Path of the Vampire forum

Sometimes, late at night, when she had a free moment, when she had time to herself, Clover missed Logan. Whenever she read Sol’s words. Whenever she heard Sol’s voice. Whenever she saw Sol’s face. She thought of Logan. Oddly enough, she couldn’t bring herself to hate Mariah. She couldn’t bring herself to blame the one woman responsible for Logan’s death. Instead, she blamed Marisol. She blamed the one person not responsible. Clo just had misdirected rage, and she knew it. Did that even make it misdirected anymore? She was well aware. She made no effort to change her ways. Clover didn’t even know anymore. She did know that she had no one to talk to, when it came to her feelings about Logan. Not romantic feelings. Not feelings of desire. She simply missed the man, as one would miss a friend, as one would miss blood. Clo could have imagined him as a limb, and she’d gone on to regrow the limb, but it was never the same, it’d never be the same. She’d been gifted with Marisol. Jesse had saved Marisol. Clo should have treasured the woman, but she chose to despise her. Jesse didn’t understand, maybe he didn’t even try to understand. And where was her standing with Jesse, where was it really? That’s what drove her to the gym, to the boxing ring where she and Logan had once physically fought away their thoughts. She’d pounded on insecurities, on feelings, on anything she could to fit the square peg back into the square hole.

Her black gym bag over her left shoulder, Clo just stood outside of the entrance to the gym. She had three steps to ascend. She had one door to open. And then she’d smell the sweat, the blood, the tears. She’d be witness to some of the ordinary and some of the extraordinary. She hesitated. She had nowhere to go. She had no one to talk to. She had nothing, and she expected to start over at the gym, as if beating on a bag, beating on a body, would solve every problem that plagued her. Deep down, she knew she could have turned to Jersey, to Athena, to Raegan, even -- she could have turned to someone -- but she forced herself to retreat, to take refuge in the loneliness she once thought she’d owned. Clo skipped over the first step as she ascended the stairs. She yanked open the door to the well-sized gym. The place had never been a popular place, at least not after dark. The people went home. The people went on to other things. And Clo gravitated back to the past, back to a place where she felt secure, where nothing could really hurt her, where everything could hurt her. Dressed in her training gear, her boxing gloves the only thing in her gym bag, Clo made her way over to the locker she usually used. Finding it empty, she unpacked her gloves. She prepared her hands for battle. She tied her hair back in a ponytail. She pretended that she had someone coaching her, talking to her, being there with her.

In the ring, two people circled around. And then one stood, victorious. Clo barely noticed when one took the fall, laid out like a fallen warrior. Maybe the woman had been afraid; maybe the woman hadn’t been afraid. Clover had been there though. She’d been laid out in the ring, her cheek plastered against the floor, black blood running from her nose, black blood spilling from within her mouth, where she’d taken such a sharp shot that she swore she almost saw stars. Logan had been a better fighter. No, not better. Faster. That’s what he’d said. Smarter. Faster.

"It's not about being stronger than your opponent, but about being faster. It's about thinking two steps ahead."

Clo heard his voice in her mind. She saw him there, coaching her, guiding her. His voice pulled at angry tendrils, drew on the loneliness as if reeling in every emotion she ever felt, every doubt and insecurity. His voice tied everything into a beautiful bow, presented her with such a gift she stared on in awe. She just missed someone, something, somewhere. Clo noticed when the woman in the ring finally got back to her feet. She looked a mess, but she stood there, ready for round two.

"If you're afraid of getting knocked the **** out, you're going to get knocked the **** out."

And yet the woman looked fearless. Clo had been fearless. No, Clo had to be fearless -- she wasn’t yet fearless. Close didn’t count. Almost didn’t count. She approached one of the punching bags and knocked her gloves together. They fit well. Her hands were secured in the gloves.

"Keep your arms up.”

Clover raised her arms.

”Protect your face.”

Clover made sure that she did just that. She made sure her stance only added to her defenses. She followed along to the echoes of his guidance, to the coach that had long since passed away.

”Protect your chest at the same time."

But she’d failed. She’d left her heart unattended and someone had given her the one shot she’d been unable to dodge. One. Two. And she was on the ground. Bleeding. Damaged beyond repair.

Clo let her eyes wander back to the woman in the ring. She’d gotten back to her feet, yes, and she looked stronger. The woman looked prepared to fight a war, to stand, victorious, over her opponent. They were both fighting opponents bigger than the ones before them, or so she liked to believe. They were so small, so very small. They stood like giants though. They had to stand like giants. They fought with strength they’d borrowed from someone else, from somewhere else.

One. Two. And the punching bag rocked. One. Two. Three. And Clo protected her face. And Clo protected her chest. And she told herself she was unafraid, that she was fearless.