weasels
Sam drown his misery and longing through his fist.
"Be a man, Sammy." He remembered his father will say. "Real men don't back down without a fight."
"I know." Sam muttered. The gloves is covered with sweat caused by his hands. The shirt he's wearing is soaked with sweat. He just went to bath three hours ago. The shampoo and soap smelled like exaggerated sweet scent gone wrong. It made him vomit a few times.
Some pop crunch gone to waste and drained.
With a final kick, the chain holding on the heavybag collapsed. The compact foam inside seems to crush on Sam's fist. Creating a small dent that get larger and larger as he continued his assault.
"I'm a goner." he said. Before he collapsed to the ground, heaving. He flung the gloves and handwrap across the training room. Wiping the sweat of his face using the towel he left in the stool beside him.