Punching Bag

Will Conway

“You alright there, dude?”

Brett clenched his fists in response, his gaze not wavering from the retreating figure of his best friend. After a few moments, he growled at the man who had talked to him and stalked in the opposite direction from his friend.



He really needed a punching bag. Brett knew he couldn’t come home every time he was angry and make a new hole in the wall of his apartment. And there were many holes.

Brett yanked the tie from his neck and tore off his purple-lined dress shirt. Sneering at a photo of his best friend, Jeremy, on top of the microwave, the man hesitated for a moment. In the end, Brett stormed out of his apartment, the picture still standing in its place.



Brett’s loose black clothing shifted eagerly on his frame as his hurried stride carried him closer to his destination. Already he could make out the sounds of blood smacking the pavement, fists crunching bone, and the distinct applause as one fighter emerged victorious. Brett clenched and unclenched his fists in anticipation, and his fast pace grew quicker as he neared the site of the street fighting arena. The man’s sneer momentarily turned into a smirk as he regarded the shadows of the basement of the parking garage; an apt place for such a dark art.

The winning fighter raised his hands above his head and roared his triumph, spinning around to view the entire crowd surrounding the fighting circle and bellowing as money shifted hands with groans and glee.

Brett wheedled his way through the crowd to stand in front of the victorious fighter. Brett was fully a head shorter and much less muscled than the big man in front of him, but at the sight of the new fighter, the big man stopped bellowing and stared at Brett, let loose a sneer, and prepared his fighting stance, beckoning Brett forward. Brett merely returned the sneer tenfold and started whipping his sleeveless arms in the preparatory motions, focusing his anger on this single, physical focal point.

The two stared at each for a few moments, but soon the previous victor became annoyed with the silence and charged at Brett. Snarling, Brett launched himself at his opponent, throwing the big man off balance with surprise and giving Brett the opportunity to land his fist through the man’s guard to smash his nose. The big man stumbled backward, but Brett did not relent in his assault. One-two in the big man’s stomach, but finally the previous victor recovered and replied with a ferocious fist right into Brett’s nose. The two parted, both now sporting bloody faces. Brett licked the blood near his lips, and poked his fingers at his nose. He looked at the blood on his fingertips, and with a roar and a wide eyed expression of rage, charged his foe. The big man was once again smacked on the face, and he returned with a blow to Brett’s stomach, but Brett just roared again and punched the other man even harder, until the big man could no longer retaliate with blows of his own. The previous victor fell down unconscious to the ground, but Brett still screamed, daring his insensible opponent to rise again and resume the fight. But to no avail, and a few moments of this, with stunned silence from the crowd, Brett merely sniffed, wiped his bloody nose, and left the circle. This time his steps were not as hurried, but his fists still clenched and unclenched the entire walk back to his apartment building. In moments of deep rage such as those, Brett liked to pretend that even the mammoth skyscrapers of the city cowered before him.



He flipped the keys onto the kitchen counter and moved to his answering machine, fingering his nose. Brett grunted when he realized it was broken, but that was nothing new. He’d fix it later.

One message. Brett clicked the play button and searched his closet for a clean set of clothes.

“Hey Brett, it’s Jeremy.”

Brett stopped shuffling through his closet.

“Just wanted to tell you, man, that, uh, I’m really so—”

“BEEP! Message erased.”

The mechanic voice sounded much more reassuring than that loser’s voice. Brett just stood there for a few moments, bobbing his head, then shaking it, his fists clenched so tight they were beyond white. He finally couldn’t control it anymore, and the right one erupted into the wall, sending white plaster floating to the ground. The first one in his bedroom, but Brett didn’t really care; what did it matter where the holes were?



The big man glared at him with malevolent eyes, charged him just he had in the parking garage. Brett sneered just like he had before, and once again leapt at the man, bloodying his nose. But this time the big man did not so much as recognize that he was hit, and he pummeled on Brett mercilessly. The big man started laughing, and that laughter made Brett even angrier, and he tried to fight through the pain, tried to fight back. His own fists started hitting the big man’s chest and stomach, but felt as if they were hitting steel. Now accepting as many hits as he was dealing, Brett was too deep in his rage to back out now.

He punched again at the big man’s torso, but then a gaping mouth appeared in the big man’s chest. Brett’s fist plunged through the hole, and the big man just laughed, and Brett looked on in horror as teeth sprouted around the hole and began to eat away at Brett’s fist. Pain seared through Brett’s entire body, more pain than he had ever felt, and he could feel his world begin to ebb away, and finally taking it with it his anger.



Brett bolted upright in his bed, gripping his right arm. He looked down at it, half expecting it to be bleeding, but at the same time realized that it was just a dream. He shook his tingling arm—he must have been sleeping on it wrong.

Shaking sleep from his eyes, Brett got up and walked to the bathroom to begin his early morning ritual. His steps brought him past the answering machine again, and to his semi-conscious surprise, he saw it blipping with another new message. He pushed play.

“Hey Brett,” a sultry voice that Brett had once welcomed spoke to him from the corridors of his memories, “this is Julia. I just wanted to call and make sure you were alright. It’s been a long time, but . . . I just don’t want any hard feelings between us, okay? Or between you and Jeremy. Neither of you did anything wrong. I just . . . I want everyone to be happy. Is that really so bad a thing?”

The machine clicked after a pause with the end of the message. Brett stared with morning eyes at the answering machine, half of him already beginning to rage, half trying to quell that rage, and all of him still demanding more sleep.

His feet shuffled into the bathroom. His hands washed themselves, then dried off. His face looked up into the mirror. What was going on? Was he really himself?

The mirror shattered as Brett’s fist erupted into it, and the man screamed at the broken reflection. There were holes now in the reflection, and all Brett could make out of it was his gaping mouth, bloodshot eyes, and v-like eyebrows. He didn’t even look human anymore.

The screams turned to sobs as Brett curled into a ball on the floor. After a few moments, all sound escaped him, and he just lay there in silence.



“Hello?”

“Julia. It’s Brett.”

“Brett! How’ve you been?”

Silence.

“Are you with Jeremy right now?”

“Brett . . . can you please let this go?”

“I want to talk to him.”

“Why couldn’t you just call him instead then?” Brett heard something then in Julia’s voice that he had not heard in a long time—irritation. No, something stronger than that—resentment.

“I already deleted his phone number. Put him on. I promise I won’t break his nose.” Brett almost laughed at his private joke, but to stop himself he touched his own nose instead.

“Brett.”

“Jeremy. Our last meeting ended rather abruptly. So I want to hear it from you. Why? Answer in fifty words or less.”

Again, silence. But this time Brett was the one waiting.

“Are you serious? I’ve told you a million times that it doesn’t matter why, and even if it did, I couldn’t tell you, because I don’t know myself! And fifty words or less? Even now your cynical humor shows through.” Pause. “You bastard, why can’t you let things go, huh?”

Brett started to choke again on his anger again. He momentarily thought about hanging up the payphone, but he looked down at the busy street in front of him. He could just imagine the monster from his nightmare oozing up from the manholes to come eat him.

“There are your fifty words. Happy?”

Brett checked his rage again. He told himself not to worry, he was going to buy that punching bag today. Cynical humor? He’d show Jeremy cynical humor.

“Technically I did let go. It’s just that when I let go, you took up the torch with its promise of eternal flame and finished the race instead. When I had the endurance to go the rest of the way, you just cut me off, forced me to let go. What choice did I have? I no longer had the torch. She ever ask you where you got it, Jeremy? If she knew, do you think your flame would still burn as bright?”

He could hear naught but silence, but Brett could almost palpably feel the indignation from his one-time friend. “You were a good man once, Jeremy, and perhaps you still are that man. But I suppose that I won’t be around to find out.”

Brett lightly placed the phone back on its hook. He stared at the public phone for a few moments, surprised at how his own voice had softened at the last. Perhaps he would not need the punching bag after all.

Time to go to work. Brett looked across the street to the massive law building where he worked. The “walk” sign blinked on, and so, with the rest of the throng he stepped into the crosswalk. Brett only stopped once to look down at the manhole. His feet covered up most of the holes but one still remained. Well, Brett thought with his “cynical” smile, at least that monster couldn’t fit through that.