inch resting : jamie

Both of my brothers are sick. When one of us gets sick, we all get sick, but I guess I got lucky this time. Sarcasm. They get to stay home and enjoy big bowls of chicken soup while I'm alone at the training center. Clearly, I'm only a little mad about it. Whatever. There's only a few hours left in the training day, and I'll make the most of it, like I do every day. If I slack off, I know one of the guys will make a shitty comment about it. Like, oh, is poor Delaney tired? I guess she's not as tough as she thinks she is.

I slam the side of my spear into the dummy. It falls to the floor, and I stab the spear into its chest. If this were a person, it'd be dead. I don't want to kill, but better them dead than me. I give the spear a few twirls before putting it back on the shelf. I'm not really sure what to do now. I've been alternating between throwing knives and spears this week. I don't train with them too often, but my parents want my skill set to be well rounded, and I have to do whatever they say. Now that I'm done, though, I guess I can do what I prefer doing.

I go to my bag, lying open by the wall, and put on my wrist guards. My mom hates the wrist guards, she says they won't give me wrist guards in the arena. I don't really care what she has to say. Throwing my bag over my shoulder, I walk to where the punching bags are. Fighting with my hands is how I got so fit in the first place. You have to put your entire body into it. I guess you also do that with a spear or a sword, but it just feels different to me. The chain holding the bag rattles every time I hit it, sweat beads on my forehead and starts to run down my face. I inhale through my nose and filter it out through my teeth. I get so caught up in hitting the bag that I don't notice when I hit it too hard. It goes back, then forward, and right into me.

I fly backwards, hitting the ground hard. "Shit!" I curse, rolling onto my side and up on my elbows. I really hope nobody saw that.