Cold steel presses against searing flesh. Metallic grit sinks it's teeth in, gnaws at sensitive flesh. Calluses built by years of wear are gone, badges of honor erased by death. She drums her fingers, tightens her grip one finger at a time. Her knuckles are white, her palms throb. She welcomes the pain.
She inhales, mindfully contracts every muscle in her body; abdomen tight, back straight, toes grasp the floor. She sinks slow, controlled, out and down into a deep squat. She pauses, lets the position siphon acid from her muscles. She summons what strength remains, drives through her heels and pushes back against the weight on her shoulders.
It's her last rep, but she's already pushed too hard, forced herself to bare more weight than she knew she should. Her quadriceps are on fire, her hamstrings shake, her back is tired. Suddenly her knees buckle, she crumples. The rack's safety bars prevent 170 pounds of metal from crushing her.
She lies on the ground, silent save for ragged wheezes. The wind has been knocked from her lungs, she struggles to replace the oxygen. It burns. As does her palms, torn and bloody from overuse. She stares at her failure and a familiar numbness settles over her. It's the same heavy fog that engulfed her after Nicholas's death. After Akuze. After Alchera. After Bahak.
It will consume her if she's not careful.
Part of her wants to let it. Invite it in, let it devour everything she hasn't already destroyed herself. Let it leave her nothing but an empty shell, a husk.
It's a slow process, but she re-inflates her lungs. She wriggles out from under the bar, forces herself to her feet. Iron plates drop to the ground, enough that she can lift the bar back to proper height.
One hundred pounds is too light, she knows, but she figures she's due for an ego-boost. Less weight is better than nothing at all.
She squares her hips, plants her feet, positions herself beneath the bar. Her jaw is clenched, her hands a vise on the iron. She pulls it against her traps, feels the sting of objection from raw flesh. Her palms burn, pulse wildly where skin breaks and blood pools, tacky as she drums her fingers, tightens her grip one finger at a time.
She welcomes the pain.