It hardly pours in San Jose. Hence, the din of rain feels like a dream to Anna. But that clinking noise refuses to lift. Anna sits up in bed. Listening. She cranes her ears towards the High School Musical Poster on her door and hears a muttered garble of swearing from the kitchen. Ice fills her gut; its chill inches up her spine.
There's always the option of doing nothing at all. Pacifism. Silence. Going back to sleep and pretending she woke from nightmare.
A soft glow illuminates her room. It comes from the laptop where where she left her Sophmore Chemistry report: "Alcohol is a Volatile Organic compound with a high vapour pressure at room temperature."
Guess she'll be finding out tonight.
Her face scrunches as she eases the bedroom door open and smells that stench down the hallway. That's alcohol alright. Whiskey. Jack Daniels. An empty beer can clangs on a tile and it jolts her senses awake. Her eyes widen. Limbs frozen so stiff they ache. Rumbling thunder fails to drown out his hollering voice.
"Fuck, this fucking house is dry as a bone-"
Dread seeps through her muscles and it compels her to step into a narrow wedge of light. Drawers rattle as Agnarr pulls open one after another. She knows at once what he's searching for. Her lungs clench when the harrowing truth dawns upon her: it's hidden in her room. Burning bright red like a lit coal waiting to incinerate her.
And right now, she's the only one standing between him and that little thing he's tearing through the house for.
"Dad."
He doesn't hear her. Half the kitchen cabinets lie yanked open. Bits and pieces of cutlery and glassware strewn on the countertops and on the floor. Empty liquor bottles with every name from Jack to Jim to Johnnie litter the dining table. Anna flinches backwards when his eyes fall upon her. The fury written in them tells her that he's not going to stop. His voice sounds ten times more frightening when it drops to a raspy whisper instead of the booming tirades she's used to.
"Where are my car keys?"
"Stop."
"You took it, didn't you? You little rat-"
"Dad, stop, just stop, I'm your daughter."
"I should've strangled that bitch before she gave birth to you-"
Her blood runs cold at the venom in his voice. It poisons her soul - but she tells herself it's already rotten to the deepest core. It's no wonder then, hardly a shred of fear shows on her face when he marches right up to her. Muscled, tattooed forearms flexing as he grabs her and spews another torrent of hatred right into her face.
"Tell me where my fucking keys are, or I'll rip your fucking head off you little shit-"
The stench makes her gag. She turns her face away, before digging through the pit of her soul for the courage to yell back at him.
"You're going to hurt someone this time, I know it!"
The world around her splinters when he slams her into the carpet. Anna bolts upright, and promptly gets slapped aside so hard she crumbles to the ground. Anna rises again without a hitch, but her father's already inside her room, ripping open drawer after drawer. She rubs at her cheek, numb from the impact and wet with tears. That barely audible jingle from the depths of her closet hurts more than any physical beatdown he can throw. Head buried in her hands, she slumps to the carpet in defeat. Barely hearing the thumping of feet from her room. Chemistry homework about the warnings of alcoholism unheeded on her laptop. That vile taunt, "you're fucking useless" passing through her ears as she tries not to hear the Ford's engine starting beneath the rain.
Maybe he'll crash it before reaching the liquor store.
Maybe it got shot up and has to close.
Maybe Mom forgot to put gas in the car and it stalls.
Her mind goes through the dozen or so "Maybes" while she sits there with tears seeping through her fingers. Feeling like a useless shit for ignoring the most inevitable of all consequences. It doesn't matter anyway, because the blues and reds flashing in her periphery tell her. And the two cops in drenched uniforms and grim faces say it all without even speaking a word. But they come. Words that scar deeper than any bruise he's left.
"Sweetie, do you know where your father is?"
"He's been at it again, I'm afraid."
"Please speak up, we can't hear you."
"Two people this time."
"I don't think she can walk again."
"Christ, is that a bruise? Did he hurt you?"
No. No he didn't. My father's a good man. He wouldn't do this to his own daughter.
Would he?
She makes it through two laps of the Quadrangle before dropping her pace to a walk. None of the pride she expects catches up. Limbs still ache from the run. A ghost of a bruise blisters beneath her cheek. Maybe this will stay with all the rest of my bruises. Worse is that burning embarrassment from how a little tap unravelled her sanity just like that. No, she's not ready for this. What the hell was she thinking? A throbbing realisation settles into her chest as she keels over with her eyes directed at the sports centre. Doing this was like a burn victim volunterering to be a firefighter. A flood refugee getting a job on an ocean trawler. A car crash survivor working as a driving instructor.
Do you need more metaphors? Are these enough? She shakes her head and limps up the stairs. Looking over her shoulder one last time to see if that blonde chick can give her one more reason to return. No glistening, flopping trail of gold arrives and she takes it as a sign.
A bowl of oatmeal slides across the table as soon as she sits her sore ass down. Blueberries this time. Honey trails shimmer in a circle around the grey gloop.
"Oh god Belle, you don't always have to -"
"It's ok, I made extra."
She stares at the immaculate bowl of oatmeal. Belle has a copy of Catching Fire propped open between her fingers as she sips coffee. Her bowl's already empty, and she can't help but think about this girl. Sitting alone at home without a father for years and still finding her way to college. The oatmeal takes on a different meaning as she spoons that first lump of smooth sweetness into her mouth. Behind that, a woman who never gave up and continued doing what she had to do despite her grief. And produced this girl who's paying it back to a near-stranger.
Anna feels small all of a sudden.
That shrinking sensation collapses her further into the chair when Belle's gaze drifts over hers.
"So, you wanna talk about it?"
Anna pauses her chewing, "About what?"
A sigh. "It's a small dorm, Anna - I heard you cry yourself to sleep last night."
Heat blossoms across her face. Followed by pain. A dull ache throbs in her cheek. She shakes her head before the memories come surging back.
"Homesick, I guess."
"Really? Not to be an ass but I think you knew what you signed up for when you moved across the country-"
The words catch in Anna's tongue. No, I ran away from it all. I'm the last person on earth to be homesick. She looks over her shoulder at the tear- and sweat-soaked handwraps lying in a pile of failure on her bedroom floor. Wondering if Belle already knows. C'mon, booksmart and probably streetsmart too. Yea she knows.
"It's this thing I signed up for, I'm such a slob back home, y'know? And it got really intense when I started training and it was just too overwhelming."
Belle nods slowly. The open book dangles from her hand.
"And for a moment, I just felt so," Anna flexes her fingers, fighting off the urge to break down again, "so shit."
"What exactly was this thing you were doing? A sport? I'm assuming you weren't off jogging in the middle of the night."
Anna swallows, before she sighs, "Boxing."
Those hazel eyes couldn't open any wider.
"Boxing," Belle says slowly, "You signed up for the Arendelle College Boxing programme."
"Yea, it's stupid," Anna tilts her head back, "I just wanted to try something different."
"And you thought it was difficult."
"It was, oh god lemme tell you, I was not prepared for this-"
Belle lays her book facedown and sucks in a deep breath, "D-did you, um, read the College Brochure before applying here?"
Fuck no, I didn't. I went on Google Maps and applied to a bunch of colleges on the east coast.
"What, are they like really good or something?"
"Really good?" Belle's voice rises, "How about number-freaking-one in the country? The kind that dominates competitions? The kind that has a queue of people beating down the door for Athletic Scholarships?"
She raises her eyebrows, "Sure didn't look like it-"
"No wonder it got a bit much for you! Oh you poor thing! They must've thrown the entire sink at you from day one-"
"Kristoff's pretty nice actually, but yea some parts got intense. And it sucked so hard I just felt-"
She tries to reconcile the image of a supposedly struggling Boxing coach. A few ragged looking dudes beating each other up. Best in the country. Really? Then again, would one appreciate the Mona Lisa if they weren't into art?
"So are you gonna go back?"
The question hits her in the chest like a wad of overcooked spaghetti. Slowly sinking into her belly. Thirty minutes ago she swore she wasn't going to step foot in the sports building ever again. But the gentle, unconfrontational way Belle phrased her question. Best in the country. She looks down at the bowl of oatmeal and ponders the resilience it stands for. As though a slobbery, sweet mess of a breakfast contains enough edible courage for her to even consider giving it another shot.
"I don't know, maybe-"
It takes forever to figure out the laundry. And another eternity finding a place to get quarters for the machine. But one wash-dry cycle later, she has a basket full of clean clothes. Tank tops and shorts from all the jog-walks she's been going on. Anna skips sorting them and picks out the handwraps, folding them neatly like she's giving an American flag to a war orphan. The death of her hopes of moving on from her past.
The walk back to the sports centre takes longer than usual. But for the first time since she first visited, Anna catches sight of a trophy cabinet in the lobby. There're a few NCAA titles. One for tennis. Two for swimming. Second and third places, mostly. The rest of the cabinet's flooded with boxing medals laying around stacks and stacks of towering trophies. 1st place. 1st place. 1st place. No runners-up. An alphabet-soup of amateur boxing associations: NCBA, USIBA, NCAA. Holy crap, is that a photo of Kristoff? Buff and shirtless receiving a national trophy. Goddamn, Anna whistles under her breath. Belle wasn't kidding.
The faintest scent of vanilla floats past her. She recognises it instantly, and her breath hitches at Elsa trotting up the stairs two steps at a time. Anna immediately pursues her, before catching herself. She's gonna think you're stalking her, idiot. But the sheer magnetism of that graceful strength Elsa carries herself with proves impossible to resist. Resigned to staying a few feet behind, she makes it to the gym. Just a little less out-of-breath this time.
Kristoff's all over her the instant she walks through the glass doors.
"You're back."
Anna holds out the folded stack of red fabric, "I-I just came to return these."
His hand hovers over the laundered handwraps. Her eyes fix on Elsa. Already skipping in the corner. Burning death-glare staring down her reflections.
"Are you kidding? You don't want to continue this anymore? I was hoping-"
"Look Kristoff, I'm sorry to disappoint you but, I-I just don't know, alright? God, it was so fucking embarassing-"
"I'm not embarassed," Kristoff sniggers, "Are you embarrassed?"
"Yes!"
He shoves the handwraps back at her.
"This is about more than boxing, isn't it?" Kristoff jabs at her, "You're running from something, and it landed you right in my boxing gym. But instead of dodging that something, it found you right where you were and smacked you in the face."
Anna's eyes shoot wide open at the sudden deluge of wisdom. Kristoff's gentle brown eyes lay still and stoic, and she finds it hard to match this with the buff image of a man who beat his way to the very top.
"I guess I hit a nerve."
She swallows her tears and nods.
"Y'know, I've worked here for a while. People like you show up all the time. They come and go. Most don't stick around long enough," Kristoff mutters, "But the one thing that remains true - whatever they're running from isn't going to stop chasing them."
Her spirit sinks into a concrete grave. Eyes water. The same paralyzing fear she felt on that rain-soaked night haunts her very soul. It's not going to stop chasing you.
She doesn't provide an answer, keeping her eyes fixed on Elsa and hoping this woman gives one to her. None comes, but Kristoff takes matters into his own hands and helps her with her bag. Wrapping her hands once more while she notices Elsa doing the same things she did last week.
"You're gonna burn a hole in her skull if you stare at her any harder," Kristoff jokes, before cutting off her view of that gorgeous blonde, "now let's see if you've learned to keep your freaking hands up."
A chuckle escapes her throat, "I don't remember agreeing to this."
"Right, and yet you came here in sweatpants and a t-shirt. To return some handwraps."
"Hey, it's still warm out."
A look flashes in his eyes that tells her what she needs to know. Stop running away. When he moves aside, all Anna sees is her own reflection. All her fears and doubts wrapped up in one freckled package. A little short too. She hates this reflection. Along with every broken cell in her body. But instead of looking away, she puts up her hands.
"Throw a jab."
Jab.
"Throw a cross."
Cross.
Kristoff takes out a short, pink foam pool noodle and taps her elbows everytime she drops her hands. It takes longer than usual before he lets her graduate to the heavy bag. Still wearing kids' gloves. Still huffing and puffing with each punch she hurls at full power into the stone-filled leather bag. That familiar feeling of joy creeps on her slowly. She doesn't realise until it spreads its wings in her chest like a butterfly. Before shrinking back into its cocoon when he motions towards the ring.
The boxing mitts go back on his hands. She gulps. Flinching when he points it right at her face.
"Whatever you're running from," Kristoff's voice drops to a deathly whisper, "now is the time to face it."
He holds a mitt up.
Thwack.
Thwack, thwack.
"Faster."
Thwack, thwack, thwack.
Anna's heart creeps into her throat. Combined with pounding this hard from all the exercise - the potent cocktail inside threatens to make her hurl.
"Keep your hands up."
Anna shells up her forearms. A split second before Kristoff smacks her hard in the gloves. The impact jolts her heart. Arms go limp. They drop. Bad mistake. He hesitates momentarily before slapping her so hard in the cheek that her vision blurs. The world mutes silent.
She's still standing. A blonde figure in the corner of her eye swims into focus, working at the heavy bags like she's training for a world championship fight. Her teeth grit, as the realisation dawns that Kristoff smacked the living shit out of her and she's not on the fl-
Thwack.
Anna staggers from the blow, only for Kristoff to follow after her with a raised mitt. Thwack. Another blow lands on her guard. Between the blurry fog of her vision, Anna feels a warmth trickle down her cheekbone. Pain crests like a roaring wave. She swallows back the rising tide of sewage fear. That disgusting memory seeping into her brain and cramping her arms. Focusing only on Kristoff's face and what his moving lips are trying to say.
Now is the time to face it.
Thwack.
He hits her again.
Mitts raised.
But this time, Anna punches back.