catharsis // kenji {open}
Jun 4, 2020 1:53:32 GMT -5
Post by lance on Jun 4, 2020 1:53:32 GMT -5
KENJI
What does one tend to do when their thoughts become too numerous for their head?
You've seen it handled in many a different way. Uncle drank them away, and it seemed like Lysander - Lys, whatever, not like she had made much of an effort to bridge the gap between the two of you ever since the ice bucket incident - followed in his footsteps without quite realizing it. You had friends, well, acquaintances really, that would deal with blowing off steam in more intimate manners, but that hadn't really appealed to you either.
And then there was your good old bread and butter. Whenever it came time to release some tension, you always found yourself with a pseudo-snarl on your face and your knuckles stinging from whatever pretty thing you had decided to shatter into a million pieces that particular incident.
Such was how you found yourself in the training center at the dead of night, long after any sane being should have found themselves. You're antsy, nervous, scared, tense, frustrated, too many different emotions to count, so you deal with it the same old same old Kenji way. But the training dummies down on the ground floor are somewhat lackluster, for even though they might look and feel realistic, beating in a blank face made of straw doesn't have quite the same appeal to it as cracking your hand against a real live human being.
It didn't draw the blood, either. Your prep team had torn you down and rebuilt you from the ground up, removing the scars and bumps and bruises that you had gained over years of repetition, replacing it with something too clean, too perfect. You weren't that boy. You weren't a porcelain statue to be paraded in front of tens of thousands of screaming degenerates. You were a fighter first and foremost, and right now, you were a fighter without a quarry.
You punched the same dummy for the twenty ninth time, watching as it clattered onto the floor, what used to be its face and torso now full of indents that had bent it clean out of shape. You stare, chest heaving. Nothing.
Anger bubbled in you anew, and with a yell that wasn't quite subtle, you kick the damn thing right in the head, watching as cranium and torso separate with a loud straw-y tear. Nothing.
And suddenly you're seeing red, and it's not a straw body you've punched but the wall, and immediately upon impact you realized it was a mistake because bones were not meant to slam into stainless steel-
But it had the desired effect. Pain grounded you, crimson emerges from the depths of your skin, and there's something cathartic about seeing the blood, feeling the pain, so familiar, so much like home. Why can't you just be sent into the arena right then and there? Why can't you fight for your life, feel the thrill and the terror of truly having your life on the line? You're an adrenaline junkie searching for the next burst of chemicals to course through your brain, and yet-
Something moves that isn't you, and you freeze. No. Not something. Someone.
"Can I help you?" You call out into the unknown without turning your head.
You've seen it handled in many a different way. Uncle drank them away, and it seemed like Lysander - Lys, whatever, not like she had made much of an effort to bridge the gap between the two of you ever since the ice bucket incident - followed in his footsteps without quite realizing it. You had friends, well, acquaintances really, that would deal with blowing off steam in more intimate manners, but that hadn't really appealed to you either.
And then there was your good old bread and butter. Whenever it came time to release some tension, you always found yourself with a pseudo-snarl on your face and your knuckles stinging from whatever pretty thing you had decided to shatter into a million pieces that particular incident.
Such was how you found yourself in the training center at the dead of night, long after any sane being should have found themselves. You're antsy, nervous, scared, tense, frustrated, too many different emotions to count, so you deal with it the same old same old Kenji way. But the training dummies down on the ground floor are somewhat lackluster, for even though they might look and feel realistic, beating in a blank face made of straw doesn't have quite the same appeal to it as cracking your hand against a real live human being.
It didn't draw the blood, either. Your prep team had torn you down and rebuilt you from the ground up, removing the scars and bumps and bruises that you had gained over years of repetition, replacing it with something too clean, too perfect. You weren't that boy. You weren't a porcelain statue to be paraded in front of tens of thousands of screaming degenerates. You were a fighter first and foremost, and right now, you were a fighter without a quarry.
You punched the same dummy for the twenty ninth time, watching as it clattered onto the floor, what used to be its face and torso now full of indents that had bent it clean out of shape. You stare, chest heaving. Nothing.
Anger bubbled in you anew, and with a yell that wasn't quite subtle, you kick the damn thing right in the head, watching as cranium and torso separate with a loud straw-y tear. Nothing.
And suddenly you're seeing red, and it's not a straw body you've punched but the wall, and immediately upon impact you realized it was a mistake because bones were not meant to slam into stainless steel-
But it had the desired effect. Pain grounded you, crimson emerges from the depths of your skin, and there's something cathartic about seeing the blood, feeling the pain, so familiar, so much like home. Why can't you just be sent into the arena right then and there? Why can't you fight for your life, feel the thrill and the terror of truly having your life on the line? You're an adrenaline junkie searching for the next burst of chemicals to course through your brain, and yet-
Something moves that isn't you, and you freeze. No. Not something. Someone.
"Can I help you?" You call out into the unknown without turning your head.
NAKAMURA
