Can't Hide

• Kodi Sawtell, Grade 9
• Short Story
• 2015

Pound. Pound. Thwack.
With each punch her anger grew, spreading through her like cancer. Filling every part, from the tips of her hair to the toenails of her toes. She broke.
The bag was a face she didn’t know. His face, her face, their face. She battered it with a rage that formed into hate. Pounded, pounded, as the red haze of that hate narrowed her vision. Pounded, pounded, as her knuckles went raw and bloomed with blood.
The faces swirled in a tornado of rage that bubbled and boiled in a cauldron of everything wrong with life. Her best friends, her love, her rage, her life all pressed against her skull. Her heartbeat rose in her ears, getting louder and faster. She bit her lip to hold back a scream.
Her leg swung out in a side kick, in a new flood bursting from containment.
They say, don’t touch me, don’t hit me, calm down.
Anger isn’t even on the threshold of what she felt.
All she knew was how to fight. And now, the bag was her only companion that could withstand punishment.
The voices in her head were all wrong, trying to change who she was. The only people who can change are the dead. From life to death, they change. If they wanted to change her, they would have to kill her, and she wasn’t going down without a fight.
The rage boiled over, and with one strong punch, the seam broke. Sand flowed through the gaps and collected together in a pile on the frozen cold ground.
Her knees gave way and fell out from under her. Not even the bag could withstand her rage. Her breathing fell into sharp jerks, heartbeat still racing, adrenaline pulsing. Warm tears fell down her cheeks in tiny waterfalls pooling in the corner of her pleading mouth. Pleading, was the only way to forgiveness, she realised that now. Pleading is the only way to show that you haven’t given up.
She stroked away a rogue tear falling on her shorts, the pad of her finger damp.
Squeezing her eyes shut, she let out a shuddery breath.
“You’re a mess,” the voice said.
“Shut up!” Her scream echoed around the room. Only silence answered her.
‘I don‘t feel, and nothing hurts.’ she chanted to herself. ‘I don’t feel, and nothing hurts.’ “Everything hurts,” the voice said.
“Gah!” she exclaimed. Leaping up, she thrust out her leg connecting with the excess of the bag. Everything suddenly slowed. She watched the ripple of muscle come in a tidal wave up her thigh. Her foot plunged through the bag, and a burst of white cloud filled the air. It went everywhere. Her hair and clothes plastered with sand, her tear stained eyes itched and hurt. The open wounds on her hands stung and brought more tears to the brink. She let out a muffled sob.
Now you’re a mess.