The club was her second home. It had made her leaner, fitter. She’d watched the muscles grow in definition on her arms and abdomen. She felt stronger.
She trudged there through rain, sweated there on sultry summer evenings, slipped on snowy pavements to get her fix.
She was one of three women there. The other two met up for coffee sometimes, she knew that – probably talked about her, the tattoo on her shoulder, the scars on her arms. She didn’t care. She just wanted to hit out.
There was only ever one face on the punch bag. Her father’s.
For the Friday Fictioneers. 99 words this time! Photo by J Hardy Carroll. Prompts organised by the inimitable Rochelle.