Catharsis

by Adrienne Lecter

  It took me a disturbingly long time to read the first page, my mind constantly skipping away from the words, and even if not, half of them made less sense than they should. I was close to panicking when Nate bumping his foot into my knee pulled my frazzled attention to him. “Maybe you feel like you’re rested, but you’re not,” he offered. “You haven’t slept in over a week. You’re only just starting to work on the huge nutritional deficit that your body has racked up. Your brain has enough energy to function and not let you careen into obstacles, but likely not enough to make sense of scientific publications. That you don’t realize all this is because one of the side effects of the serum is some degree of hyper focus ability for most. Give yourself a few more days.” He paused to flash me a quick grin. “And if it doesn’t get better, well. Then you’ll have to slum it with us dumb grunts.”

  “Did you just admit that I’m smarter than you?” I preened, but let the folders drop back into the bag.

  “Never.”

  One hour passed, then two, until Nate finally declared I had gotten enough downtime to digest. Judging from the roiling in my intestines, they were heavy at work, but I got what he meant. I briefly debated whether I should change into other clothes, but I’d spent most of my time in sweat pants, socks, a tank top to keep everything bouncy in place, and a thick thermal over it to keep me warm. I wasn’t going to get any more comfortable, and all were clothes I could move in. They would do. I didn’t bother with donning my boots. I wouldn’t need them yet, and if I could spare my toes the ordeal, all the better. Besides, I’d seen how often the corridors were cleaned—our quarters were, without a doubt, the most unsanitary part of the ship, left to our care, which was next to non-existent, I was afraid.

  I still hadn’t figured out whether the ship was running on two twelve-hour or three eight-hour shifts, but by the time we left our cabin, the lights had been switched to red for the night cycle. The bright daylight illumination might no longer bother me as much as before, but I preferred the red light by a lot. While Nate squinted his way down the long corridors to the back portion of the ship—the stern, as Nate informed me what felt like the umpteenth time—I followed, for the first time getting somewhat of a tour of the ship. Burns had spent an entire breakfast raving about the Arleigh-Burke-class destroyer and how happy he was to be on one again, but so far his enthusiasm hadn’t made much sense to me. It was all hard edges I bumbled into, gray and beige with some blue was as far as the color range would go, and everything was claustrophobia-inducing narrow. Yet as Nate led me through the different sections—and up one level—I started to get a little more appreciation for this fortress of the seas. It was certainly longer than I’d thought at first, but that wasn’t hard, never having seen it from the outside, in broad daylight. I barely remembered anything of how I’d gotten here.

  I hadn’t known what to expect of the dismantled helicopter hangar-turned-gym, but it looked surprisingly like that Crossfit box thing Sam had dragged me to once—officially because she claimed getting fit would do us both some good, but I’d suspected because she was crushing hard on one of the trainers who she frequently ran into at one of the college coffee shops. The memory made me snort, a slightly rueful emotion spreading through my chest. One thing was sure—a month ago I could have easily wiped the floor with that certainly fit trainer. Now, not so much. Yet rather than despair, I forced myself to see the positive in this—I was still alive, and as Nate had reminded me with the guns already—I’d learned to be awesome once, I could do it again.

  A bunch of marines were working out in the back corner of the hangar, pumping iron, and two of the soldiers were doing some exercises that made me tired just watching them, but otherwise we had the entire hangar to ourselves. Half of it was covered with thick mats, ideal for doing exercises on the ground or sparring. That’s where Nate dropped to the floor, gesturing me to join him. Stretching first—or as much of that as I could muster.

  It quickly became obvious just how sore and stiff I still was, the simplest stretch of any muscle in any direction turning into a chore. Rather than goad me on, Nate was patience personified, waiting for me to get there, often holding onto parts of my body to balance me, or gently push into the stretch, lending strength that I simply lacked myself. It probably looked like a really weird mix between physical therapy and a make-out session, but about two minutes in I’d forgotten that there was anyone else around, and cared about their opinion even less. Some parts hurt enough that my mind went white with pain, but I forced myself to pull through. Tendons stretched and joints popped, but by the time I got up once more, I felt like my body was a whole lot more limber.

  Time for the next humbling instance: trying—and failing, quite spectacularly—to run.

  Maybe it would have made more sense to start with boots on where the construction of the sole would have made it easier for me to propel myself forward more evenly, but the point of the exercise was for me to relearn how to use my feet, whatever the circumstances. To put it mildly, my frustration level soon reached an all-time high, but whenever I stumbled as I tried to walk up and down the edge of the mats, I forced myself to pause, calm down, and start again. By then, the soldiers had long since left, and the last of the marines gave up kissing his guns after my second spectacular fall, so it was just Nate and me to bear witness to my utter lack of coordination.

  Up and down I walked, up and down. My left thigh started to pulse, then hurt constantly, followed by the scars on my stomach and back, but I kept going. With no immediate action to focus on, my mind kind of blanked out… until I realized I’d walked a good three rounds without stumbling—or even misstepping—once. Nate was watching me from where he was leaning against the wall, bundled up in a fleece jacket because heating wasn’t really a thing here. I was sweating from concentration—and what amounted to exertion for me—but that didn’t keep me from increasing my speed before hurling myself into a brief sprint. That was no straight line, but I kept my balance more or less, my calves quivering when I came to a halt at the other end of the mats. Partly, my spirits were soaring—progress, finally!—but I didn’t dare turn around and grin triumphantly at Nate. I just knew that he’d have a comment ready that would bring me right down to reality, and I wasn’t quite ready for that yet. So I started walking again, up and down, adding the odd skip or little jump to my routine.

  The next morning, I walked into the mess hall without a hunch, wobble, or any need for support, sitting down without much care for what part of me landed on the hard plastic of the chair, and stretched my aching legs to ease my protesting muscles. Protesting from use, not from being cut apart and haphazardly sewn back together. I was tired as hell, but it was a good kind of exhaustion, already lessened by the three hours of downtime I’d gotten once we’d returned to our quarters.

  Instead of the sludge I expected, Nate set down a plate heaped with scrambled eggs in front of me, followed by a cup of coffee from Burns. I hesitated, but then picked up the fork—needlessly cautious; I could easily hold it between my right thumb and index finger—and dug in. I still had some issues with keeping the tension up, so I tried to grab a knife with the left—bad idea. The knife went clattering to the floor within moments, underlined by a rather vile curse from yours truly that made heads turn all over—exactly what I needed right then. Smiling sweetly, I bent down to pick up the knife—with my right hand—and offered up the fakest, “Sorry, my bad,” that I could manage. The fork would have to do. A hint of amusement crossed Red’s face, but most of the other soldiers went back to ignoring me.

  That sadly was no longer the case when I went for my next training session after dinner, and found almost all of them in the hangar, doing a lot of sweating and grunting. Bucky was missing, but so was Red, making my residual weariness return. Nate and Burns were with me, Burns to do some sweating and grunting himself, with Nate lurking around my general vicinity. Yesterday, he’d been relaxed, particularly once it was just us. Now he was tense as hell which translated awfully
into his tone with me, giving me plenty to complain about in my head—a not quite welcome distraction. I did some stretches, then moved to the very back of the room to try some quick sprints. My body hadn’t unlearned yesterday’s progress, but I felt myself get distracted whenever I saw motion somewhere, and a lot was going on there, making me stumble and fall within moments. The mats were damn hard under my palms and knee when I caught myself, and I so didn’t need the snickers piping up from somewhere to my side. I did my best to ignore them but couldn’t quite keep my face from burning. Exhaling slowly, I pushed myself up once more—and ended up back on my stomach when my right foot gave out, toes that weren’t there anymore incapable of pushing enough to propel me upward. Fuck.

  I tried to roll over on my side and onto my knees to get up that way, but the scars in my lower abdomen hurt something awful, making me sag back onto the mat. I felt the light vibrations of footfalls approaching, but refused to look up. “Maybe start with something easy,” I heard Nate remark—and then he dropped a jump rope next to me.

  I first glared at the thing, then craned my neck so I could do the same to him.

  “Exactly how’s that supposed to be easy?”

  He gave a nonchalant shrug. “Your balance is good, if not perfect yet, but that’s not the reason you stumbled. You’re simply lacking strength. So do something to build strength. Jump.”

  I was ready to tell him where to shove his advice, but instead crawled back onto my feet before I picked up the stupid thing. I’d never been the most coordinated person, and I still preferred to work out without any additional shit I could get all tangled up in, no less, but dutifully took the handles into both hands, brought the rope forward, and skipped over it—rather unenthusiastically. I fully expected to land back on the mat, flat on my ass, but while the muscles in my thigh protested, I managed to both keep my balance and hold on to the rope itself. Nate just kept looking at me blankly, silently urging me on, so I did another hop. And then another, and another, slowly increasing my pace until the rope continued to whir around me without coming to a halt on the mats behind my feet. I didn’t exactly need my toes to jump, and after a few weird starts I managed to get the motion to work smoothly as well. My right palm soon protested from having to grip even something as light as the rope handle for so long, but that could only be a good sign. The squeeze balls could only do so much.

  I was out of breath before my thigh threatened to give out so I allowed myself some rest, but as before, doing just a little seemed to affect me a lot. My body felt more alive, like a freshly greased machine, ready for more action. I tried to do a short sprint across the small side of the room again, this time managing to remain upright. And when I did fall on the way back, I was able to brace myself, coming down onto the mat in something between a push-up and a plank. That was mighty uncomfortable on my toes, but the supple mat gave me enough grip to keep it up. My hands did a surprisingly good job supporting my torso, so when finally the discomfort from my toes got too bad, I dropped to my knees but kept my body further suspended. So what if I did girl push-ups—I managed twenty before it was back to skipping rope, and that was twenty fucking push-ups more than I’d expected to do at all this week.

  Once they saw that the comedic value of my performance had lessened, the soldiers concentrated on their own workouts, leaving me to fend for myself. Nate tried a few more things—like giving me a semi-heavy ball to throw, but I dropped that like a stone—but for now, I was happy with letting my body ease itself back into some good use. Once I was exhausted enough to call it quits, we joined Burns so I could sit around uselessly some more while Nate got to prove that he could bench press more than I probably weighed right now. Easily. Repeatedly. Just not being crammed into that claustrophobic hellhole we called our home at the moment was a relief. I felt rather vindicated when my intestines produced quite the amount of gas, but hey, one doesn’t get used to solid foods within the span of just one meal. Take that, you snickering idiots.

  I’d hoped I would be able to sleep after that workout, but no. At least when I succumbed to that half-aware haze this time, I could occupy myself with counting the many small aches that flared up seemingly at random all over my body before they quieted down once more. When it was time to get up in the morning, I managed to crawl out of bed with barely any lag—until I realized we were the only ones. When I eyed Nate askance, he shrugged. “You want to take the shortcut, you have to put in the time. We do three training sessions from now on. One before breakfast, one after lunch, and the last at night. We’ll try to get three full meals into you, and supplement the rest with protein shakes and whatever else Raynor packed for you.” He paused, waiting for protest from me, but I wisely held my tongue. “Get dressed. We’re just wasting time.”

  There was one advantage to trolling the hangar early—none of the soldiers were around, just marines and the odd sailor coming to train with them. They eyed us with a little curiosity, but when neither of us started doing something extraordinary, they focused on their own workout. After yesterday, I appreciated that more than ever.

  Whatever had made Nate change his mind, I got to feel the full effect of it when he forced me through several rounds of drills mercilessly, barely leaving me enough time to catch my breath between exercises. He had me sprint, jump, squat, lunge, crunch, and whatever else he could think of—or so it felt to me. The worst of it was, he wasn’t just standing there, barking at me, but doing it all along with me so that it was obvious whenever I started to flag. Part of me was angry that he’d expect me to keep up with him, battered and bruised as I still was, but my ego wouldn’t let me drop down on my ass and insist that I had enough. So I huffed and puffed along, sweating through my clothes, feeling like the next breath would be the very last I’d manage—but there was still one more that I could draw.

  It was only when he let me have thirty seconds of rest—that I spent lying flat on my stomach, all limbs splayed out—when I realized that it had been a good three cycles since I’d last fought for balance, or misplaced my step. My right side hurt, but less so from the scars and more because I simply couldn’t get enough air into my lungs that my body needed. For the first time, my hands were noticeably warm as well, same as my feet. I felt awful, but at the very same time… alive.

  “Are you going to stay down there for the rest of our training time? Because I’m not carrying you around anymore,” came my husband’s loving and encouraging statement.

  Groaning, I pushed my hands underneath me, getting up in two quick hops. A brief spell of vertigo hit me, but I managed to shake it off without more than a little step to the side. Nate looked me over critically, then got the jump rope from the rack of paraphernalia and handed it to me. “Try to do double jumps if your calves are strong enough already.” Still breathing heavily, I nodded, then started out slow like last time to get the hang of the motion once more. My palms protested, but I had a feeling that the abysmally bad grip of my right hand was just a little better.

  When it was finally time for breakfast, I was ready to crawl over to the mess hall rather than walk, feeling like breathing was a chore rather than coming naturally. I still wasn’t allowed to get my own food—which, all things considered, was a great idea as I would have just dropped the plate and spilled everything. While I waited for Nate to do so, I drank down an entire protein shake, and a water refill for good measure. The resulting burp made a few heads turn, and this time I didn’t miss the snickers from the soldiers. Maybe they had been there all week and I’d only recently regained enough focus to notice. I didn’t give a shit, and as soon as my eggs and veggies were set down in front of me, I pretty much inhaled them. I choked a few times before I slowed down and forced myself to properly chew, much to Gita and Tanner’s amusement. I expected a few lewd comments, and when they didn’t come, it reminded me awfully much of the fact that while I really liked them, they weren’t my team. They weren’t us. And still I’d dragged them into this. Damnit.

  As soon as I was done, I t
ook my sorry ass to bed, back for a few hours of mindless staring into space. I almost drifted off completely, but then it was time for lunch, and as soon as that was digested, more working out. Then dinner; more torment. Not-sleep. Workout and breakfast again. It all started to blur together, like in the first days because of the agony I’d been in. Now it was, more or less, mental boredom. Sure, Nate did a stellar job physically powering me out, but my mind didn’t much appreciate that.

  And then, finally, sleep. Three uninterrupted hours of real rest where my mind got to step away from it all into blissful nothingness. I didn’t dream—at least not that I could remember—but when I became aware again, the world felt just a little more right. My morning workout went a lot smoother than the day before, to the point where, just for fun, I added another fifty push-ups without Nate having to badger me into them. He noticed, of course—and when we returned for our afternoon session, rather than walk over to the mats, he aimed straight for one of the punching bags hanging in front of what had once been one of the hangar doors.

  “We need to work on your fighting skills,” Nate remarked over his shoulder while he unrolled some tape, turning to look at me expectantly. I hesitated, then extended my hands toward him so he could tape them up. It felt weird as hell to feel the tape cross at different points now, particularly on my right hand, but Nate got it right on the first try. Of course he did. I had a certain feeling he’d put a lot of thought into this beforehand, to keep my self-doubt from roaring right back.

  “So what are we up to now?” I asked.

  He nodded toward the bag. “For obvious reasons, you can’t do what you always do, which is to deliver over sixty percent of your attacks with a right hook or punch.” Or maybe not. Then again, it wasn’t like I hadn’t been aware of that issue, but it still made my fingers contract into a fist involuntarily. I glanced down at my hand, then back up at his face.