At three in the morning on a Tuesday, Sarah Williams attacked a punching bag in her garage and tried to clear her mind.
It was the same choreography every time. A routine she developed with her gym instructor and approved by her psychologist. One she knew by heart. Ten reps of punches followed by ten reps of kicks. Then the pushups, crunches, jump rope, and pull ups. Lather, rinse, repeat until she was exhausted, or her brain stopped trying to eat itself. Tonight, the former was winning the race for her fatigue by a hair.
She sat on the ancient folding chair in the garage and took a swig of her water bottle. She liked the burn in her muscles on nights like this. It was clarifying. It made her feel strong, powerful. Like a Champion of the Labyrinth.
And Champion sounded much better than survivor, and a Hell of a lot better than victim, but that never stopped the feeling of helplessness that clung to her like the stink of stagnant water.
Three months shy of a year since Sarah had fought her way through the Labyrinth, and she still couldn't shake the creeping dread that kept her up on the bad nights. Dr Amalthea said that she shouldn't feel guilty for having a normal trauma response, and also said to celebrate the progress she had made so far. Sarah's insomnia had lessened from every night down to approximately bi-weekly, and her workout helped her process her anxiety far better than when she was watching reruns and avoiding sleep altogether.
But Sarah still didn't like it, no matter how infrequent it became. Trauma was one of those things that highlights exactly how little control a person has over their life, and there were days even the undeniable fact of her victory never quite made up for… everything else. With a sigh, she wiped down the punching bag and equipment before pushing it to the back of the garage beside all the cardboard boxes, full of their stuff and waiting for the van.
Oh yeah, they were moving next week. Yet another thing she didn't have control over. Dad and Momma Karen had asked her honest opinion, and didn't pick a new house without her approval, but once Sarah agreed, those gears were in motion no matter how much her mental timeline differed. That was probably the reason she was up tonight. (Big events often can be triggers, so sayeth Dr. Thea.) And the forecast for several more nights this week is looking similar.
She coiled the jump rope before dropping it in her bin of gym equipment and quietly stealing up to her room. Just because her parents understood her insomnia, it didn't mean they wanted to wake up before dawn. After a quick shower and jammies, Sarah maneuvered around her half-boxed room in the dark. Her reflection caught her eye in the dresser mirror, reminding her to tell her Labyrinth friends about the move. It wasn't that she was avoiding that conversation; everyone's been busy lately. And she trusted Hoggle and the gang with her life, but that didn't mean giving away information with that portal open stopped feeling like breaking out a Ouija board in a cemetery.
But she wasn't unprepared. So many who loved and cared for her had seen her fear and fueled her power. They had taken a scarred and scared Champion and taught her to fight.
From her gym instructors, she learned to fight with her body. Punches, kicks, grapples. Using her shoulder to put a man twice her size on his back. Free running and free weights. Dodging, dancing away from blows. Watching an opponent's chest for their next move. How to deflect a knife; how to disarm a gun.
From Dr. Amalthea, she learned to fight with her mind. Recognizing a panic attack and breathing through it. Naming her emotions, pinpointing her anxiety triggers. Setting firm boundaries and knowing the shape of manipulation when it was spoken. Calming her mind and focusing her feelings. Meditation. Mindfulness. Resolve.
From Karen, her most surprising and cunning of teachers, she learned to fight with the social contract itself. How to smile with all her teeth and scare someone without words. How to reduce a person to tears without one insult. How to use tears of her own to make people uncomfortable and panicky. How to recognize the same in others, and when they use it to protect their own privilege instead of defending those without it. How to listen to the silent language of what others think behind the words they choose to say.
From her mother, Sarah learned how to fight with her appearance, though that was through memory and magazine photos. The concealment of a pair of sunglasses. The violence of a red lipstick. Thin heels and tight chignons and wasp-waisted coats. Linda was a piss poor teacher, and her lessons applied sparingly to Sarah's everyday life, but she took the knowledge all the same.
She even had lessons from her father, in how to fight with litigation. Contracts and law. How to find loopholes and how to close them. Quid pro quo. De jure versus De facto and a thousand other Latin phrases to use when someone in power wants to screw everyone else over. Getting everything in writing. How to file a subpoena and a C&D and a FOIA request. Arguing a case, not just with clever rhetoric and facts, but using both to paint her perspective. Understanding defeat isn't always the end. Appeals. Settling out of court. Negotiation.
It was with this litany of lessons running through her head that Sarah curled up in bed, finally drowsy. She could sleep in tomorrow, since it was winter break, but then she would call Hoggle and tell him about the move. She was as prepared as she was ever going to be. And if she was being honest with herself, beneath the anxiety she was excited for what was coming next.