Brendan Conlon (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
theunderdog) wrote2013-05-10 07:18 pm
theunderdog) wrote2013-05-10 07:18 pm
Entry tags:
walking tall into each breaking wave
He's gotten someone to watch the girls. Even now, Brendan feels a little guilty for that, but he's trying not to think about it. While, on one hand, he thinks this is probably time they should all be spending together, when Emily's still worn out from breaking down at school and Rosie isn't faring much better and they all know the significance of this Sunday, he thinks he needs this just as badly. At home, he's got to keep it together for them, and he's barely managing to do that, when what he told Emily keeps ringing through his head. On some level, he thinks he's always known it, that Tess was never actually going to show up here. He's too stubborn to have admitted it that easily, though. Besides, it still doesn't quite make sense. He spent more than half his life with her; he shouldn't have been able to lose her so easily.
That's what he's done, though, albeit not by any will of his own. He knows that now, really knows it, having been all but forced into admitting as much making all the difference in the world. If it weren't so damn jarring, he thinks he'd almost be grateful for that. Instead, it's left him shaken, restless, and unable to push it all down — not an entirely new feeling, but one he hasn't dealt with in some time. At first, he thinks about just going to Tommy's, but he quickly changes his mind. Things are better between them these days than they were when he first showed up here, but that doesn't necessarily mean a hell of a lot, and he doesn't know how he'd begin to voice any of that. Tess is hardly a comfortable subject between the two of them, anyway. Maybe one day, he'll breach it, but it won't be this one.
Instead, he goes out. The boxing club on Peach Street is one he's passed dozens of times, though he's never set foot inside it. The day he showed up here was the last time he did any sort of fighting at all, in fact, and though he's not nearly as out of shape as he was when he went to see Frank and asked to be trained again, he's not the guy who won Sparta, either, what feels like a lifetime ago. He hasn't needed to be, when the debt he racked up hasn't followed him here, his job at the high school enough to support him and the girls, at least for the time being. That doesn't matter, though, when there's no one he's looking to beat, just to blow off some steam. He's got to do something, he thinks, or he just might lose his mind.
Judging by the sign in the window, it's a little less than an hour until closing, but they have no problem letting him in and getting him signed up as a member. If he'll come back after this, he doesn't know, but for now, he might as well. It gets him in front of a bag in short order, at least, which is all that really matters. His first few punches are slow, careful, measured, but that doesn't last. Frank's advice worked great when he was taking down guys twice his size in the ring, but this isn't about that. He's run out of patience, and the fury he feels deep in his bones doesn't mesh in the slightest with anything by Beethoven, certainly not Ode to fucking Joy. He loses himself in it after that, hit after hit, until there's sweat on his forehead and chest, his lungs aching with each breath he tries to take, nearly a year's worth of frustration taken out on this one object that can't defend itself.
By the time he stops, he doesn't know how long it's been. He's just grateful there aren't many other people in this place, leaning forward to rest his head against the bag for a few moments as he tries to catch his breath. Doing this, it doesn't bring Tess back and it doesn't make him alright with that, but he feels a little freer, and that's all he could have asked for.
That's what he's done, though, albeit not by any will of his own. He knows that now, really knows it, having been all but forced into admitting as much making all the difference in the world. If it weren't so damn jarring, he thinks he'd almost be grateful for that. Instead, it's left him shaken, restless, and unable to push it all down — not an entirely new feeling, but one he hasn't dealt with in some time. At first, he thinks about just going to Tommy's, but he quickly changes his mind. Things are better between them these days than they were when he first showed up here, but that doesn't necessarily mean a hell of a lot, and he doesn't know how he'd begin to voice any of that. Tess is hardly a comfortable subject between the two of them, anyway. Maybe one day, he'll breach it, but it won't be this one.
Instead, he goes out. The boxing club on Peach Street is one he's passed dozens of times, though he's never set foot inside it. The day he showed up here was the last time he did any sort of fighting at all, in fact, and though he's not nearly as out of shape as he was when he went to see Frank and asked to be trained again, he's not the guy who won Sparta, either, what feels like a lifetime ago. He hasn't needed to be, when the debt he racked up hasn't followed him here, his job at the high school enough to support him and the girls, at least for the time being. That doesn't matter, though, when there's no one he's looking to beat, just to blow off some steam. He's got to do something, he thinks, or he just might lose his mind.
Judging by the sign in the window, it's a little less than an hour until closing, but they have no problem letting him in and getting him signed up as a member. If he'll come back after this, he doesn't know, but for now, he might as well. It gets him in front of a bag in short order, at least, which is all that really matters. His first few punches are slow, careful, measured, but that doesn't last. Frank's advice worked great when he was taking down guys twice his size in the ring, but this isn't about that. He's run out of patience, and the fury he feels deep in his bones doesn't mesh in the slightest with anything by Beethoven, certainly not Ode to fucking Joy. He loses himself in it after that, hit after hit, until there's sweat on his forehead and chest, his lungs aching with each breath he tries to take, nearly a year's worth of frustration taken out on this one object that can't defend itself.
By the time he stops, he doesn't know how long it's been. He's just grateful there aren't many other people in this place, leaning forward to rest his head against the bag for a few moments as he tries to catch his breath. Doing this, it doesn't bring Tess back and it doesn't make him alright with that, but he feels a little freer, and that's all he could have asked for.