Logs:A different kind of healing
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| RL Date: 17 April, 2015 |
| Who: Keysi |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Vignette |
| What: Given her fellow healers' release of good health, Keysi finally gets to pursue her own mental healing. |
| Where: HRW: Workout Room |
| When: Day 22, Month 7, Turn 37 (Interval 10) |
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| The glove smacks the hide bag with a resounding thwack, the ropes holding it in place twisting hard with creaking moans of protest. The sound comes again and again, faster. The sound of controlled breathing accentuating each strike. It is good. It is euphoric. The rhythm changes abruptly as a spinning kick hits square on its target, shin to hide, the bag reeling violently after impact. There are no other solidified thoughts in her mind. Only the fuzzy ecstasy of the rhythmic dance tickles her senses. The fire in her eyes ignited, fueling her every step and strike and breathing a pink flush of life into her usually oh so pale cheeks. There is no evenness, there is no neutrality. She is alive. Every part about her is discharged in the dangerous unpredictability of a feline suddenly revealing itself from its silent stalk, unseen, within the underbrush. Unleashed, uninhibited. There is fury, passion, and an overwhelming amount of repressed anger there; anger that wrinkles her brow and narrows her eyes. Anger which seethes from every pore on her body. And it is released. Her muscles ache from disuse, cry for her to stop. The skin of her back stretches and smolders at each extension of her arms. Each breath becomes more of an effort, her lungs burning. It was just that morning the healers had written her off with a clean bill of health. Five weeks. Five too-long weeks. Seven, if including the time she was down there. But of course they didn't. They knew better than to release her early. This passion, this perseverance, this skill was enough to save her own hide out there. The guards, the vagabonds. They taught her well enough to survive. Why isn't it enough here. The thoughts come pouring back as her momentum slows. She swings hard, the cross slower and reaching on her pivot. Poor form. She recollects. She pants through gritted teeth and tense shoulders. Too much had happened. Too much that she was unable to do a sharding thing for. The controlled rapid-fire breathing becomes gasping and her final throw is no jab, but rather a swing to grab the bag and bring herself to it, leaning into it between her cheek and shoulder. The cool leather is pressed against her heated skin. And she laughs. It's no croaking whisper, but a true yet dark and nigh maniacal laughter, as she sinks down to the floor. It would only be minutes before she'd be back at it again. This is her mindhealing. |
Comments
Edyis (00:28, 18 April 2015 (EDT)) said...
I loved this. So much love.
Alida (04:10, 19 April 2015 (EDT)) said...
Oh, how Alida would understand this... gut deep.
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