(no subject)
He fucking hated rehab and physical therapy and all that shit. It didn't matter how many times he'd had to go through it, feeling like he was building his body back from the ground up was the kind of frustrating he just wasn't patient enough to deal with. But he gritted his teeth and he took it, 'cause ending up with a bum arm for the rest of his life, all 'cause he acted like an asshole over a little physical therapy, was an even worse prospect.
After a couple weeks, he was feeling more like himself. It'd be a few more before he was back at peak, but he couldn't have told you why he wanted to keep up with the training, anyhow.
There was no fight. No prize money. No nothing.
He was trapped like a fucking dog, and even though the rest of 'em might've tried to commiserate, they all had this way about 'em, like the place was normal or something. It was Stockholm Syndrome levels of batshit crazy, and he wanted no part of it. So, he kept to himself, as much as he could. He wasn't gonna let himself turn into some kind of hermit, but the idea of really making nice, of really making friends, turned his stomach.
Truthfully, it scared the living shit out of him. But that was a sob story for another day.
Sitting on a bench in the Rec Center, he did a few reps of bicep curls with a ten pound dumbbell, and after that, he'd switch to lateral raises, sticking to the set of exercises the doc had given him the okay for. He wanted a cigarette. He wanted a drink, but he was depriving himself, just to prove he could.
Pop and his goddamn rules didn't have a thing to do with it.
[[Find Tommy in the Rec Center, backdated to any time this afternoon/early evening. As usual, he's moody, but will be relatively receptive, depending upon how you approach him. And he's working out in sweat pants and a sleeveless tank, so the many tattoos on his arms are clearly visible. ST/LT always welcome.]]
After a couple weeks, he was feeling more like himself. It'd be a few more before he was back at peak, but he couldn't have told you why he wanted to keep up with the training, anyhow.
There was no fight. No prize money. No nothing.
He was trapped like a fucking dog, and even though the rest of 'em might've tried to commiserate, they all had this way about 'em, like the place was normal or something. It was Stockholm Syndrome levels of batshit crazy, and he wanted no part of it. So, he kept to himself, as much as he could. He wasn't gonna let himself turn into some kind of hermit, but the idea of really making nice, of really making friends, turned his stomach.
Truthfully, it scared the living shit out of him. But that was a sob story for another day.
Sitting on a bench in the Rec Center, he did a few reps of bicep curls with a ten pound dumbbell, and after that, he'd switch to lateral raises, sticking to the set of exercises the doc had given him the okay for. He wanted a cigarette. He wanted a drink, but he was depriving himself, just to prove he could.
Pop and his goddamn rules didn't have a thing to do with it.
[[Find Tommy in the Rec Center, backdated to any time this afternoon/early evening. As usual, he's moody, but will be relatively receptive, depending upon how you approach him. And he's working out in sweat pants and a sleeveless tank, so the many tattoos on his arms are clearly visible. ST/LT always welcome.]]
