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Sasha James was 14 when she first got truly angry. The kind of angry makes your bones shake and your stomach feel hot. The kind of angry that feels like the heat of a humid summer. The kind of angry that makes you want to break things. And she did. She punched and she kicked and she yelled until her throat went raw. But it was ok, she reasoned with herself. It wouldn’t happen again. But it did. And by the time Sasha managed to send her ceiling fan crashing to the ground, her grandmother decided it was time for her to control her anger.
Sasha didn’t want to control her anger.
They went to psychiatrists, counselors, therapeutic art classes, and every relaxing retreat that they could afford, but none of it ever worked for her. Until kickboxing. Sasha fell in love with kickboxing. From the moment she walked into the gym, she knew it was hers. Her secret little passion to love and care for. And god, did Sasha throw herself into it. She trained and she trained and she trained. When she wasn’t studying, she was training. Sasha’s days consisted of ideas - ideas of literature and history and science. Sasha’s nights consisted of fighting - fighting against the chill that bit into her skin as she boxed in the dark street below her window. Sasha kickboxed her way through sixth form. She kickboxed her way through university. She kickboxed her way through job applications. She kickboxed her way through life. She took all of her anger and all of her stress and she kickboxed it out of herself.
Sasha didn’t expect much when she acquired a job at the Magnus Institute. Sure, she was excited to study the uncommon literature they stored there - that which was unavailable to her just days previously - but she didn’t expect to find someone like Tim. As she walked into the research department, she was greeted by a tall man with a crooked smile and a shock of black hair.
“So, you’re the new hire, huh?”
“That’s me.” Sasha wrinkled her nose in thought, trying to determine what she thought of the man who stood before her.
“Oh c’mon, the cologne isn’t THAT much. Rosie insisted I was ‘light-handed’ with it in the future... It’s DEFINITELY been reduced by at least 60 percent.”
“I was just thinking!” She insisted with a smile.
“What, about how devilishly handsome I am?”
“You wish.”
“Say, I haven’t even gotten your name yet.” The man said. “I’m Tim. Tim Stoker.”
“Sasha.” She said fondly.
And so began the friendship of Timothy Stoker and Sasha James. They would eat their lunches together and spend whatever free time they managed to get discussing the other people in the office - Who stole Sasha’s pen this week? Who had gotten pregnant? Was that guy bi, or was it just Tim projecting? But they never went beyond that for the first few months of Sasha’s employment at the Institute. But after a holiday party and a bit too much to drink, Sasha found herself in Tim’s bed, staring up at a ceiling fan that reminded her a bit too much of her own.
“What do you think happens when you die?” She uttered softly, lost in her own thoughts.
“I hope it’s warm.” Tim replied, with a voice that seemed far too small to fit him. A few moments of silence passed. “My brother always hated the cold.”
“My parents did, too.” The quiet that settled between them felt thick - yet it wasn’t uncomfortable. It felt comforting, like a hug.
“Danny.”
“Huh?”
“His name was Danny.” Sasha let the name settle in the air before rolling it around her tongue like a smooth marble.
“Danny’s a nice name.”
“Yeah, It is.” Tim agreed. “Sometimes I just get so angry, knowing that I could have done more to prevent it. It’s not the sadness that gets to me. It’s the anger and shame.”
“I think I have a place for you.”
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Tim wasn’t sure what to expect when Sasha told him she knew a way to help. Therapy? Interpretive dance? An animal shelter?
However, he certainly wasn’t expecting to be led to a kickboxing studio.
“Kickboxing? Are you serious?” He asked with an incredulous smile.
“Dead.” She replied. “Now, get on that gear and get over here so I can smoke you!”
“In your dreams, James!” He hollered back as he finished wrapping his hands. Tim made his way over to the row of punching bags that hung from the vaulted ceiling above, practically begging for him to throw punches into the dark red fabric.
“Okay, so are you right or left handed?”
“Why does this matter, exactly?”
“Answer the damn question, Stoker.”
“Right.”
“Okay, so you’re gonna want to keep your right side back. Your power side should support you.” As she spoke, she let her hands adjust Tim’s waist so that his body mass became centered. “Like that.”
“Thanks, Sash.” Tim grinned at her. Her eyes glittered as she smiled back.
“You’re on thin ice with that ‘Sash’, Stoker.” She walked him through a basic combination - jab, cross, hook, kick. Jab, cross, hook, kick. They repeated the movements until Tim was practically itching to fully release his anger onto the figure of the bag before him.
“You wanna give it full out, Tim?”
“Hell yeah.” Tim took a deep breath as he ran the motions through his head. Jab, cross, hook, kick. He thought about Danny and what happened to him - If he had just tried to convince him to not pick up urban exploration, he would still be here. He wouldn’t have gotten murdered by whatever clown creature got to him. That damn creature. He hated that thing. He hated the way it had looked at him and smiled. He hated the way it kept appearing in his dreams. Tim was mad at himself, of course. But more than anything, he was mad at the thing that took Danny away from him. As his anger solidified into will, he took another breath. He jabbed. He crossed. He hooked. And he kicked as hard as his body allowed him to, sending the bag swinging. He turned to Sasha, face lit up with joy.
“You did it!” Sasha squealed, running over to hug him. “You knocked it out of the park!”
“Well, I had the best teacher in the world.”
“You absolutely did, and don’t forget it!” Tim chuckled at her reply. “But did it help at all?”
“It really did, Sash. It really, really did.” She flashed him a satisfied smile.
“Wanna go another round?”