The sparring dummy was paying the price for my frustration.
Over and over again, I rammed fists, elbow, knees wherever I could plant them, with each blow getting harder and harder until I eventually kicked off the dummy's head.
My eyes clenched shut, hands resting on my knees as I hunched over and greedily gulped in air.
I couldn't carry on my days like this.
We were at the end of January. Marco had returned to Sicily a few days after we'd gotten back from Russia, so I was left to my own devices in Paris.
It's not that I missed him. There was more than enough of a workload to keep me occupied for twelve hours a day, and it did do that. The problem was that sometimes, when I would hyperventilate, he wasn't around to talk me out of it.
It was a cycle of panic, which would turn into anger, which would turn into numbness. I was back to my toxic habits, which I hadn't even realised I'd slipped out of when he was here.
