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Moving carefully, I position myself in front of the bag. I set my feet; I raise my hands; I clench my fists, and then, in slow motion I show a punch — how to move, how to twist, how to put every ounce of my body into the punch — and then I unleash a real one that rocks the back and makes the chain holding it to the ceiling squeal in pain.
“See that?”
“I saw you punch slow, and then punch really hard.”
“There’s more than that. Were you watching my feet? The way I twisted my hips? Rotated my torso?”
“If you’re asking whether I was checking out your hips and butt, yes, but probably not in the way you intended.”
I laugh. “Try paying closer attention, but in a different way.”
She takes a drink of her beer, sighs, then shakes her head. “But why are we doing all this?”
“You slapped a cop today.”
Now she raises her hands defensively. “I did. But he was harassing me, and I couldn’t help it. The guy was a total jerk.”
“There are a lot of jerks out there.”
“Yeah, there are.”
“And if you ever get in a situation where some guy is harassing you, and I’m not there, I want you to know how to hit him so that he never even thinks about bothering you again. I don’t like the thought of people bothering you, Emily. It makes me sick. So if you have to hit them, I want you to hit them right. I want them to suffer for even thinking about bothering you.”
Emily's eyes widen, and for a moment, she's silent. Then she sets her beer down and steps closer to me, her gaze intense. "Hunter... I didn't realize you felt that way."
I swallow hard. "I just want you to be safe.”
"Okay," she says. "Show me again."
I nod, relieved, and move back to the punching bag. This time, I break down each step of the punch, explaining the mechanics as I go. Emily watches intently, her eyes following my movements.
"Now you try," I say, stepping back.
She takes a deep breath and positions herself in front of the bag. Her first attempt is still hesitant, but I can see she's trying to mimic my form.
"Better," I say. "But remember to pivot your back foot. That's where a lot of your power comes from."
Emily nods, determination creasing her brow. She throws another punch, this time with more force. The bag swings somewhat.
"Good! Now, imagine that bag is the face of every asshole who's ever given you trouble."
Something flashes in her eyes — a spark of anger, of frustration. Her next punch lands with a satisfying smack that shakes the bag. Whoever took that one would end up with a black eye they’d never forget.
Emily grins, a mix of surprise and satisfaction on her face. "Wow, that felt... great."
"Keep going," I encourage her. "Let it all out."
She nods, her jaw set with determination. She throws punches in rapid succession, each one harder than the last. The bag swings wildly, chains rattling above us. The few remaining patrons in the gym glance our way, eyebrows raised in curiosity.
I grin with pride. It’s a wonder watching her work, unleashing whatever demons have been bothering her; the fire in her eyes, the set of her jaw, the graceful movement of her body.
"That's it," I say, my voice low and intense. "Channel everything you're feeling. Every frustration, every moment of helplessness. Put it all into your fists."
Emily's breathing becomes heavy, her face flushed with exertion. But she doesn't stop. Right, left, right — she's a quick study, incorporating the techniques I showed her with surprising speed.
"Think about that cop," I say. "Think about every creep who's ever catcalled you on the street. Every boss who's talked down to you. Every ex who treated you like crap."
With each suggestion, her punches grow fiercer. Sweat beads on her forehead, and a small grunt escapes her lips as, on the last suggestion, she uncorks a punch that’s so ferocious it leaves her stumbling with the effort. Her hair is loose, wild, clinging to her sweat-damp forehead. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes bright with exertion and something else — maybe catharsis, maybe rage.
