(no subject)
The heavy bag made a satisfying sound as he hit it. The sound was solid, almost tactile, letting him know that the punch he threw had scored true. Aidan hit it again and again, each strike hard, fast, and true. He could feel the anger coursing through him, making him wonder if all of the blood lust he had felt in his former life was due to being a vampire.
Right now, he didn't care, all he cared about was taking out as much of his anger and frustration as possible on the bag. If he let himself focus on that, then he wouldn't think about the sadness that lurked around the edges like shadows.
Martha didn't want anything to do with him. Martha, after knowing what he was, wanted more than friendship. Martha, who told him that he was a part of her son's life, wanted him to stay away. It wasn't even that Aidan could really blame her, only a small portion of what he was feeling was directed at her. There were consequences of being what he had been and doing what he did, he knew that. Could he really blame someone for not wanting a person with that sort of history in their life?
Several more quick hits, exhaling with each one, and Aidan paused for a moment to get a drink of water. Even in the cool night air the workout was tiring and his throat was parched. It was odd, how even as thirsty as he was now, it never compared to his hunger for blood, for the need to feed. No, Aidan couldn't blame Martha for not wanting someone around who had lived like that. Even if he didn't feel that now, hundreds of years of feeding on others took a toll on you. It changed you in ways that no magical island could undo.
Turning back to the bag, Aidan started to hit at it again, losing himself in the rhythm of the punches and the raw ferocity he was unleashing on it. Maybe if he hit it often enough, he could expunge a bit of the monster inside him.
[Set to late Tuesday night. Aidan is at the boxing ring. Not a terrible time to meet him since he'll pretend everything is fine if he doesn't know you.]
Right now, he didn't care, all he cared about was taking out as much of his anger and frustration as possible on the bag. If he let himself focus on that, then he wouldn't think about the sadness that lurked around the edges like shadows.
Martha didn't want anything to do with him. Martha, after knowing what he was, wanted more than friendship. Martha, who told him that he was a part of her son's life, wanted him to stay away. It wasn't even that Aidan could really blame her, only a small portion of what he was feeling was directed at her. There were consequences of being what he had been and doing what he did, he knew that. Could he really blame someone for not wanting a person with that sort of history in their life?
Several more quick hits, exhaling with each one, and Aidan paused for a moment to get a drink of water. Even in the cool night air the workout was tiring and his throat was parched. It was odd, how even as thirsty as he was now, it never compared to his hunger for blood, for the need to feed. No, Aidan couldn't blame Martha for not wanting someone around who had lived like that. Even if he didn't feel that now, hundreds of years of feeding on others took a toll on you. It changed you in ways that no magical island could undo.
Turning back to the bag, Aidan started to hit at it again, losing himself in the rhythm of the punches and the raw ferocity he was unleashing on it. Maybe if he hit it often enough, he could expunge a bit of the monster inside him.
[Set to late Tuesday night. Aidan is at the boxing ring. Not a terrible time to meet him since he'll pretend everything is fine if he doesn't know you.]