the edge of tomorrow / kaplan

[attr="class","RDcontent"]


In my life, I have broken six bones, torn three ligaments, pulled seven muscles, lost the feeling in two fingers and knocked out one tooth. I've felt my whole body shaking with exhaustion, been blinded by blood oozing down my forehead and over my swollen eyes, heard ringing like the screeching of a flock of bats in my ears, and tasted only the salt of sweat and metallic bile for days. I've been so afraid, so under threat, that it felt like being slammed into by a bullet train. And still, this is by far the most painful situation I have ever been in.

[break][break]The atmosphere in this small restaurant is so dull that even the waiter - a small boy of maybe eleven - can't resist it, glumly trudging towards our table with a bowl of ivory-white hunks of bread. People around us - as few and far between as dragonflies in December - are too busy frowning at the suspiciously lumpy meals in front of them that they forget to look at their dining partners. Waiting for our meals to come so, I suppose, we can do the same, the skinny boy in front of me and I look glumly at each other, searching each other's faces as we do our own minds for something in common.

[break][break] "Well," he begins, and tugs at the collar of his starchy shirt, "my - uh - my sister told me you like - uh - fighting?" Of course she did, I think, rolling my eyes internally. Clearly, his older sister - my trainer - knows very little else about me, or she would never have conceived the idea of setting me up with anyone, let alone this floundering fool, in the first place. I long to pull off the dress she practically forced me into, tying the strings around the back like some sort of straight jacket. A sourness coats my tongue but I swallow and catch my counterparts eyes again. His intake of fearful breath is audible. I nod, slowly, and make a non-committal "mm" noise. My fingers unconsciously fidget across the table, crushing flakes of crust into powder. I gaze down at them and make them perform fighting steps; right foot back, left foot back, bend knees, swing, back again... My brain is on, but God does it feel like enduring this any longer will put it to sleep.[break][break]

His nervous laugh is unsettling because it gives away how invested he is in this dinner. Suddenly, I feel a bolt of guilt in my abdomen, but it goes as quickly as it comes and is replaced by spite for my trainer. What on earth did she say to this poor kid to make him think this was such a good idea? Is this some sick prank? Oh, I can only hope it is. I'm drawn from my hateful musings by his pipey voice brushing over me again, as unpleasant as a limp handshake, "Well," he does say that a lot, doesn't he? "I'm not much of a fighter myself," you don't say, runt, "I leave that to my sister. I've always preferred art and music really."[break][break]

I realise I've stood up only once I'm on my feet, and instantly I can feel every pair of eyes in the room is locked on me. The boy's own are wide with disappointment and, I notice regrettably, guilt, like a just-smacked child. "I-" I stutter, the phrase caught in my throat by anger, at myself as much as at everyone else. I restart my sentence, "please excuse me," and turn heel and storm out of the restaurant door in a flurry. Quickly, I acknowledge how fast my heart is beating, and how hot my face feels. I'm embarrassed? The thought reveals itself in my mind like the moon, emerging silently from behind clouds of shame and disgust. Without a doubt, I hurt the kids feelings. And without a doubt, his sister will ensure I feel enough physical pain to compensate for it.[break][break]

The further I walk from the restaurant, the calmer I begin to feel. It's like that place was a deep ocean gulf, and every step away takes me a foot closer to the surface, the pressure of being deep underwater slowly lifting from me. I breathe more easily, and rest for a moment against the wall of a grand old building, bracing my hands on my knees. My blonde hair falls over my shoulders and I smell the reassuring scent of my own sweat and dirt. No matter how hard my trainer made me scrub up, I could never really lose my fighter's stink. Right now, I'd like nothing more than to go and punch sack for a while - or, even better, actually break something. Images of shattering windows, smashing wooden boards, slamming doors fill my mind and I break out in a slightly manic grin. Could I help taking out my frustration in violence? Probably. Did I want to? Heck no. [break][break]

It doesn't take me long to find the perfect building to do a little therapy inside. It's already wheezing and rattling like a dying man, its eye-like windows tarnished and faded, its timbers achingly groaning. The night suddenly feels colder and I feel a shiver go up my arms and down my spine. I begin to look for a way in. First, I check the back doors, best because they're away from the street so no one could see me going in, which I reach by wading through the waist-high grass that grows wirey in the lawn. No luck there - a heave chain, not yet rusted enough for me to pull loose, chokes the handles like a boa. I begin to work my way back round to the front, the least ideal, shaking every window frame and trapdoor at my feet. I can't help but hiss through my teeth as one after the other they all hold fast. Finally, I'm left with the front door again, which is rotting at the base and, although difficult, would not be impossible to break and crawl through. Here goes nothing.

[break][break]I have just lifted my foot to swing for the first kick when the sound of heavy breathing catches my attention. I swing round to see a figure watching me from the darkness across the street. I can't make out much about them, but occasionally their forehead bobs into the light and I catch the sheen of new sweat there, glistening like fresh snow. Somehow, I feel more at ease just knowing that the stranger has been running, as if our mutual dedication to improving our bodies ties us inexplicably together. Still, it's not enough to stop me being wary. I plant my foot firmly again and swivel round to meet what I think must be their eyes. My arms fold themselves into a defensive cross in front of my chest. I pop a hip, and sneer into the shadows. "Can I help you?" I ask, trying to sound as casual as I can, but my voice is still gravelly and thick from my earlier emotional outburst. A wind blows from my right and my hair rises up around me, as if by a storm coming from my own head. I can only hope now that this figure means me no harm - for their own sake more than mine.
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