles barely graze the side of Ezra’s jaw as I move just quickly enough to avoid his charge. I swipe my face with my forearm, believing it’s sweat that’s dripping into my eyelashes. It’s not but I can’t even focus on the blood. He wails on me, and I retreat, tripping over myself, too terrified to be ashamed as I try to avoid a blow that will send me to the floor.

You want to beg.

I'm told it’s natural to wish it would stop, but they won’t. Not here. You fight until you’re out.

I can’t even see where I'm going, let alone make him bleed, so I know I'm not the victor here. Letting the next blow be my last is tempting, but something inside doesn’t let me stop. It pushes just a little harder, making me run faster when I should stop. Slamming my fist with more strength than the last, despite how exhausted I’ve become.

They tell me it’s my will to live.

I think it’s something else.

Something dark and traumatic that comes from a lifetime of abuse.

He seizes my throat, causing my stomach to drop, my fingers trying to pry him off. In an instant, I see my father. I see myself on the night before my wedding, choking under his suffocatinggrip.

I am no longer in Iceland.

“Get up, Cara! Get up!”

Nothing I do will spare me. I kick, wail, and claw until my body slams into the mat, and everything goes black.