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Part II: Little Red Riding Hood
Shades of Crimson
Punch. Kick. Block.
Punch. Kick. Block.
There was a rhythm in Crimson's graceful, yet fierce moves as she unleashed blow after blow on the pummeled punching bag. A sheet of perspiration covered her body, soaking her tank. It dripped down her face, into her eyes, but she ignored the sting, harshly slamming her black-gloved hand into the leathery, cracked exterior.
A permanent anger remained inside Crimson, no matter how many times she let it out on the punching bag or – in some cases – another person. It just grew and grew, but even when it receded, it was still there. Waiting. Like some terrible monster. Stories of bogey men under beds and in closets flashed through the brunette's mind, causing her to hit harder. Faster.
One. Two. Three.
One. Two. Three.
Left. Right.
Left. Right.
Of course, it'd been like this ever since her granny died and her parents had suddenly reappeared to take her in. 'Take her in' – it sounded so pathetic. So sad. So . . . unbelievably true. Granny had taken care of her since she was little. She hardly knew her parents let alone saw them on a daily basis. She only recognized their faces from the photographs that hung on the walls of her Granny's house. She was seventeen. They were gone for most of her life. What made them think she wanted them now?
Angry tears sprung to Crimson's dark-brown eyes, only fueling her rage. They had a year with her. But only a year. When she turned eighteen. Graduated school. She was gone. Hell, she had been gone the day they brought her "home". When she first entered that unfamiliar house with those unfamiliar people, she was quiet. At that time, she was able to seethe in silence. She didn't talk to them or make eye contact with them. She hardly left the room she was given.
They made her go to therapists. Shrinks. Each one wasn't too different from the last. Always tap-tap-tapping at her skull, trying to see what was inside. A few claimed she was merely suffering the loss of her grandmother. That it would get better with time. Months passed. It didn't. The birth-givers – she'd never give them the joy of hearing mom or dad leave her mouth – thought that something was wrong with her. That she was some kind of mental.
Then she started acting out. Seething quietly was no longer an option. All those bottled up emotions surfaced, forming a big blowout of fury. She trashed her room. Screamed. Took a swing at the male birth-giver when he tried to restrain her. Who were they to stop her? They abandoned her. They deserved whatever they got.
They were scared of her.
Her last therapist was pretty okay. Smart. She got through, but just barely. Enough to realize that Crimson needed some kind of outlet. Something to project her anger in a way that didn't involve vandalizing anything. So, here she was. The gym. There were five other punching bags in the room, but she had been going there for a few weeks already. In those weeks, she made it pretty clear – without even saying anything – that when she came in, everyone else better get out. She might accidently hit something – or someone – that wasn't the bag.
And, for the most part, it was working. As long as you ignored the small flashes of anger that stuck with her long after the brunt of her rage was released. She still wanted nothing to do with the birth-givers though. She still resented them. That was a feeling that'd stick with her for a long time.
Her arms fell limp at her sides, fists throbbing despite the padding in her fingerless gloves. Her breathe left her in short, angry bursts, chest heaving with each inhale and exhale. Her tense muscles were sore, yet she enjoyed the feeling. Bending to grab the water bottle on the floor beside her, she turned, and froze. Her eyes narrowed.
She looked him up and down. His dark-brown, almost black, hair and equally dark eyes. That damn permanent smirk. The fitted black tee that showed off a hint of muscles underneath it and the black-and-red b-ball shorts that nearly matched her own.
"Wolf," she murmured.
His smirk widened. "What's up, Red?"