Surviving on Your Own
Red Rage
My favorite place in HQ is the gym. I can vent all my frustrations out in here. It would be nice to have an equal sparring partner, but I have yet to find one. Plus, most people stay away from me. I'm known around this place for my temper. My superiors tell me I need to stop snapping at people, and to stop scaring off each partner I get. Whatever, it's their fault for not giving me an adequate partner. I like to work alone anyways.
Slamming my fists into the punching bag will do for now. I can launch my most vicious kicks at it as well. I'm drenched in sweat. I can feel the tension leaving my body with each strike I make. It never lasts long enough though. The stress always comes back. I'm getting tired, but I don't want to stop. If I stop then I go back to my apartment. The only thing to do there is sleep and eat. And sleeping is a waste. Not to mention the nightmares.
I don't have fucking PTSD. I don't jump when things go boom. My night terrors are more like memories and reminders of all my mistakes. Of the people I wronged, of the people I was supposed to stand side by side with. It shouldn't bother me this much anymore. It's not like they're around anyways. They're all up in space and I'm here, dirt side.
Finally giving the punching bag a break, I move into the locker room. Shower and change and leave. But as I'm dressing into my civilian clothes I over hear a conversation.
"Did you hear about Lieutenant Chang?"
"Yeah, he took down that huge drug lord in Glasgow."
"He also saved three of his of men and took a bullet for one too!"
"I think he got another heroism award for it. Ya know, putting your ass on the line to save your own men will getcha that. And if anyone deserves that kind of award it's him."
The two gossip girls leave the locker room and I'm left in deafening silence. Their statements infuriate me. They don't know me! Or what I've done! And all I did was my fucking job on that mission! What's so damn great about that?!
Turning around, my fists begin to fly into a closed locker. Flesh meeting metal, thudding as I pull back and hit again. They don't fucking know me!
Pulling back, my knuckles are bloody, the locker is a dented mess, and all I feel is this red consuming rage.