The boxer

Matt bobbed and weaved, taking quick jabs and swings at the punching bag as he rose, slipping back down quickly as the bag wobbled back and forth from the weight of his blows. His shoulders and arms were laminated with his sweat, staining dark marks into his wife beater, making his skin sparkle in the intense lights lining the gym, and wet splatters coated the bag, walls, and floor around him. His feet were solidly planted on the ground, and every bit of movement came from the bend of his knees, the torsion of his waist, and the momentum of his blows.

Each blow rang loudly through the empty building. The gym had been closed for hours, but Matt was a trusted member, and was left with they key to close up shop when he finally went home. The front door had already been locked, but could of course be opened from the inside to allow him to leave. Some other trainers stayed after hours, but they had all gone as well. As they left, each had advised Matt not to push himself too hard, and to take some breaks - don't overexert yourself, and keep the muscles limber. Matt had simply nodded in response and kept pushing.

His arms were heavy and cumbersome, but he kept punching. Despite the exhaustion, he kept pounding the sand filled leather in the same spot, over and over, striking at the worn out spot he had forged with repeatedly accurate blows over the last few months. In his mind he could see clearly the bloody pulp of a face that he had been beating for the last few hours of training. The nose that had once existed but was now little more than a lump on a pile of once-face. On occasion, he threw in a gut punch to one side or the other, seeing his opponent spit blood and tooth from the blow.

His own leather boxing gloves were becoming thin as well from the pressure that he put them through. Underneath he had wrapped his fists in three layers of tape, and still he could feel them rubbing thin and raw. But he didn't stop. He ignored the pain. He blew away at his imaginary opponent, a facade atop the punching bag that he had created in his mind, willing them to drop though he knew the steel chains holding the bag in the air were too strong to let that happen. And as long as the bag was up in front of his face, he kept plowing into it.

As he felt that he was ready to fall, he reeled back, converting all the moment in his body into one final blow in his right fist, swinging with all his strength into the leather. But he had worked the bag too hard and too long. As he swung, the thin and weak tension holding it together gave way, and he tore a hole straight into the sand, which began to spill out around his feet as his hand got stuck in the hole.

It took a good two minutes for his weary body to gather the strength necessary to get his arm out of the hole he had punched through the leather. The movement made him land on his ass in the sand, and he sat there for a long time, gathering his breath and his energy. When finally he could stand, he went to the closet and got the cleaning supplies to fix his mess.

It would be another hundred dollars to replace that punching bag. It wasn't the first time he had had to pay that fine. But it was worth it.