Training day.

You weren't expecting to spend the night at Alina's place, so the first order of business is to call your parents. You call your father to tell him that you ran over your moped and ask him if it would be all right to borrow his car for a few days until you figure out an alternate means of transportation.

He agrees begrudgingly, you breathe a sigh of relief. You doubt your parents have a clue about what you did to your sister yesterday based on your father's tone. Alina has to get ready for work, so you spend the morning tying up loose ends. You call in sick at your job at the plant, and call your wife to reassure her that everything is fine. You just spent the night at your friend's house because you got too drunk to drive home. You got an earful for being a useless twit, but the events of the past day had a side effect of giving you a much thicker skin. Her insults bounce off of you like rainwater off a rubber coat. You're not the same man you were yesterday. And you never will be again.

However, you feel that optimism and determination start to melt away the moment you step into the boxing gym. There's only a few people training inside. They look rough. Not in the same way YOU look rough. You look like someone who gave up on life and spent the last 15 years of your life sitting in front of a TV eating junk food. They look rough in the way that makes them look like guys that starts street fights with bouncers just for funsies. You clearly don't belong here.

Thankfully none of them seem to care too much about you. They glance at you for a moment, registering that you're a new face and go right back to training. There doesn't seem to be anyone you can speak to about signing up to train here. No one acknowledges you. You stand awkwardly in a corner waiting to see if anyone looks like they work here, but no answers are forthcoming, and frankly, you're too scared of everyone here to try to strike up a conversation with any of them.

So much for turning over a new leaf, you giant pussy.

"...Blowjobs and pizza, blowjobs and pizza, you can do this, Ulysses."

You whisper words of encouragement to yourself trying to work up the courage to approach someone, and hesitantly walk up to an older grizzled looking man who's watching two guys sparring in the ring. You clear your throat as you approach the old man, and he raises an eyebrow at you.

"Can I help you?"
"Uh- yessir. I was hoping to sign up to train here?"

He looks you up and down, and furrows his eyebrows. It's kind of scary.

"Look, this isn't the kind of gym where people go to get in shape. Try the LA Fitness on Providence."
"I know, sir. But that's not why I'm here. I need to learn how to fight as much as I need to get back in shape."

That's a bold faced lie. You've never been in shape at any point in your whole life. You just went straight from skinny to skinny-fat. You've spent your whole life avoiding anything and everything that even resembled hard work or effort. It's almost impressive how dedicated you've been to being a lazy fuck.

And from the looks of it, the old man doesn't believe you either.

"I can't help you, bud. Find another gym."
"... I don't have the time. I need to learn how to fight."
"Is someone's trying to hurt you?"

You picture Alina cackling gleefully as she drags your intestines out of your stomach.

"In a manner of speaking, yes."
"Go to the cops, or buy a gun. We don't teach you how to box so you can go fight someone."

You try to imagine ventilating Alina's noggin as she runs at you with a knife to yank out your guts. Alina. Your perfect little fuckdoll. You remember the way she looked as she emerged from her closet last night. How she slept in your arms. The way her body melts into yours when you kiss while you're inside her.

"I can't do that. It'll hurt someone I love."

You caught feelings. Hard. You know the version of her that you love isn't real, something created artificially with magic, but you know you can't kill her, even if she wants to pull your intestines like it's made out of taffy. You would rather die.