Who: Mackensie Womack [Hector of Troy] and Open What: Trying to get out some frustrations Where: Training gym... thingy in Chicago When: Sunday, early morning Rating: R for language (and violence to a punching bag? Haha.) Status: Thread; Open. It'll turn into a narrative if no one joins her.
Mack hadn't slept at all since Friday night. There was too much on her plate right now. Her mother was worrying about her too much, her younger siblings were either pissed off at her for not being there for them when they need her or they simply relied on her too much, and now... all this stuff with Ty. He'd skipped a very important meeting with the big higher ups in the Bureau. She had to cover for him. Cover big time, and had to inform them of the progress they'd made (which hadn't been enough, in her opinion, and theirs). And he'd been completely ungrateful. But she'd forgiven him that. Because now that she knew what else had been plaguing him, she couldn't yell at him, even if he was being an ass to her. She hated that. She hated having to bite her tongue.
He had to know how messed up this was, how severely wrong this all could turn out to be. She didn't need to lecture him, and she wasn't going to. That also killed her. Holding anger inside was something she hated doing. That's why she picked so many fights with the people around her. She'd take it out on them, making them almost as miserable as she was.
She looked at the clock. 8 am. There was no way she was sleeping at this point. She changed into tight shorts, a wife beater, and put a sweatshirt over it. She was a big girl. She could handle the chill. It wasn't much. Grabbing her duffel bag, she walked out of the apartment, inadvertently slamming the door, the sound echoing down the hallway. She locked the door, and headed on her way out the door. The gym wasn't far from she lived, and she wasn't kidding when she said she'd knock out anyone who got her way. Hell, anyone who talked to her right now was going to get a tongue lashing, if not worse. She stalked down the streets, running into many people's shoulders on the way. She didn't care. They should know they should get the fuck out of her way.
She finally got to the gym, giving the manager a grunt. She knew him, talked to him on occasion. Enough for him to know that right now wasn't the time to mess with her. She plopped the bag down hard on the table and put her gloves on. Not normal boxing gloves, but the ones that protected your knuckles from hitting the bag too hard, which she tended to do constantly. She walked over to the punching bag that was on a track. One that, if you hit it hard enough, would move down it. She knew that it was stupid to start punching and kicking this thing if she hadn't stretched or worked out a little gradually before hand, but fuck it. She didn't care.
Her first teacher told her long ago never to fight, or even punch a punching bag, if you're too angry. All it does is make you end uo hurting yourself.
Oh well. She wasn't going to pay attention to that either. Logic and reason? Who cared. Not her. Not when she just wanted to beat the crap out of anyone and anything she could get her hands on. She laid a hard right punch to the bag, followed quickly by a left jab, then another right punch. With each punch, she let out a angry, frustrated grunt, and those were soon met with a round house kick to the bag, sending the bag down the tracked, swinging on its chain. But it didn't go far enough. She knew she could make it go farther than that.
Okay. Breathe. Try to breathe. That's where most people failed in physical training, and fights. Not breathing takes away most of your power. Punch with her left, right, left, and kick again. Still. Not far enough.
This was just pissing her off more. She tried again, determined to make that damn bag go farther than that. She hit the bag with her right fist, a breath with it that sounded more frustrated that it should, same with her left, and right again, and then her leg flew swiftly in a circle, her foot connecting with the bag as her teeth gritted, then let out a grunt when she hit it. it went farther this time, but still not far enough. "Ugh!" She hit the bag again with a kick. Nothing. Jesus.