Thwump thwump-thwump.
I like this. Can I go harder?
Little Mix sing about how they’ve got the power and how they make it shower. I don’t usually like pop music, but their voices ignite something in me, make me want to punch harder, fight harder.
‘Now we’re going to add some kicks in,’ the instructor chirps over the chorus. ‘Eight punches, followed by four kicks. Like this.’ She attacks her bag with her foot, arching her body sideways to land her shin into it sharply. I clumsily try to copy her, and it takes me a good few goes to get my balance right but, by the time Christina Aguilera’s ‘Fighter’ booms through the speakers, I’ve got the hang of it.
My leg sinks into it, thwack thwack. My arms are going for it too. It’s like I can’t attack the bag hard enough. I start to picture Ryan’s face and imagine my punches and kicks landing squarely. Fuck you, I think as I punch him again and again. Fuck you fuck you fuck you. I feel amazing. Powerful. I picture his nose breaking. Blood spurting out of it, like in a Tarantino movie, soaking that stupid blue T-shirt he always used to wear. ‘Stop,’ I picture him pleading, his arms up to protect his stupid face. ‘Please.’ But I don’t stop. Why should I when he didn’t? I punch eight times and kick four. His face becomes pulp and yet I still keep attacking.
This is how it feels when someone doesn’t stop, I say to him. You don’t like it, do you? You don’t like it at all, you pathetic piece of shit.
He falls to the floor and I rain down more kicks, sweat flying off my body. The words from Christina Aguilera’s ‘Fighter’ fill my head and spur me on. She sings about how she won’t forget, and neither will I. I remember everything. That’s what makes it so intolerable sometimes. The complete inability to forget it. How relentlessly the memory haunts you. I lose sight of everyone around me. I forget to be embarrassed by my sweat, or the potency of my rage. I’m just lost in feeling like I am finally in charge for once. That I’m the one to be scared of. I am one who decides whether or not I’m going to stop. So many defensive men put their hands up whenever women dare talk about it. ‘Not all of us,’ they say. ‘Not all men,’ they say. ‘How dare you suggest,’ they say. ‘That’s actually quite offensive,’ they say.
I punch eight times, I kick four times.
Yes yes yes yes yes, I think. Poor diddums. Getting all upset. Not wanting to feel like baddies when they’re goodies. How unfair to all be lumped together. That must really hurt. I mean, it doesn’t hurt even the millionth of a fraction compared to being sexually violated, and yet we make the poor men’s feelings more important than the violated women’s.
My kicks get harder. I’m using every muscle in my body and it all already hurts but in the most brilliant way. Punch punch. Kick.
Imagine the blood.
God, I feel powerful.
Is this how men feel all the time?
If only they’d listen rather than call me hysterical, I would scream, YES, I KNOW NOT ALL OF YOU DO IT, BUT ALL OF YOU CAN DO IT. THAT’S THE POINT, THAT’S THE FUCKING POINT.
The fear is always there. The threat always there. Because, really, unless you are a fucking championship kick-boxer or something, if you are ever alone with a man, all he has to do is decide to do it and he’ll be able to. They can hold both of your squirming arms down with only one of their own. They can pin you to your back with just the weight of them. You close the door and make it alone with just you and a man and they can always do that. You get into a cab with them and they can always do that. You get walked home by them and they can always do that. Not all men do, but almost all men can. If only they could have a day of feeling as scared as we do. Please just let them have one day. Of not having the power, of us having it instead. I feel like it would give me such release, but it won’t ever happen, not in my lifetime, so I just need to keep punching this bag and pretending I have a little.
My feet are soaked in his blood. My clothes are soaked in my sweat. I have no worries in my head right now. I’m not feeling lesser than, or crazier than, or silly because, or sorry for. I’m just feeling good.
I annihilate my punch bag until the braided instructor tells us to stop. Released from my spell, I blink as I look around me, reality coming back into focus. The other women are all equally sweaty and beaming. I make eye contact with a short girl with a peroxide-blonde crop. We smile at one another.
‘Great guys, just great. Well done for bringing it so hard in this heat.’ Canary claps. ‘Right, now, let’s do some sparring. Kit is in the corner.’
My triumph wanes the moment I realise this next part of the session involves getting into pairs. Instantly I’m transported back to school PE lessons and never being picked for the team. But Peroxide Girl heads over. ‘Want to partner up?’ she asks. ‘You’re new, aren’t you?’
‘Is it that obvious?’
She laughs. ‘No, don’t worry. We just all really know each other here.’ She gestures towards the box in the corner and we walk over with everyone. ‘It’s great, isn’t it?’
‘It’s brilliant,’ I say. ‘I wasn’t expecting to feel so instantly great. I feel like a superhero or something.’
She laughs widely again, revealing a tongue piercing. Holes line up like soldiers along her earlobes, the ghosts of multiple piercings removed. ‘The first class is always such a rush.’
The instructor has climbed into the box and is tossing out boxing gloves and oversized pads to the sea of grasping hands. Peroxide Girl collects our stuff, before we step back to make room for the other women. ‘Right, have you ever sparred before?’ she asks.
‘I have no idea what that means really.’
‘It means we’re just going to hit each other, but in a really, nice, empowering kind of way.’
I place my hand in a boxing glove which belches out an old-sweat smell. I yank on the other, marvelling at my giant cartoon-like hands. The instructor tells us to space out and practise our hits. ‘Remember, not too hard. Check in with your partner, make sure they’re OK with your force. No dick-measuring please.’ We all titter. She explains how to punch the pads properly, how to hold them in a way that protects you. ‘And remember the most important lesson of all: have fun with it. Let it all out.’
‘Do you want to punch first?’ Peroxide Girl asks.
‘I feel like I need to know your name first.’
‘Charlotte. And yours?’
I pause for a second before answering. ‘Er, April.’
‘That’s a lovely name.’
‘Thank you.’
She leads me to the corner, sensing my newbie embarrassment. The room’s filled with the grunts of punches and the thwack of received hits. ‘Right, so I’m going to hold the pads up here like this, OK? We’ll do twelve reps in each position. Then we can swap over. Don’t worry. I’ll go easy on you since you’re new.’ I nod and she holds the pads up to her chest. ‘Right, go on.’
I throw a feeble punch, followed by another not much better. It’s hard to get over the initial discomfort of punching someone, anyone, even though they’re encouraging you to.
‘Come on, you can go much harder than that. These pads are totally absorbing.’