Liar, Liar [5]

(Kyle)

It’s not the outburst that’s bothering me. It’s her trembling hands. It’s her heavy breathing. It’s the slight break in her voice as she yelled. It’s Malory Lloyd being anxious and almost falling limp again. She hasn’t been that way in a very long time. I haven’t seen her that vulnerable in years. That’s what I’m worried about. I don’t want her to fall unconscious anywhere. I don’t want her to get panic attacks. I don’t want her to lose battles against depression or anxiety. I don’t want any of that for strong-willed, stubborn, incredible Malory. I know about those battles –and I probably know more about them than she does.

Not being able to help her makes me feel like slamming my own head against a giant boulder just to kill myself. It would be easier than standing around and watching her suffer. It would be easier than not being able to do anything to help her.

My fists, tied in a tight few layers of white gauze, meet with the long, black punching bag again. There are beads of sweat dripping down from the top of my forehead, running down my cheeks, and gluing my hair to my skin before meeting to form large drops at the bottom of my chin, dripping to the floor. Some heavy drops are crawling down my neck and running into my white, arm hole gym T shirt. I punch. I think about Malory. I punch again. I think about my uncle. I punch so many times in one go that I think the bag should be on the floor. If it were a person it would be dead by now. It would be dead for sure. My skin burns, my bones ache. I’m tired and sweaty and upset but I don’t want to stop.

A familiar voice appears out of the blue, behind me.

“If you punch any harder your knuckles will be worse than your face.”

I don’t turn to look at him.

Of course Ron would know where to find me.

Whatever the reason, I’m glad he showed up unexpectedly. I’m glad he showed up at all.

“Are you done ignoring me?” I ask him, punching at the bag again.

I’m about to punch again when he asks, “How does it feel to be ignored?” making me stop mid-punch.

I turn to him. “Like Hell, honestly.”

“Good,” Ron says, with a smirk.

We take a seat on the benches lining the wall. I open my water bottle and take a big gulp, swallowing bit by bit slowly. Ron switches his head from one side to the other until we both hear the cracks on the left and on the right. That sound always makes me uneasy for some odd reason.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” I say to him.

“I’m sorry I ignored your existence for a week,” he replies.

I scoff. “I deserved it for being a prick.”

“Are you ready to tell me what happened?” he asks.

I take another big gulp of water to give myself a few moments to think it through.

Do I really want to tell him everything?

Even if I wanted to, I can’t. It’s confidential. It’s off limits. It’s private.

“I got into a fight,” I tell him. “I was sick and a man and his crew were being rude as they drove into the compound to get something fixed at the mechanic’s. They were being pricks to a co-worker of mine and I already had so much of a headache without them needing to worsen it. I tried settling the matter in a civilised way until they pushed me to my limits. I said some things to them. He threw a punch. Things got out of hand. That’s pretty much it.”

“You didn’t get in trouble with your boss?” Ron asks.

“He wasn’t there. Who knows where he had been. I’m glad, though.”

There’s silence for a moment. Ron nods once and sighs.

“Hey, Roomie?” I say, after a beat.

“What?”

“What I did to you was wrong. I’m sorry.”

He knows I’m referring to all the years of silence. He knows I’m referring to keeping the secrets from him. He knows I’m referring to the way I kept everything from him all this time.

He scoffs and turns to me with a confused smile. “What you did to me? You make it sound like some sick crime, man.”

I guess he doesn’t know.

“You’ve been my best friend for long enough,” I say. “And how much do you know about me exactly? It is a sick crime. You shouldn’t be feeling like a stranger at this point.”

“Oh,” he says, going blank.

I turn to the punching bag and let my eyes unfocus as I make my decision and reveal it to him. “If you want to know certain things, all you have to do is ask. You know that. If I can’t tell you something, I don’t. I know I’ve been a selfish ass in keeping most of my life to myself. So I’ll try to be more open with you. I promise.”

I know he’s surprised, because he’s blinking at me in disbelief.

“Whoa, dude… you’re serious?” He asks. I nod. “Took you long enough, man,” he says, grinning as he pats me on the back.

I smile at him before exchanging my happy expression to one of pretend-anger. “But stop being such a bipolar hormonal deadbeat. It’s like you’re my mom sometimes.” I shudder. “I’ll be fine.”