JORDAN
Fuck, f**k, f**k!
It’s been five horrible days since I left Astrid, but the wildfire that’s erupting inside me isn’t close to dying out.
I slammed my fist into the punch bag, reveling in the sharp burst of pain that jolted up my arm. My muscles burn and sweat drips down my forehead into my eyes, blurring my vision, but I don’t stop. The smell of sweat and violence stains the air. This is the one place I allow myself to unleash the anger I keep under careful wraps in all other areas of my life –the gym.
This was the only remedy for coping with the death of my wife was working out in the gym. It was my catharsis, my sanctuary. But I can’t say the same now. I pound into the mannequin with a force that shakes my entire body. Each punch lands with a dull thud, and I hit harder, tryin
