Part 6
Eighty. Eighty. Eighty. Ellen's truck chugged down the street. Dean turned to the punching bag and tapped it. Solid. Going away present from Ellen. The last of them, she promised. His glasses being the first in a succession. He slipped the elastic band onto the stems of the glasses before settling them on his face. They helped. Some. But it wasn't the same. An extra hundred dollars had gotten them use of the garage itself. Dean had actually enjoyed moving their shit so he could have room to exercise where he could sweat it up and not worry about eyes on his charred flesh.
Popping a pain pill, he chugged some water before taping his hands and feet. Rolling his shoulders, he recalled the first lessons his father had ever given him. Slow and easy at first. Then repetition will build speed on its own. Felt his flesh stretch into the movements that were second nature to him. It wasn't his own faults that got him jumped. It was the new circumstances that had prevented him from defending himself.
The eye had limited his vision. The burn scabs had limited his range. The pain had sapped his strength. He had glasses now. He had his painkillers once more. The limited range would be his project. Physio, the doctors had said. Therapy to restore function. Depth perception was still an issue but he could adjust for it.
Guns. Sam had left him his two favorites. Throwing knives and a Stryker blade. A small arsenal. Just enough to let him feel normal. A canister of salt for the door and windows. Holy water, just in case. He would not be caught unawares again.
TBC