Adapt (I)
Chapter Sixteen

TJR Garcia © 2020

SCARLET

I rub my eyes until I see rainbow spots, like droplets of oil in the puddles on the road.

“How much sleep did you get last night?” Trent asks as he hangs the boxing bag back in the centre of the room. Trent had been smart when he decided to follow me around the state, looking for monsters. He left his family behind in order to watch over me for four years, which I can never repay him for. Because he was martial arts trained, he decided that wherever we went he could just start kickboxing classes to get some cash flow. When I arrived in Green Haven and decided I liked it here, he moved his family out here and started up a legitimate kickboxing ring. It still amazes me that his wife was so patient. Four-years patient. Jess is one special woman. sᴇaʀᴄh thᴇ Findɴovel.ɴet website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

“Somewhere between zero and zero point one.” I say as I start to unwrap my wrists. I had given my all to this training session, and now I don’t think I can carry on with the rest of the day.

“You can’t keep training like this. You need down time.” He stacks the fitness blocks in the corner. This morning was technique day, so Trent was training me the best way to get back up from being knocked down. I don’t often get knocked down, but if I do, I need to know how to get up quickly, with as little impact to my body as possible.

“I...” I yawn, throwing my head back and stretching out my back at the same time. “... know. I just don’t like skipping training with you. You teach me technique. All Boe does is tell me what they do and don’t do at HQ. ’At HQ we don’t slouch, we stand tall and proud. At HQ we don’t sit down for breaks, we stand like flamingos, occasionally only standing on one leg so that we can give the other a rest. At HQ we don’t eat when we want, because we are lab rats, conditioned to eat at a strict time. At HQ we don’t eat tasty food, just the shitty green stuff no one likes, so you can shit green for the rest of your life, because who doesn’t want to shit like a rabbit?’” I say in an overdrawn Boe impression. It had been around five days since I had started training with Boe, and the rigmarole of the entire thing is becoming tedious. We aren’t hunting, he doesn’t teach me anything useful and I am having to catch up on schoolwork at night, shortening my sleep incrementally.

Trent laughs. “So, you’re saying that you hate every minute that you spend with him.”

“Precisely.” I say, nodding.

He puts the boxing gloves in the cabinet. “Well, I don’t know what you did with Scarlet, but I want my fighter back.”

I raise one eyebrow, understanding that he has a point, I just don’t know what it is. “What?”

“Well, the Scarlet I know would never let Boe just take over her life. The Scarlet I know wouldn’t even let me house her inside my home after her nine year old self saved my family from that monster. The Scarlet I know insisted that she could always take care of herself. The only reason why she accepted the food I gave her was because it was her favourites-steak dinner, pizza, corn on the cob. So, the way I see it, there can only be two scenarios unfolding before me. Either, you aren’t Scarlet, in which case I may just have to kill you. Or you are lying when you say that you hate Boe.” He finishes his speech, arms folded, standing in front of me.

I fumble for a second, because I know he is right. I don’t hate every moment I spend with Boe. It is kind of fun to share with someone other than Trent what exactly is happening in my world. “I never said I hated Boe, just Head Quarters.”

“Ah, I see. My little girl has her first crush.”

“What!” All of my tiredness disappears in exchange for a mixture of anger and embarrassment.

“Oh gosh, you are blushing.” He turns away as if he can’t bear to look. “Just be sure to use protection, okay?”

“Trent!” One-word exclamations are all I can manage.

“Okay, that’s enough! Dads don’t need to know about this stuff.” He says in an exaggerated tone, like I am the one forcing the conversation on him.

“You’re wrong.” I finally manage. My voice weaker than I had hoped for.

Trent unwraps his knuckles, steadily making his way to the door. “Of all of the things that I have been wrong about in my life, I would bet that I am right this time.” He gives a half laugh, but this conversation is just too much for him. He leaves the building, making his way across the garden to his house.

And I am left standing in the boxing room, blush ridden and angry.

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