Playtime by Bart Hopkins Jr.

accident, and the dying and
coming back, but his heart isn't in it, his mind is on Renee. He is thinking
that maybe somehow he had stolen her chance at things when he came back. That
doesn't make any sense at all, but that is what he is thinking.   

Chapter 18
    His brother says, "Blaine-" 
     "I'd like to be alone for a while,"
Blaine says, and walks right past him. "Make some coffee, will you?" 
     He goes into the bedroom and takes down the
picture of her he has hanging on the wall. It had been put away and he'd hauled
it back out of a drawer when she'd spent the night. Hung it back up.   
     She has a big smile on her face, a glowing look.
They had been headed out to a big dance. She was all dolled up in a beautiful,
blue taffeta dress. String of faux pearls encircling her neck. Touch more
makeup than she usually wore but it looked great. She looked great. Tears are
streaming down his face now. He curses himself silently for even thinking of
seeing fault in the features of the dead. They had no fault. She surely had no
fault. She should be here right now. There was no sin she'd committed, no
reason for this at all.   
     He touches her through the glass of the picture
like it will bring her closer. They will never have the chance to find out how
bad each other's flaws are now, never know if she had an unhealthy need for a
father figure, if Blaine could support her; none of the questions that were
inherent in their relationship would be answered. He feels like he has been
cheated, like she has been cheated. He makes a low moaning sound and kneels
next to the bed. He doesn't know why. 
     He finally gets up and hangs the picture back
carefully in its spot on the wall. He gets his workout stuff together and
dresses in that, gym shorts and running shoes, an old Tee. His brother hollers
that the coffee is ready as Blaine goes out the back door. 
     The garage really had been made with space enough
for two vehicles. The Shadow takes up some of the extra room, but he has a
small area toward the back where he has a heavy bag hung. With the big wooden
fence around the yard for privacy, it is a nice place to work out, and once or
twice a week he comes out here in addition to the run and hits the bag. Kicks
the bag. He is not as limber as the days when he practiced Tae Kwon Do all the
time, but he can still throw a pretty mean kick.   
     He sticks the smaller gloves on to protect his
hands and goes to work, developing a rhythm. He throws two and three punch
combinations, dancing, moving his head in anticipation of the counters. Every
so often, he varies his attack with a kick. He works his way around the bag,
sticking and moving, sticking and moving. Settles into that, and just shuts his
mind down for a while. Stick, stick, move. Stick, stick, move. Kick. Head
feint. Stick, move, stick. 
     He has loved boxing since his younger years when
he had seen that pacifism wasn't a viable option. It is physical. A brutal test
of skill and heart. Power and speed. Could a boxer hit? Did he have a knockout
punch? Could he take a shot to the chin? Did he have good defensive skills? Was
he an attacker, or a counterpuncher? Did he have that ability to hit back when
he'd been hit and hurt? That was probably the most important factor, in
Blaine's mind. The ability to take a hard shot that would put most guys on the
canvas, out, and come back from that fighting even harder than you had been.
That was the mark of a champion. Boxing skills might take you a good distance,
but if you didn't have the ability to get back up when you had been put down,
you were not going to really make it.   
     All these thoughts are flashing through his mind
as he hits the bag, mixed with images of Renee. He tries to ignore those as he
hits, focusing on the bag. His mind settles on that image of a fighter getting
up off the canvas, and he realizes that is the image that he needs to get
himself through this. He must get up; though he has been hit hard he