Back on the Scene

Deep in the heart of the mysterious, wooded, and highly misunderstood landmass known as Mississippi, tucked between the hillbilly foothills of Alabama and the alligator bayous of Louisiana, a steady thumping beat filled the dim, mustiness of the gym.

“One two! One two! One two! One two! One two!”

With each barked out number from his trainer, his taped up fist drove deep into the worn, sweat soaked padding of the patchwork sandbag. His hands were numb; his fists were numb, knuckles bleeding. Every single one of his muscles flared painfully, and his lungs rattled dryly.

But still he continued pounding away on the sandbag.

 His feet were continuously shuffling around, swishing on the concrete like sandpaper on wood. Hot, salty sweat dripped off of his curly brown locks, stung his green eyes, and soaked into his grey sweatshirt.

But he didn’t let any of that stop him.

Determination flared angrily deep within his eyes, stoked by the disappointment of so many. It was the rare force that could only be found deep within certain individuals, the whipped, the broken, the beaten.

Each punch he landed on the worn out sandbag felt relieving to him. He felt all of his troubles slipping away from him. His trainer’s staccato bark chipped away at the painful memories of last night’s lost boxing match. A small smile crept its way onto his face; his mind was focused solely on the work at hand now.

It was just him.

Thud! Thud!

The pounding of his fists on the canvas.

“One two!”

His trainer.

Thud! Thud!

“One two!”

And the long uphill climb back to the top