Layers(96)

I think about her big, beautiful, agonized eyes just before she closed the door on me. It seemed so infinite, that look, and it makes me feel like shit. Hopeless. I don’t do hopeless.

Fuck, what’s become of me? I shake my head at the thought. I need to focus. I need to let this restrained violence free, and the sooner the better. An idea crosses my mind; I should call Ted, have him set me up in one of those fight club matches I used to do. Daniel, don’t even think about it. Leave your past behind.

My tolerance is running among the lines of zero to none. I can’t even fully concentrate at work, which has never happened before. Even there, the hours drag. It was the only place that really made sense, but not anymore. Hayley’s divine body is the real temple. The ultimate cure is to bury myself in her.

I walk down the hall to the only place I can do something about it, the only legal way to be as violent as I need to be. And, at this stage, I need to be. Damn, I really screwed it up this time. I can’t stop picturing her angelic face, her golden hair, those eyes … Fuck.

Where are the goddamn gloves? I turn up the music to a disturbing volume; Metallica will be the perfect companion for what I have my mind set at. I shrug the first glove on, adjusting the tie to hold it firmly in place. For the other I use my teeth to pull it tight against my wrist. Parts from my last conversation with Hayley sway through my head as I face the bag. “It was you who broke us. It was you who made the choice not to trust me, to not even try to understand. You chose to give me up, give us up.” She was right.

The first punch throws the punching bag up towards the ceiling; at its return I catch it with both hands. The contact of my next blow with the leather skin is so strong the hit rises above the music, but it doesn’t help. I keep dissecting these thoughts in my mind. Goddamn it, Daniel, pull yourself together. You’re like some virgin obsessing before the first time. For f**k’s sake, what’s become of me?

My body heats up, the adrenaline kicks in and I start to sweat more heavily with every swing. I throw my fists at the bag repeatedly, which absorbs the hits and asks for more. As my damp clothes start to cling to me, I take them off, throw them into a pile in the corner of the room and continue, with just my boxers on and the AC turned to freezing.

I hiss through gritted teeth, increasing the momentum of the next punch. I feel the intensity of the strike even through the protection of the gloves. This is good; I need to feel the pain. I yank the gloves off my hands and resume my assault on my inanimate opponent bare-handed. The pain is sharp but it clears my mind. This is exactly what I was looking for, exactly what I need.

I punch and punch, channeling my strength with better efficiency. My punches get gradually faster. With each swing I find within me more anger, more force, to hit more precise and with greater strength. I only stop when a layer of warm, thick blood coming from the wounds at my knuckles starts to stain the punching bag, leaving moist smudges of dark, rust red.

The physical urge to blow off my murderous violence lessens and I feel somewhat relieved. Now the music is a disturbance, and I kill it before it adds to my already overflowing annoyance.

Exhausted, I slide to the floor at the corner of the room. I rest my pulsing head against the wall. The cracked skin of my knuckles burns, but the sting is a relief. Drops of sweat saturated with my frustration roll down my temples in small trails to my jaw and neck. I glance at my phone, tossed onto the pile of what used to be my day’s attire and breathe, rhythmically, slowly, in and out, working to even my heartbeat.

I go through the clusterf*ck of failure based decisions I’ve made since that first time Brian, my PR guy, sent me that f**ked-up gossip column. Even now I can revive the rage and disappointment that conquered me on the spot. I saw red, a dark crimson sheet waving in front of my eyes. I should have never jumped to conclusions; I should have never let her go. I should have immediately made someone get to the bottom of that shit, just like I eventually did, too late. That sorry excuse for a “reporter” is going to live her life regretting the moment she ever laid her damn fingers on a keyboard with the defamation lawsuit my lawyers have prepared especially for her.

I can’t help but also think about the other senseless, meaningless idiotic mistake I made just to get back at Hayley, to hurt her. If I ever get a second chance, this will never go down simply with her, if at all. Fuck, what have I done?




Christ. The way I’ve treated her, the words I’ve thrust upon her, infused with sheer poison and aimed to cut deep. “yes, I did say everything that was written in that article, but not the way it was written, not to the person who wrote it, and the main point is that it was said out of love, out of confessing my overwhelming feelings I felt for you.” She confessed and I didn’t listen. I should have known it all along. I should be the one taking a beating. What the f**k have I done?

And through all the obscurity clouding my mind I can’t help the instant smile forming on my lips as a memory of the way we met appears in my thoughts. I remember walking into my private kitchen to the sight of that teasing, plump, pear-shaped ass under tight jeans, focusing my vision on nothing but that supreme body of hers. When she said that provocative “f*ck me”, even before she turned and I was able to see her face, I already wanted her buck naked and bent over the counter. When she finally turned to look at me I found myself immediately lost in those eyes.

And as she started speaking, bashing the hell out of me, I instinctively imagined doing things to that sassy, pouty mouth. I had to shove my hand into my front pocket to conceal the bulge forming in my pants, the same one that distracted the shit out of my mental balance. Right there and then I knew there were two things I must do to her at whatever price. Have her in my bed and put her in her place. Unfortunately, I knew it would not be in that particular order.