‧₊˚♪𝄞࿐₊˚⊹

The gig was tomorrow and instead of doing the logical thing and practicing the songs one last time, I was sitting in the passenger seat of Ben Clark's car and allowing him to take me somewhere where we deliberately break things for fun.

Personally, I've always wanted to do something like this, I just never had the time to or the right people to go with. Taylor's never been the type to indulge in destructive behavior, so she was always out of the question.

I glanced at Ben as he drove, his fingers tapping idly against the steering wheel in rhythm with the song that was currently playing. He hadn't told me much about where we were going or what we were doing exactly. All he said was that it was best if I wore something that covered me from head-to-toe. Today I just wore one of my favorite pairs of sneakers that complimented my grey washed jeans, which were more on the baggy side. And since the weather was just as it was the day before, I figured a black hoodie was appropriate.

I was afraid my style of dress might seem bummy, but when he pulled up in front of my building wearing exactly what I was–except the colors were in reverse–I felt better. It was a funny coincidence that we unironically matched, but great minds think alike, I guess.

I narrow my eyes when I peer out the window and realize I don't recognize what part of town he's driving through. But his face is as calm as ever, so maybe it isn't as sketchy as it looks.

We finally arrive in front of a brick building tucked between a rundown laundromat and a dimly lit tattoo parlor. I raise a brow as I crane my neck to seek out the neon glow of a sign with a silhouette of a bat and a broken vase. Its occasional flickers told me that this place didn't get much attention.

The parking lot was nearly empty, and when we stepped inside, a bored-looking guy at the counter barely glanced up from his phone before mumbling in a faint Italian accent, "You got a reservation?" But when he tilted his head up and saw Ben, a brightness crossed over his features.

"Ben! You're back already, bud?" The man appeared a lot friendlier than he did mere seconds ago. From looks alone, I'd guess he was in his early thirties? He couldn't be more than ten years our senior.

I glance to my side and see Ben nodding with the faintest smile playing on his lips, signing gestures that were too quick for me to process. The guy didn't miss a beat and nodded with a delighted hum. Then, answering the worker's previous question, Ben raises his phone to show an email confirmation about a reservation I had no idea was even needed. I was suddenly hoping he didn't have to pay much, better yet, not at all.

"Great. Just sign the waiver. Y'know the drill." The man's eyes finally land on me, and something in the form of intrigue takes place. "You brought a friend."

It wasn't a question, and his tone made it seem as if this was the first time Ben showed up with company. I offered him a shy smile, unsure of how to respond. He watched me for a second longer before turning to Ben, who was answering the question in the silent language I had yet to master. God, I've never wanted to learn ASL more than I did right now.

Whatever Ben said had his buddy behind the counter grinning like a proud parent. He leans over it and tips his chin to me. "You new to this?"

"Yeah," I admitted, skimming my waiver form. It mentioned things about not holding the company liable for any emotional outbursts, physical injuries, or damages. I glanced at Ben, but he had already checked off boxes and was signing his signature at the bottom. I figured if he was this casual about filling the form out, I wasn't signing myself up for anything too dangerous.

"You're in good hands, cara." He assured me, switching to his native language for a moment, then nod approvingly toward Ben. "He practically had a membership here."

I flicked a glance at Ben, but he was busy rolling up the sleeves of his hoodie, his muscles flexing instinctively.

Once the forms were signed, the guy handed us protective gear–thick gloves, a jumpsuit, and a clear face shield. I hesitated before putting mine on, watching as Ben fastened his shield like he'd done this too many times to count.

I tuck my gloves under my armpit as I try to buckle my shield in place. After only two failed attempts, Ben is already in front of me, reaching his hands around my head to help secure it in place. The small, intimate gesture has us both avoiding each other's eyes like the plague.

He stares down through his clear protective gear and signs, Tight?

I shook my head quickly, even though I could still feel the heat rising beneath my jumpsuit. "It's fine," I mumble, flexing my jaw to make sure I could still move comfortably in the getup.

Ben held my gaze for a moment too long, then gave a small nod before stepping back. He grabbed a crowbar and a baseball bat from the wall by the counter and turned to his friend, signing something that made him chuckle.

"One hour," he said, unlocking the door to our room and grinning at Ben. "Have fun."

Ben fired a look–one I was pretty sure meant shut up–before pushing the door open for me. I step inside first, the soles of my shoes scuffing against the cement floor.

The room was a controlled disaster waiting to happen. Pieces of broken glass and splintered wood littered the corners, while a few still-intact objects sat in the center, practically begging to be destroyed. An old printer, some cheap wooden chairs, a cracked mirror leaning against the wall–targets waiting for their inevitable fate.

I inhaled sharply, taking it all in before glancing at Ben once he walked up beside me, shutting the door behind us. He casually rolled his shoulders like he was preparing for a workout. He lifted the crowbar, weighing it in his grip before nodding toward a shelf lined with ceramic plates.

He nods his head, silently urging me to go for it.

I hesitated, but only for a second, before grabbing a plate. It felt strange at first–knowing I was supposed to break it instead of handling it carefully. But I squared my stance, aimed at the farthest wall, and threw.

The plate shattered on impact, the sound ricocheting around the room.

I gasped, then laughed, a surprised burst of exhilaration bubbling up. "Holy–okay, that was...a lot more fun than I expected."

I felt his gaze on me and turned to find him smiling, a small twinkle in his eyes I've never noticed before.

He picked up a plate of his own, didn't hesitate like I did, and sent it flying into the wall on the far side of the room with even more force than I had. The shards scattered across the floor, and he exhaled through his nose.

I feel more confident now when I smash the next couple of ceramics. Once we run through those, I move onto something larger. Ben hands me the bat he picked up for me earlier and I get a good feel of the handle before trying a few practice swings.

The weight on my shoulders that has been growing each passing day was ready to disintegrate today. I was ready to let everything go.

He takes several steps back and watches me take my stance in front of the printer. It was large and bulky–an ideal target. I tighten my grip around the bat and raise it high over my head. I deeply inhale before swinging it down full force, successfully leaving a deep dent in the machine.

My heart races as the adrenaline starts to kick in. I swing again, this time picturing my eviction notice taped to my apartment door.

I slam the bat down a third time, this time for the numerous rejection letters from performance arts schools that I spent years trying to get into.

I land a brutal hit as I picture all those years of practicing to perfection with Vince, all for it to go down a drain over something as ridiculous as a silly fight.

The printer's casing crumples under the weight of my vengeful swings, the satisfying crunch reverberating through the concrete room. Sweat beads on my forehead, and I take a moment to catch my breath, my pulse still racing from the much needed release. But the anger, the frustration, the disappointment I had been carrying–they were fading, replaced by something closer to freedom.

My shoulders rise and fall with every exhale, and I feel my grip on the bat slowly ease until I'm barely holding onto it. I can feel a certain brunette's eyes burning the back of my head, but I don't know if I want to turn around and show him what a few hits can do to me.

I swing the bat once more, the impact spiraling up my arms in a strange tingle, but it doesn't feel as satisfying as before. Instead of feeling a release, it just feels like I'm hitting an invisible wall.

I drop my shoulders, feeling the fatigue sleep in too soon. The anger that had driven me moments ago seems to fizzle out, replaced with something deeper, something I didn't expect: vulnerability.

I let the bat fall loosely at my side, the weight of it almost dragging me down as I finally turned around to face Ben.

He's standing a few paces behind me, leaning against the wall with his hands fiddling with his crowbar. His presence is steady, comforting in a way, but I can't help but feel like I've shown him a side of me I didn't plan on revealing.

I swallow hard, the weight of the silence between us growing heavier with each rise and fall of my chest. "I...I didn't realize how much I needed that."

He steps forward, his gaze lingering on me before he slowly signs something, his hands fluid and precise. It takes me several beats for my brain to register the meaning of the gestures.

Feel better?