flora
The rhythmic thud-thud-thud of leather against sand filled the quiet stretch of the coast, sharp and staccato, like a heartbeat spiralling out of control. The sun hung heavy overhead, pressing down on the sand and sweat alike, and though the shoreline breeze did its best to offer relief, Flora barely noticed. She wasn’t dressed for this—wasn’t supposed to be here doing this—but her fists had made the decision for her.
Her tank top, tied in a messy knot just beneath her ribs, clung damply to her skin with every swing. It rose and fell with her breathless gasps, catching the breeze as if trying to cool her the same way it had cooled the sea not ten feet away. Her braid had started the morning neat, but now stray curls clung to her temples and neck, plastered in gold and fury. Salt licked her skin: sea-spray, sweat, maybe both.
She wasn’t training. She was exorcising.
Punch. Jack’s voice, calm and calculated, echoing about how she was nothing to him now. Punch. The letter, folded and kept, like a keepsake he kept as a joke. Punch. How he'd told her to go.
She struck the bag again, harder, her gloves thudding into the faded canvas so violently that it swung on its chain and came back for more. She let it. Welcomed it. Every return swing was a new insult hurled, a new memory dragged screaming to the surface. Her breath came in ragged little bursts, caught between sobs and laughter, and there was a wildness in her eyes that dared the sea to look away.
All Flora could feel was the scream curling in her throat, and the ache rising in her arms as she tried to punch it into silence.
Her tank top, tied in a messy knot just beneath her ribs, clung damply to her skin with every swing. It rose and fell with her breathless gasps, catching the breeze as if trying to cool her the same way it had cooled the sea not ten feet away. Her braid had started the morning neat, but now stray curls clung to her temples and neck, plastered in gold and fury. Salt licked her skin: sea-spray, sweat, maybe both.
She wasn’t training. She was exorcising.
Punch. Jack’s voice, calm and calculated, echoing about how she was nothing to him now. Punch. The letter, folded and kept, like a keepsake he kept as a joke. Punch. How he'd told her to go.
She struck the bag again, harder, her gloves thudding into the faded canvas so violently that it swung on its chain and came back for more. She let it. Welcomed it. Every return swing was a new insult hurled, a new memory dragged screaming to the surface. Her breath came in ragged little bursts, caught between sobs and laughter, and there was a wildness in her eyes that dared the sea to look away.
All Flora could feel was the scream curling in her throat, and the ache rising in her arms as she tried to punch it into silence.
Every single thing I touch becomes sick with sadness
'Cause it's all over now, all out to sea
'Cause it's all over now, all out to sea
