{"id":100043221,"date":"2025-04-06T07:00:00","date_gmt":"2025-04-06T07:00:00","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.neondystopia.com\/?p=100043221"},"modified":"2025-04-06T21:46:53","modified_gmt":"2025-04-06T21:46:53","slug":"the-beating-room","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.neondystopia.com\/?p=100043221","title":{"rendered":"The Beating Room"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

\u201cThey\u2019re disruptors. They\u2019ve upended the whole wellness industry.\u201d Amanda stabbed at her takeout with chopsticks, a finicky stork hunting prey. Soy sauce and gochujang packets littered her sleek white desk. \u201cYou\u2019re their ideal<\/em> client, Mara. Dragging such tense vibes into our workplace.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mara pursed her lips, her own lunch a cardboard-dry protein bar, miserly in flavor and proportions. Well, who hadn\u2019t<\/em> heard about the Beating Room? Its flagship had appeared two years back\u2014quick success, new locations springing up everywhere. A throwback to those \u201csmash rooms,\u201d where people paid by the hour to break random objects. The twist being: now you paid to whale away at real, live people. Like, actually physically hit<\/em> them. Catharsis was the promised result. Cardiovascular fitness. Emotional regulation, recovery from past trauma. Relief from suffering.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Nestled within this built world of stolid angles and utilitarian grey, TBR\u2019s antique brick storefronts and neon signage seemed cozy, quaint, even subversive. This morning Mara had spotted a newspaper scuttling along the gutter, coaxed by the wind, their ad splashed on its front page. The sight of something so old-fashioned and analog gave her an unpleasant jolt, as though she\u2019d encountered an injured bird.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMaybe it\u2019s worth a try.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Amanda smoothed her wheat-colored hair. \u201cWhat is, hon?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThat punchy, kicky place. My cardiologist\u2019s pushing more exercise.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Her boss\u2019s forehead furrowed. Was Amanda really<\/em> struggling to recall the serious episode that\u2019d sent Mara to the emergency room last week?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mara sighed softly. Nothing yet had fixed her old hurt heart. She was open to everything, anything that might help.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

#<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Beating Room\u2019s twee waiting-room pillows were cute enough. But the thin smile from the pretty receptionist set Mara\u2019s teeth on edge. Vague, dismissive, like middle-aged Mara was too boring and faded to register. Mara opted to park herself back in the hall to await her appointment, thank you.<\/em> An athlete coolly awaiting her Agent, Manuel.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Or a road bump. Either way.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She\u2019d been coming for weeks and could now recite the posters hanging gallery-style in the white hallway by heart:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe take it on the chin, so YOU don\u2019t have to!\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBEAT the heat with our summer specials.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSmash stress, bash the blues AWAY!\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Her favorite spokesmodel had a chipped tooth and a bruise shading one eye like a perverse pirate. Such blemishes only bumped up his swashbuckling charm. Well, the young and the beautiful\u2014and lately the two blurred for Mara\u2014could get away with it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

That very moment a young man came trundling down the hall. And everything changed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Pale eyes under puffy lids, a fade of freckles, and the white uniform of a Junior Agent. Thirteen years collapsed for Mara like dominoes. Freddy. <\/em>Once her sworn enemy, he was all grown up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Before disappearing into Room Three, he flashed Mara the same benign grin you\u2019d give a park bench or bio-enhanced street tree.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mara\u2019s pulse seesawed. Normal sign of shock and surprise? Harbinger of another cardiac event?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But she\u2019d been so<\/em> good! Chilly morning jogs through her Neo-Brutalist neighborhood. Cryotherapy, ZoomYoga. A salt water \u201curban float adventure.\u201d Sealed in its \u201csensory relief pod,\u201d Mara had watched sea flowers unfold in rare colors. Twenty minutes in, they grew tentacle vines, wrapping her. She\u2019d fastened her blouse with dripping fingers, knowing she\u2019d never return.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

At 3:00 a.m., Mara still woke to arrhythmia. Dragged herself up, wrinkled sheets imprinted on her cheek. Unwell, unhappy:<\/em> every day began and concluded the same. So far, the Beating Room had been the one safe place, shielding her against the shadow on her heart.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

#<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Moments later, Manuel arrived, perfectly punctual. His smile seemed engineered, a product of plumb lines and careful architectural drafting. The shadow along his jawline hinted that his hormones hummed, tuned to ideal levels. His black uniform fit sleek as a panther\u2019s pelt.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThat new guy next door,\u201d Mara couldn\u2019t help blurting. \u201cWhat\u2019s his story?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAh, Fred. Trained him myself. Good kid.\u201d
That was all Manuel wished to say on the subject.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Room Two was brightly-LED\u2019d, relentlessly white-on-white. Mara stowed handbag and car keys in the locker. She picked at the back of her leggings in case things were lodged where they ought not be stuck. These days, she fought a slight paunch, a minor bra strap spillover. Well, gravity and mortality marched everyone<\/em> down this same path. You could fight it surgically, hide behind avatars. Mara believed in the luxury of being real, ending the pursuit of shoring up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Feeling Manuel\u2019s gaze on her, though\u2026she realized being seen as desirable still mattered to her. How easily he could snare her, had he half an inkling! That first day, her finger sliding down the illuminated list of Agents, she\u2019d chosen Manuel without hesitation. Grant<\/em>. Something of her ex, Grant, in Manuel\u2019s face.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And last session, Manuel had squeezed her shoulder and called Mara a \u201ctiger,\u201d his hand a friendly, comfortable weight she wanted to lean into.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A tiger.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Manuel\u2019s eyes twinkled. \u201cReady to choose your weapon?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mara hemmed and hawed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAn upcharge, yes. One well worth the price.\u201d He popped in his mouthguard, adjusted his helmet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Eventually she selected what looked like a stylish croquet mallet and gave it a test swing. It felt right.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

What always impressed Mara was how well Manuel took it. Submitted to his beating without flinching or protest. Eyes open, lips parted, body open and willing. Such dignity, strength, and forbearance! A thrill rose in her throat as she swung the mallet. She imagined her tiger ears pricking, swiveling. Searching for signs of life from the Room next door. For Freddy, for her old enemy. She wanted to hear thuds, whimpers, frantic scrabbling. Pleading entreaties, howls of anguish.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But rooms were soundproofed. A black eyeball on the ceiling kept watch, green light blinking. For safety\u2019s sake. Later, Manuel would review these recordings, making adjustments. Tweaks and twists, to keep things fresh.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The rubber head connected with Manuel\u2019s padded chest again. But it was Freddy\u2019s face Mara saw, wavering like an unstable star.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

#<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A dulcet tone signaled their session\u2019s end.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cStarted off strong. Then, poof\u2014where\u2019d Mara go?\u201d Manuel\u2019s eyes shimmered with concern. \u201cWe can add features for focus. Light sneering, mild verbal teasing? Brief questionnaire, then I\u2019ll draw up a script. Enhances your session\u2019s therapeutic value.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Instead, Mara politely excused herself. Filled with sharp, sparkling expectation, she raced outside. Expecting what? Motoring home to a frozen potpie and bland streaming content?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Freddy.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

There he was, leaning over a car wiping an imaginary spot with his thumb. His vintage Dodge Charger dazzled in cobalt paint with gold highlighting. A white decal dominated its windshield, a buxom woman in silhouette, her ankles caught up in a pair of tiny underwear. The custom license plate read \u201cPntydrpr.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mara scowled. Precious fossil fuels wasted on this tasteless hobby.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Pantydropper slid into his gas guzzler. The blue car pulled away with the roar of all its horses.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

#<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGot the fruit plate?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mara pushed away paperwork, softly sighing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Today Amanda wore her magical linen suit, the one that never wrinkled. \u201cBaby shower. I pinged you last night.\u201d She ticked her fingers: \u201cExtra melon, no pineapple. I\u2019m allergic. Cross-reactive, actually. Real <\/em>allergy is birch trees.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMust\u2019ve conked out early.\u201d Mara\u2019s night had been swollen with memories. Freddy. Though he\u2019d scarcely glanced at her, yesterday\u2019s encounters felt like dramatic, full-blown altercations. She\u2019d thought hard about everything. She had to confront Freddy. He owed her an apology for his past misdeeds. For ruining her life, when it came down to it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Only then<\/em> could Mara finally move on from this stuck place and heal.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Amanda frowned. \u201cGirl, you don\u2019t look fantastic. Do the set-up, then take the afternoon.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThanks, that\u2019s sweet.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI mean, you could be contagious. Anyhow, Janessa\u2019s having a girl. Use all the pink stuff, but keep it classy.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mara smiled wearily. The break room closet was full of dented paper wedding rings and cradles. Die-cut cardboard storks, bunting sullied by blue tack and grimy tape. All those hours she\u2019d prepped and primped, drudging away, and for what?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

To celebrate the intimate highlights of other lives.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

One day, she\u2019d be buried in a coffin full of wilted, grubby paper cheer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

#<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Work finished, running on dregs of coffee, Mara found herself impetuously heading to the Beating Room. May as well get that confrontation with Freddy over, or at the very least\u2026open a dialogue. Her arrival interrupted a t\u00eate-\u00e0-t\u00eate between the receptionist and her phone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBack already?\u201d The young woman\u2019s irritated face rearranged itself into an expression of bright supportiveness. \u201cI\u2019m not seeing you scheduled\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019d like to request a different Agent.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOh no! There a problem we can address? With your sessions, with Manuel?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo, just hoping for a change of pace. A li\u2019l palate cleanser.\u201d Mara forced a laugh.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOkay\u2026 Though folks usually don\u2019t swap around all whimsically.<\/em>\u201d The receptionist spun the screen toward Mara. \u201cYou\u2019ve been through this process before. Our algorithm matches you to the Agent best suited to your personal journey.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHonestly, I\u2019d rather hand-pick.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The receptionist shrugged.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Fit strangers in tight bodysuits scrolled by. Confident cheekbones, thick hair immune to blame. Under each, a blurb noted relevant experience and awards. As if anyone cared. People went on appearances and hunches, as Mara had.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Freddy was at the bottom of the heap. The screen squirmed at Mara\u2019s poke, as though personally offended.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cUnfortunately, I cannot set you up with Fred,\u201d the receptionist said, faintly amused.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat\u2014why?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cFred\u2019ll need to go through considerable \u2018seasoning\u2019 before he\u2019s ready.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe could practice on me.\u201d Mara sounded brittle and desperate. \u201cMy uppercuts are weak. My strikes lack precision. I hurt myself<\/em> trying to hurt another.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe never put new Agents with newish members. It\u2019s a liability. We have considerable stipulations and provisos and riders. State and federal guidelines.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCan I rebook Manuel for today, then?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHmm. He might<\/em> be persuaded\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSure you can\u2019t set me up with Freddy?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The receptionist\u2019s eyes went cold. \u201cThat, I cannot do. Absolutely not.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

#<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mara was fitted in.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She\u2019d requested no idle chit-chat. The silence in Room Two felt ceremonial as Manuel prepped, gliding like a pope in vestments, his expression inscrutable. Was this his meditative look, unraveling the mysteries of the cosmos? Or was it a thousand-yard-stare? A blinking vacancy sign?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSmile\u2014it\u2019s nature\u2019s facelift.\u201d Mara remembered this advice, foisted on her by some stranger on a tram. She\u2019d been deep in thought, in a place that should be private, beyond reproach. Such remarks had died away. Lately, nobody looked her way.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

If nobody\u2019s looking, you can\u2019t be criticized. And if you aren\u2019t criticized, maybe you don\u2019t exist?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She refused the gloves Manuel proffered. Bare knuckles today. No foam booties, either. Going bare cost extra. Unfair, considering her <\/em>skin and bone were to be sacrificed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

They faced off.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mara made a fist and lunged, striking Manuel\u2019s ribs. He winced and grunted, hanging his pretty head in its helmet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She pitched forward, kneeing him in the groin. Its guarding cup made her knee ring with pain. Plastic, that\u2019s what that<\/em> was. How much here was real, how much play-acting? Agents were trained to roll with punches, to surreptitiously block vitals already well-protected by struts and pads. This was theatre, when it came down to it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Fakery, a pantomime.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

This session was costly, though. She couldn\u2019t waste it. She circled as Manuel half-crouched, his legs set solid as the base of a skyscraper. She aimed for a kidney, a clumsy grazing of knuckles followed by wrenching pain in her arm socket.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Manuel bore each blow tirelessly. His expression aped at feeling, at connection and intimacy. Hinting at something she\u2019d been promised, but that hadn\u2019t quite happened.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Where was the liver, then? She wanted at it. She\u2019d topple him, expose his underbelly, rip and tear him asunder. Asunder<\/em>\u2014the word hung like petals, vascular and baroque. A real tiger.<\/em> She\u2019d tear this man apart. She\u2019d feast.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Normally, a moment arose when Mara would step out of time. Rational thought would go as her body took over, zipping with endorphins and adrenalin, numb to the impact of flesh. All purpose narrowed: to strike, strike, strike her target. Personality drawn to a pinprick, snapped off like an old television. But Manuel\u2019s locked legs and natural balance resisted her. Her noises\u2014as she shoved and punched and smacked\u2014became a pathetic mewling.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Ruby rings of pain encircled her fingers, her knuckles raw. Manuel remained disconnected. Bored, <\/em>even.Thinking only of the extra bump to his check, enough for a round of day-glow cocktails or a virtual rendezvous. This was an actor, simply acting. All of this phony, designed to please clients.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Consumers.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Hoping to salvage something, Mara summoned Freddy. Her fantasy felt flimsy as a wet paper napkin.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Manuel craned to check the time. A space opened between his uniform and helmet, tender skin shadowed by beard. Drawing her fingers together, she jabbed, aiming for this, the only naked part of him she could reach.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Spitting out his mouthguard, he flung himself slantwise. Coughing, tears sparkling through his helmet\u2019s latticework. Mara moved to close the gap, absurdly opening her arms to embrace Manuel. He blocked her and stumbled, slapping at the wall till an ear-splitting tone sounded.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Gasping, Mara hunched, her legs like rubber, like she\u2019d done something monumental. Her knuckles were split open, bright blood spattering the white floor. The security camera\u2019s eye was now red, capturing everything.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhere\u2019d this bullshit come from? You\u2019re a nice lady. You know the rules. Now I gotta write you up.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She blinked back tears. “I’m sorry\u2026I got carried away. Inappropriately.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Now only quiet, broken by Mara\u2019s sniffling.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cListen,\u201d he said. \u201cFirst aid kit under the bathroom sink. Take whatever you need and fix yourself.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

#<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mara\u2019s clumsily bandaged hands throbbed on the drive home. On her condo\u2019s doormat, a black mitten awaited, an acorn nestled in its palm.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

This was autumnal trash, not some hidden symbol. The younger Mara believed in signs, harbingers, portents. In fate written on a golden scroll, unrolling as she went. She pitched the filthy knitted thing into a hedge for the yard drone to deal with.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Dinner was something scraped from a microwave container, the dignity of a plate beyond her. Life was such a meaningless shadowboxing, wasn\u2019t it? Striking back at darkness folded into dusty curtains and corners. Nobody really came together, nobody touched, certainly not in the ways that counted most. Intimacy was a violent fraud that usually involved an exchange of money.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She wiped her mouth with her shirt\u2019s hem, smelling sour sweat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In the shower, the soap burned. Fine\u2014let it hurt.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Maybe Mara was, at heart, a horrible person?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

#<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSomething in you isn\u2019t nice,\u201d Grant said over lunch, thirteen years back. \u201cI love you, but he\u2019s my kid, Mara. He\u2019s afraid<\/em> of you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Afraid.<\/em> Yeah, right.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Freddy, that nine-year-old imp. Spilling salt on her table and toys on her rug, leaving dribs of mess in his underwear for her to find. All of it deliberate, she was sure. Those beady eyes were too bright and calculating.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Anyhow, she\u2019d never signed up to be a caretaker of someone else\u2019s brat. She was Grant\u2019s partner <\/em>in both love and business. They ran a mobile candy service housed in a silver van. The Candyman Can. Like ice cream trucks of yore, their loudspeaker broadcast this song, possibly bending legality. \u201cWe\u2019re copyright bandits, ” Grant always joked. He made everything risky seem playful, adventuresome.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Food trucks were huge<\/em>, back then. Birthdays, weddings, corporate events. People of all ages lit up\u2014it was candy, for fuck\u2019s sake. Trade shows, vendors, catalogs packed with vintage candy and sweet new innovations. She\u2019d fall asleep to pastel swirls, sugar-fever brights, her heart full.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Until Mara was pressed into caring for Freddy. First, only afternoons. Then, with incremental excuses, more. \u201cEasier than heading home to switch off,\u201d Grant said. \u201cLogistical tightrope-walking burns time. Which is money.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Of course she\u2019d made a mess of taking care of this kid. But she\u2019d also double-knotted his shoelaces. Cut his hot dogs into pieces, wiped pee from the toilet seat. She couldn\u2019t help how her spirits lifted while packing up his clothes and lumpen stuffed bear, preparing to send Freddy back to his mother, whom she considered his real<\/em> parent.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

On off-weeks, he\u2019d shrink in her mind into something manageable and compliant. Yet when the real Freddy arrived again, the resentment would hit.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She\u2019d think who hates a child?<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

The awful finale was that thrifted lamp situation. Sea green glass, the piece cleaned up for her good as new. Mara was carrying it downstairs when something made her slip. She managed to grab hold of the railing, but the lamp flew, shattering on the tile entryway, its shade bouncing away.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Papers covered the stairs.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Pages torn from a book, one she\u2019d given Freddy. The Brothers Grimm. She went to his room and grabbed his shoulder, marched him to the scene of the crime.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThat book scares me.\u201d His eyes narrowed. \u201cPlus, I don\u2019t like you, Mara. Not even one tiny bit.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then Mara said it. It\u2019s true. \u201cWell, guess what, bucko? I absolutely loathe<\/em> you. And what loathe means is hate.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The boy ran.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Almost immediately, Mara realized her mistake. She called Freddy\u2019s name, searched, pulse quickening. Had he run outside? She pictured a van, a man ushering him back where the chains and ropes waited. Finally, she yanked open her closet. There Freddy was, huddled in the hamper. Her dirty underwear spilled out like the beached sheddings of a sea monster.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cForget that ugly thing I said. Adults sometimes say stuff they don\u2019t mean. I won\u2019t tell about the book and lamp\u2026if you don\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI won\u2019t tell,\u201d Freddy said. Pinky-swearing it, his finger hooked around hers like a sticky worm.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But Freddy broke his promise.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

After Mara moved out, Grant hired platinum-haired Annie as caretaker. A woman apparently light as candy floss, who spun silvery stories out of thin air.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cFreddy\u2019s enchanted,\u201d Grant texted Mara. \u201cEnthralled.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Soon enough, Grant was under Annie\u2019s spell, too. He made Mara a fair cash offer to buy her out of the Candy Man Can. She bought a condo in the city. Distance, a buffer to help with closure. When money ran thin, she got a job. Amanda, her co-worker, eventually her boss.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Years passed. Mara dated people. She was told there was never a reason for a young woman to be alone.
But aging complicated things. Everyone acquired exes and children, unsolvable quirks and barriers. The dating pool thinned, dried up. Now anyone could conjure their ideal companion online, a beautiful chatbot who\u2019d never break your heart.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mara didn\u2019t want a perfect phantom.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She wanted Grant. He\u2019d been her best and only chance. And she\u2019d blown it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Even now, years later, Mara sometimes thought she glimpsed their silver van or heard their song on the breeze. On quiet nights, like tonight, her ears ached, listening.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But maybe breakups weren\u2019t always for forever? She could make this right. Fix things with Freddy, then reach Grant through his son.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Falling asleep, Mara folded her hurt hands on her chest like a prayer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

#<\/p>\n\n\n\n

After calling in sick, Mara planted herself at the Beating Room\u2019s front desk. \u201cThings got too heated. It won\u2019t happen again.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHon?\u201d The receptionist raised a beautifully-shaped brow.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cManuel. Yesterday\u2019s situation.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou weren\u2019t flagged. Things can get rough and tumble sometimes. Try not to trouble yourself. Manuel\u2019s an expert.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cStill, I\u2019d like to offer him an apology and gratuity.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOkay, look, whatever. He\u2019s back in the business office.\u201d She buzzed Mara through, chuckling. \u201cKnock yourself out.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

#<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mara sidestepped a sweaty, dazed client. Someone else stuck their head out of Room Three. Heavy-lidded eyes. Faded freckles.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Dropping into her path like magic, here he was. Freddy. Now she\u2019d score that long-overdue apology, then nab Grant\u2019s new number.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThere<\/em> you are, Marilyn,\u201d Freddy said. \u201cWorried I\u2019d been stood up. Today\u2019s last day of the quarter. Gotta grab this final clock hour so\u2019s I qualify for my promo.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Marilyn?<\/em> Mara touched her chest as though the wrong name tag were pinned there.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Freddy opened his door wide, smiling, beckoning her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

#<\/p>\n\n\n\n

His white uniform\u2019s collar and cuffs were slightly dingy. All the falling socks and grubbed-up denim knees of Freddy\u2019s childhood returned to Mara. Those candy-stained lips, his open pleasure when taste-testing samples. Moments when rare happiness leaked through.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWelcome, Marilyn. Long-time member.\u201d He scanned his tablet. \u201cGot it, got it. Thank you, again, for showing. I\u2019m one measly sesh shy of leveling up to Team Yellow!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

So. Freddy didn\u2019t recognize Mara. And she was \u201cMarilyn\u201d now, just like that. A Marilyn who had married, maybe. A Marilyn with children. She saw a crayon house scrawled under sheltering green leaves. A scribbled neighborhood spread outward, a yellow school bus rounded the bend.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYep,\u201d Mara said, rolling with it. \u201cOld-timer here at TBR.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGood deal.\u201d He rubbed damp palms on his pants. He had none of Manuel\u2019s oiled finesse. Freddy was meek, a hesitator and a throat-clearer. \u201cYeah, so, uh. Most clients are gonna want the gloves. Murder on the hands \u2019til you\u2019ve seasoned them.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAre you<\/em> seasoned?\u201d This came out awkwardly flirty.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI mean, I\u2019m getting my clock hours in.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mara dutifully slid on a pair of gloves. She\u2019d rumble with him first, get things loosened up. Kid needed her and the clock hour, and she could do this much. He\u2019d feel grateful, obligated\u2026 Then they\u2019d talk as old friends, sort out their differences. Disinfectant\u2014or someone\u2019s old sweat\u2014bit into her scabbed knuckles.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Freddy avoided eye contact. A shyness. No\u2014a peevishness. When Mara had every right to expect friendliness. If not friendliness, then attentiveness, good service.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

No tip from her today!<\/p>\n\n\n\n

As she chose today\u2019s implement, she remembered someone else had paid for this session.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThat there\u2019s called a \u2018boffer.\u2019\u201d
\u201cI know that, Freddy.\u201d A satisfying whoop<\/em> as she swung the bat-like weapon.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI prefer \u2018Fred.\u2019 Dontcha wanna warm up first?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m good, Fred.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Freddy winced as the boffer struck his flanks. Once, twice, three times. The feel of his flesh\u2026how it differed from Manuel\u2019s compact brawn and thew, these differences radiating back into Mara\u2019s hand. Less solid, though Freddy was by no means small.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Whoop!<\/em>\u2014she aimed lower. His eyes squeezed shut. A yelp escaped.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Pathetic. She\u2019d barely touched him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Again, again.<\/em> Normally she liked to build to the really definitive strikes, but the threat of being found out loomed large. Before each blow, Freddy shrank. Still, those deep-set eyes remained unfocused, like a pupil dreaming through a dry lecture. This worthless lump of putty needed to snap into shape. Then<\/em> he\u2019d remember her. She\u2019d changed, but not that<\/em> much. Older, but by no means old. The sessions with Manuel had made muscles emerge from her arms and shoulders. She\u2019d massage them with private appreciation, sitting at her desk.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Freddy whimpered. This was going nowhere fast. Mara dropped the boffer and tore off the gloves. Her hands were damaged, useless. She’d have to use feet. Though permitted, she\u2019d rarely kicked Manuel. Today she tested out a kind of roundhouse, slamming the side of her foot into the boy\u2019s sad carcass. She stumbled and caught herself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He moaned, shaking on his ankles.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mara\u2019s heart\u2014too fast, eyesight dimming with each beat. But to press on felt paramount \u2014things never fell so neatly into her lap. She had to break through to him somehow! Make him see her. She aimed higher, kicking toward the helmet. Freddy registered the abrupt change in her tactics. Soft, murmuring, begging words slipped out. \u201cPlease\u201d and \u201cno\u201d and \u201cdon\u2019t\u201d and \u201cstop.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Well, what if she didn\u2019t stop? A growl escaped. If Mara had a tail, it\u2019d be striped, lashing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cPlease, Marilyn, I\u2019ll do anything,\u201d he said, panting. \u201cI beg of you\u2026let\u2019s work this out gently, sweetie\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou\u2019ll do anything? What do you mean, anything<\/em>?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhatever you want.\u201d A glistening string of saliva fell from his mask, streaking wetly down the front of Mara\u2019s tank top.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cControl yourself, Freddy. Don\u2019t be gross.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m sorry, Marilyn. Tell me what you want.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOkay, then. Helmet off. Let\u2019s have realness. I want you to see me clearly<\/em>.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat the\u2014?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDitch the mask, Freddy. It\u2019s for therapeutic purposes<\/em>.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Abruptly, he stood tall, another person altogether. \u201cI meant<\/em> I\u2019d do anything already agreed upon. Going off-script? No bueno, se\u00f1ora.<\/em>\u201d He retrieved the tablet, tried to scroll. Remembered he was wearing a glove and struggled to peel it free, finally using his long front teeth like a horse.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The contract looked like a swarm of ants, but a few keywords leaped out to Mara. Begging, beseeching, pleading. <\/em>\u201c\u2018Whimpering?\u2019 \u2018Light crying?\u2019 What kinda garbage is this?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He unclipped his helmet and raked fingers through his sweaty hair. \u201cI was<\/em> working up to the crying. I\u2019m getting real good at it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cForget scripts,\u201d Mara said. \u201cBe honest. Have you really forgotten<\/em> me?\u201d She widened her eyes, as though this might help. \u201cI\u2019m not Marilyn. I\u2019m Mara.<\/em>\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAh, so you wanna change it up. Role-play some trauma release.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m not your client. It\u2019s Mara, from when you were little\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNever seen you before. Honest.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cRemember your 10th birthday, the jump house? That was all me. I was with your father for years<\/em>, running our candy truck. You guys were\u2026you two were my life.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSorry,\u201d Freddy said gently. \u201cDad dropped that hustle when everyone decided sugar was the devil. After Mom he married Annie. I remember that party she threw. A jump house is all fun and games till somebody pukes. Look, when my folks split up, I blocked shit out. I\u2019ve got li\u2019l candy sprinkles here and there for memories. That\u2019s it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He fiddled with his table, content to float in institutional silence. Probably writing Mara up. She hoped she stuck in the corner of his eye, a nagging mote. A splinter.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHey, Mara?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Stupid, stupid, the flare of hope, meeting his heavy-lidded gaze. From this angle, bedroom eyes. The Pantydropper. How many girls and women had already fallen for him?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLet\u2019s keep this quiet. It\u2019d look bad for me. Super<\/em> bad for you. Besides, with more work here, you\u2019ll do yourself good. Unchecked anger and aggression are harmful. We\u2019re the safe, trusted place you can direct these feelings at live, trained targets. Real bodies, real results.\u201d He grinned with magnanimity. \u201cHit us hard, so you<\/em> can gently heal.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Her hands shook, gathering her things. \u201cThanks. But I should take a break from here, I think.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

#<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The street outside glistened, a rain that had come and gone without her knowledge. Mara\u2019s knuckles were on fire, her left arm tingling from shoulder to fingertips. Breath trailed her like a dragon\u2019s smoky afterthought.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

So that<\/em> was to be that.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She steadied herself against a SmartBike stand. Men were logical, not emotional. So, she could present Freddy concrete proof. Photos. A whole micro-drive of them. She\u2019d point to his young self, her young self\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Hopeless. No such images existed. She\u2019d always been the one behind the lens, coaxing smiles out of a sulky child leaning into his father\u2019s hip. How, then, to make Freddy remember her, understand her? She\u2019d only wanted to beat something into<\/em> him. To pummel in memories, pound in an acknowledgment of the destruction they\u2019d caused each other. She wasn\u2019t the only one who deserved an apology. She\u2019d hurt him, too. A mere child, a kid! But now he was cosseted, swaddled, designed to absorb all shocks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Physical pain, it seemed, was fleeting. Injuries faded, bruises cycled through their specific rainbows. The hot red of a fresh insult shifted to the moody vespers of violet, charcoal, chartreuse. Finally becoming a faded ocher, the color of old news.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

What a fool she\u2019d been. A mere ghost mother, a stopgap between birth mother and stepmother. A forgotten misstep for Grant and Freddy. Well, if doors were to remain closed to her\u2014doors and people\u2014the past untouched, unbreachable, even forgotten\u2014then Mara must caretake her own history. Make it, keep it, or let it go. Nobody else could do it for her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Her meandering ended at the blue car with its awful decal. That poor woman in silhouette on his windshield, hogtied by her own underwear.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She closed her eyes. She pictured Freddy, young again, his white uniform outsized, floppy cuffs covering feet and hands. Something aggrieved, hunted for years, run down, finally cornered. His ribs went in and out under the canvas cloth with the effort of the mortally wounded.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He faded.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mara stood all alone in the parking lot.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Her sore hand stirred. Keys, her own keys she hadn\u2019t realized she\u2019d been holding all along. They jingled in her palm, metal on metal.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

One last thing, then. A memento, a final, fond goodbye. She traced the blue car\u2019s wet flank. A long, thin mark appeared in the wake of her hand, a forever disturbance in that perfect shine, something more felt and sensed than seen.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mara smiled and walked on.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n\n\n\n

Jennifer Lesh Fleck has stories published or upcoming in MetaStellar, Gamut, If There’s Anyone Left, Heartlines Spec, Flash Fiction Online, and the 2023 Shirley Jackson Award winner for best anthology published by Cosmic Horror Monthly, among others. She lives with her family near Portland, Oregon in a home that’s a dead ringer for the Amityville Horror House, though repainted a cheery jade green. She\u2019s a grateful recipient of the 2025 Superstars Expanding Universe scholarship, and her work is often informed by the challenges of lifelong hidden disability from a rare inherited disorder. Find her @mettle.and.metal (Instagram), @jen_lesh_fleck (X), and www.jenniferleshfleck.com<\/a>.\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

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