What the Water Gave Me | Pthalo

No nonsense voice
Talking
Doing
Deep thought
Hearing
Singing

Sometimes the heavy bag hanging from a chain reminded her of a body, swinging away in the wind like the soul had fled from it. Other times it was filled with passion as it swung back at her, and she would have to duck or roll away. Once when she had been all alone in here, she had laughed and said, "Time Phonce!" Then she would realize that it wasn't a boy she was fighting, but an empty, emotionless bag, and she was all alone. At those times, she'd laugh lightly, and go back to hitting the bag as normal, concentrating so that she wouldn't make the same mistake again. It's not that she cared about looking stupid, it was the fact that she cared about being stupid, and there is a difference.

When she was younger, she had often wondered if Alphonse was her boyfriend. In the magazines she had swiped from Nettie's room, it had the signs that a boy liked you in it. She hadn't liked the thought of it, and had ended up staying away from Alphonse for a whole week before he figured out what was going on. He had laughed and ruffled her short locks, saying, "I'm not your type." It had often made her question what her type actually was then. If Alphonse, her second half wasn't it, then who was? She hadn't ever really found out who it was after that. She had watched Riley, Nettie, Edana, and even Keela fall into love, while she had been left empty.

She likened it to Easter eggs. When Avon was little, her father would poke a hole into an egg, and would blow all the insides out and let it dry. But even though they were so dry and empty, they'd still be so tough because he'd paint them in a layer of varnish, hardening them. The ones with egg inside still broke, but then the yolk could be used as well, as if they had a second defense because they knew that their first was no good. If Avon was an egg, she was a dried out one, betting on her first defense instead. All her insides, all of those emotions long taken away, and put somewhere else. She'd watch her siblings break daily, all runny and snotty like yolks. But they somehow knew how to rebuild their shells, or at least pretend they did. Avon was pretty sure that if her shell cracked, She was finished.

She grunted as she lifted her right leg and kicked at the bag, sending the thing soaring away, the sound echoing out as if she were in a cave. Quickly, she dodged to the right, skipping out of the way of the thing coming back for her. Suddenly it was a tribute, laughing, and running, and she was falling back, onto her tailbone, and she was kicking up, heel hitting the bottom of the tribute's foot, and the chain made a clinking sound. It was a body bag again. She chuckled lightly after a moment's hesitation, fisting herself to her feet with her boxing gloves, as if she were a gorilla. Her nervous laugh turned into a glare as she punched the bag in a left hook, and watched it swing away, yet again. It was like it was teasing her. Her tight latex training gear stretched with her movement, making her shiver and cringe with the odd fabric.

She hadn't ever been kissed. It hadn't ever occurred to her to go out and seek a kiss. Falling in love had turned into something secondary with the death of Xavier, and no one had ever approached her. Now as she was only days away from her execution, she wondered if she was missing much. Would she have been able to deal with the heartbreak of loving another human being, or would she have shattered into a million pieces of chipped eggshell. In the past few nights, she had lain in bed, trying to fall asleep, wondering what it would be like to feel the pressure of another set of lips upon her own. If it would hurt, or if it would be nice. What if she didn't even feel anything at all? She was a girl made out of sticks and stones.

She drew her right arm back and screwed it into the punching bag, standing resilient as it came back and hit her. She kept her footing, but the force of the bag hitting her made her body bend back. As it flew away again, she stepped to the side and took off her gloves, clenching and unclenching her fists. Hair was matted to her forehead, well the short tufts of it that she still had, and she was panting, but not too heavily. She honestly wished that she were punching in the faces of anyone but a bag right now. She wanted to feel the soft flesh of another human being underneath her fist, to hear bones fracture and blood spill. She wanted to punch someone, so that it might matter. Because Avon Lightwood had never affected anything in her life, or done anything big.

It wasn't fair. That she would never have the chance to do that, because she was in a games, fighting a war, and paying for repercussions that she hadn't even been apart of. Making a low sound of annoyance, she hit the bag with her bare fist, her fingers concaving into her hand, leaving crescent moons in an angry red on the palm of it. Shaking her hand out with a low growl of pain, she stopped suddenly, cocking her head to the left like a puppy. There had been a shifting in the otherwise quiet room, and it hadn't come from the bag swinging in front of her. Not turning around, she waited for more sounds to be made. She had thought the room was empty, she had been wrong. Either that or someone had just come in. In a level just above a whisper, she said, "Who's there?"