The Anger Inside

Miles sat outside the office of the principal of Woodside High with his parents beside him. His mom was wringing her hands nervously while his dad talked on his phone to someone from work. Two days had passed since Miles had knocked out Rocco. It still sounded crazy. Miles had no idea how he did it. To even make a mark on a kid like Rocco would take a pretty strong dude. So how did the weakest guy in the school do it? But it hadn't just shaken up him. No one had spoken to Miles for two days. Some of his classmates were scared of him, others impressed at what he'd done. Of course, no one usually spoke to Miles in school, but at least they hadn't actively tried to avoid him.

"Dr. McDonnell will see you now."

Dr. McDonnell's assistant had opened the door and was smiling down at Miles. He got up and entered the principal's office. The office was cozy, with posters and portraits covering the walls. A velvet couch sat off to the side. Dr. McDonnell peered at Miles over the rim of his glasses.

"Please sit."

Miles did as he was told and sat down in the creaky wooden chair in front of Dr. McDonnell's desk.

"Mr. Rocco Payne was sent to the hospital shortly after your little confrontation," said the principal.

This was news to Miles. No one had been told anything about the aftermath of the "confrontation," as McDonnell called it. He had just been gone, leaving Bailey's meat squad with one less member. No one had known whether or not he was alright, except maybe for Bailey and his squad. If they did know, though, they sure didn't tell. They just acted like nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Bailey probably didn't want to make himself look weak by broadcasting the injuries of his bulkiest defender.

"He is reported to have many fractures in his jaw line," continued Dr. McDonnell. "The doctor said that the damage inflicted was equal to that of a professional fighter's punch. This is rather odd, don't you think?"

It was, indeed, very odd. Miles had punched Bailey one time before (very bad idea), but his fist had ended up giving Bailey nothing more than a slightly aggressive tickle. Despite the lack of pain, however, Bailey had sent the meat squad after Miles, making that day one of Miles' worst. So if that disaster was the result of him attacking Bailey, who really wasn't even that fit, then how did Miles deliver a professional punch to someone like Rocco?

"Rocco is expected, of course, to make a full recovery. Despite that, our school has a very low tolerance for violence. You will be receiving a short-term suspension."

"Oh, come on!" Miles complained. "I just got back!"

"We are aware of this and it is yet another reason we think you could use a break. Mr. Martyson, you just woke up out of a coma. Take some time and catch up."

Miles nodded. He knew that the principal was right. He needed time to adjust.

So, after another boring hour of listening to his parents speak with Dr. McDonnell, Miles went home. He laid on his bed and tried to think of something to do. Free-time had always been a foreign concept to Miles. There had always been something to do. Whether it was for school or for his parents, someone always had something for him to do for them. But Miles's mom didn't come with dirty dishes or a mop to his room like she usually did when Miles attempted to relax. To Miles' great surprise, it was his father that came to visit. Miles wondered when the last time he had been in Miles' room was. It had been a long time, that was for sure.

"Hey, son," said his father in his usual deep, emotionless voice.

Miles also wondered how long it had been since his father had referred to him as "son." It definitely wasn't a common occurrence.

"So, I saw that kid Rocco's picture in the principal's office today," Martin started, sitting on the edge of Miles' bed, "and I was wondering, how on Earth did you..."

"Not get torn to shreds? Knock him out? I don't know, Dad," Miles said honestly. "It was strange. Like some sort of adrenaline rush. I felt different. I felt strong."

"Interesting," his father replied, scratching his chin. "Come with me."

"What?" Miles was taken aback. His father had never offered to take Miles anywhere.

"I would very much like to see if you're actually strong or if you just hit some cheap shots on that boy at school."

"I don't know, Dad, I think I'll-"

"Come with me," his father repeated and Miles realized that he had no choice in the matter. He followed his father out of the house and got into his big, black truck.

"Where are we going?" Miles asked as his father started the truck and barrelled down the road.

"To the gym," he replied simply, and that was that.

Miles and his dad rode in silence the rest of the way there. Miles noticed the look on his dad's face. It was a look of curiosity, mixed with determination. Miles hadn't even been to a gym before, but he knew that his dad went quite often. It was pretty much what Miles expected, though. Treadmills, pull-up bars, punching bags, along with other machines Miles had never seen before filled the open area. Men with giant muscles and veins popping out walked by, damp towels draped across their oversized shoulders.

Martin brought him over to one of the punching bags and pointed at it expectantly.

"Punch it," he ordered.

Miles hit the bag halfheartedly. It didn't even move.

Miles' father groaned, "Not like that. Punch it like you mean it."

Miles punched with more force this time. The bag swayed a little, but that was all. Miles was once more his normal, weak self. He didn't know why he'd even expected anything different. Being in a coma should have made Miles weaker (if that was even possible), not stronger. It was probably just some miracle what happened with Rocco. Maybe God had given Miles a break for once in his life.

"Do it like this." Martin walked up to the punching bag as Miles stepped away. He reared back and slammed the thing with his fist, as if the bag had personally offended him. "You need better form. The way you do it is weak."

Miles stepped back up to the punching bag and tried it like his father had instructed him. He didn't know what his father was hoping to gain by this, but it was clear he wasn't going to let Miles stop until he did a better punch. The bag moved a little more this time.

"Again," Martin said.

Miles hit the bag again. Then again, and again.

"I want you to hit the bag like you mean it. Like you're angry."

As Miles continued to hit the bag, he did get angry. Angry at his father for making him do this, angry at Bailey for provoking him, his brother for leaving him. He was angry that he'd missed out on so much in the last year.

Miles reared back and with a shout of anger, he hit the bag one more time. He bent over, exhausted. It felt good to let that out. Miles opened his eyes. His father had stepped back and was looking with wide eyes at the punching bag. Miles followed his gaze and his mouth dropped open.

The punching bag was swinging back and forth vigorously. There was a giant dent in it from where Miles had made contact. He had dented a punching bag. How was that possible?