In, one thousand. Out, one thousand. In, one thousand. Out, one thousand.
Cautiously, he opened his eyes again, staring blearily at the stained carpet beneath his feet. The day hadn’t yet begun and already he was bone-tired. He stood up, his shoulders still sore from the fight the week before. The recovery time was longer these days but he didn’t care. He needed somewhere to channel his frustrations and inside the ring suited him just fine. He was fighting again tonight, instructed to take a dive – being paid good money to do it, too. Wearily, he pushed his pride aside one more time. The fact that it had become easier to do these days sat like a lead weight across his aching shoulders.
Padding across the room in his boxers, he grabbed his sweats and pulled them on. He took the stairs from his apartment down to the street two at a time, breathing through his nose. Running through the deserted streets, cloaked in despair, almost invisible in the dark, he tried to block out the world. The sun had begun to rise by the time he ran back towards his apartment, having come full circle.
He showered quickly, unable to ignore his battered reflection as he shaved. The skin was still healing over the bridge of his nose and he had a dark bruise around the cut on his cheekbone, the result of last week’s fight.
“You’re a disgrace,” he mumbled to his scruffy self in the bathroom mirror.
Changing into his work clothes – faded jeans, checked shirt, padded jacket, work boots – he threw down a cup of strong, black coffee. It did nothing to settle his stomach. Driving to the work site, he cranked the radio up loud in an effort to silence the voices in his head.
The day passed much like any other. He put in a solid day’s work on site and declined an invitation from his workmates to hit the local bar after their shift ended. Drinking alone was less complicated. One day soon they would stop asking. He had held plenty of jobs just like this and the invitations always dried up eventually. He had nothing to share with any of them – nothing he was proud of, at least. The less they knew about him, the happier he would be to stick around longer.
That evening, he sat at the tiny table in the dingy apartment that had passed for home over the past few months and ate lukewarm pizza in silence. The light bulb had blown in the living room a couple of days ago but he hadn’t gotten around to replacing it yet. The borrowed light shining through from the small kitchenette gave everything a sombre glow that suited his mood.
He felt like he was running in circles. Just when he finally felt like he had made progress, that the memory of what happened that night was fading, he would have the nightmare again and everything would come flooding back. At first it frustrated him, but then he realised that this was how it was supposed to be. The guilt he carried around with him like a chain around his neck, belonged there. Sometimes he thought that this was God’s way of punishing him for what he did. Leaving like that was an act of cowardice, and cowards deserved to be punished. He wasn’t an idiot – he knew that he looked for that punishment every time he got into the ring. He was grateful for every punch that found its mark on his body. He deserved it.
Of course, his father would disagree. Tom seemed certain that forgiveness awaited him – from Ally, from Callum and from everyone else he had left behind. The truth was, as much as he loved his father and appreciated his support and loyalty, he didn’t believe him. Some things were unforgivable.
Their terms of engagement were crystal clear. Jack kept in contact, Tom didn’t push him for more details than he was willing to offer. Jack appreciated the phone calls as the lifeline they were. He just wished he could allow himself to believe when Tom said that all was not lost.
Jack found himself staring into Ally’s blue-green eyes, her lips tilting into a seductive smile.
He blinked, quickly pushing the vision aside. One day, he promised himself, he would go home and apologise in person. But not yet. Four years had passed and he was no more ready to face them now than he was back then. He wasn’t strong enough, and to face up to them after what he had done, he had to be strong.
He took another swig from his beer bottle and set it down on the table in front of him, staring at it as if it would provide him with answers. He had fantasies about going home, about just turning up on his father’s doorstep out of the blue. He imagined talking to Callum, hearing him say that he understood why he left and that he didn’t blame him for anything. He fantasised about Ally forgiving him, throwing herself into his arms and everything going back to the way it was.