With a scream, I throw an overhand elbow that would dislocate a man's jaw before falling to the floor, covered in sweat and gasping for breath. That's good enough for tonight. I'll get a real workout in tomorrow.
I peel off the gloves, hanging them up on their hook again and go over to the mat on the far side of the room. I've removed the lights, and darkness reigns. By pure muscle memory, I find the lighter and light a single tea candle, setting it in front of me and assuming the seiza kneeling position that I learned long ago. I send my mind into the flickering light of the candle, and what comes up are my memories.
“You are filled with anger,” Virginia says, two days after I've come to her home. It's the third foster home I've been placed with, the other two having sent me back after what the social workers called 'inappropriate behavior'.
“No shit, lady,” I snap back at her, twisting my hair around my finger. “You'd be too if you got treated like last week's Big Mac.”
“Perhaps I would,” Virginia says. She's lean, and according to the file the social worker showed me before she dropped me off at the house, she's former military. She looks it too, with muscles outlined against her chocolate-brown skin, and eyes that look like they've seen some shit. “But I wouldn't be helping those people who treat me that way by acting like an inconsiderate baby.”
“Excuse me, bitch?” I snap, sitting up. “I ain't no goddamn baby.”
“First of all, it's 'I am not a baby'. Second of all, in this house, you will not curse me, nor any other person who is my guest. What you do outside I cannot control, but you will show respect to me and my house.”
“Or else what? You send me back to the orphanage? Return to sender, address unknown?”
Virginia gives me a little smile, which pisses me off for some reason. “Well, you can't be all bad, you at least have some knowledge of Elvis. As for what will happen... no, I will not send you back, for two reasons. First off, because I don't fail, and sending you back means that I fail. But more importantly, because I won't let you fail, and sending you back will guarantee you that you will end up a failure in life. You're not going to get another foster home, not with three strikes against you. Even if you are a pretty little white girl, the only place you'll end up is some pervert's house. And while I may not live in the best home in New Orleans, that's by choice, and you will not fail on my watch.”
“I ain't no failure!” I scream, getting to my feet. “You take that back!”
“Make me,” Virginia says softly, shifting her right foot back. “If you can.”
I charge her, my right hand already cocking back in a punch that comes from the depths of my rage, but instead of hitting her, I'm redirected. She sends me spinning through the air and crashing to the hardwood floor of the dining room. Virginia keeps a hold of my wrist and twists, and I howl, tears of anger and pain already flowing as she turns me over onto my stomach. She wrenches my hand around and up until I feel my little finger touching between my shoulder blades and her knee on my spine near my waist.
“Your anger makes you strong, Katrina. But you must learn to control it. Now tell me, before I have reason to dislocate your shoulder, why are you so angry?”
I cry, trying to look up to see her, but I can't, no matter how hard I kick or fight. Finally, I howl, letting the truth out. “My parents! They got blowed up!”
Virginia eases off her arm lock slightly but keeps a strong grip on my wrist. “Tell me what happened.”
I close my eyes and struggle against the memories, but they come flooding out anyway, carrying me away. “Mama and Papa, we were at the Fair Grounds. We'd gone for the horse show... I'd begged them to take me after that movie, and after the hurricane. Mama said that she'd dropped her phone, and I told her I'd go get it. I run back and see it on the ground near the door to the elevator, and turn around. The car... the car blowed up! The fire... it's so hot... MAMA! PAPA! DON'T LEAVE ME!”
I'm sobbing, and Virginia releases my arm to pull me up into an embrace. She lets me sob and scream my horror, anger, and everything into her chest. When the tears finally stop, Virginia lifts me to my knees and looks into my eyes. “This is very, very important, Katrina. What do you want to do with this rage?”
I sniff and wipe at my nose, looking into Virginia's sand-colored eyes. “I want to kill whoever killed Mama and Papa.”
I know I shouldn't say it. The social workers tell me that it's wrong to feel this way, that I'm supposed to live and let live like Pastor Gibb who comes by the orphanage says we should do...but I'm no Jesus. I want something darker.