Do Not Read This.

Training; Like Most Days.

"Again." The man commanded for the umpth time. I struggle to my shaky feet. After a second of heavy breathing, I charge after my father, a slender man of over 6 feet in height. I throw an exhausted punch to his middle. I'm too slow in my fatigue. The male easily catches my thin wrist and twists it painfully behind my back, turning me so that I face away. I yell out and my father shoves me to the ground. I barely catch myself in time, my palms scrape on the uneven brick ground in the thin alleyway. I roll to my side with a groan and clutch my arm.
     "Again." He says, yet again. I squeeze my eyes shut and don't respond. My hands sting and bleed lightly as this isn't the first time they've hit the brick tonight, and they haven't healed from the last session similar to this. A boot flies into my exposed ribs. I let out a holler and my side seems to explode in pain. I forget about my arm. With watery eyes, I scramble back to my feet with a protective hand over my side. "You were vulnerable. Weak." He spits. A tear rolls down my face and I hurry to wipe it. I am not weak.
     I rush forward to attack again, with renewed strength in my anger.