"What he sells you—this idea that you can control chaos, that you can dominate another human being without paying a price for it—is a lie. It's a fantasy for people who have never had to bleed for their lives. Real violence is a coin flip. And even if you win," Cole paused, looking down at his own shaking hands, "even if you win, you never really come back from it. You just carry it around until it crushes you."
He looked back up at Gary. "Call an ambulance for his arm," Cole said softly. "It's a posterior dislocation. He's going to need a doctor to pop it back in."
Gary nodded again, frantically patting his pockets for his phone. "Yes, sir. I will. I'm... I'm sorry."
Cole didn't reply. He didn't want apologies. He just wanted to go home.
---
He turned his back on the mats and walked toward the exit. His gait was uneven, a pronounced limp favoring his left side. He didn't look like an action hero walking away from an explosion; he looked like an aging, battered construction worker at the end of a double shift. He pushed through the heavy glass doors of Apex Fitness and stepped out into the cool night air.
The parking lot was mostly empty, bathed in the sickly orange glow of the sodium streetlights. The ambient noise of the highway washed over him, drowning out the persistent hum of the gym's fluorescent bulbs. He walked to his rusty, ten-year-old pickup truck. He unlocked the door manually because the fob had died months ago, and he hadn't touched the battery. He tossed his gym bag onto the passenger seat and climbed behind the wheel, letting out a long, shuddering groan as he sank into the worn upholstery.
He sat there for a long time without putting the key in the ignition. His hands were still shaking. His heart was still beating a heavy, irregular rhythm against his ribs. The silence in the cab of the truck was deafening, pressing in on him from all sides.
He closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the headrest. He thought about his golden retriever, Buster, waiting for him back at his empty, quiet house. Buster would need his evening walk. He would need his kibble. He would press his wet nose against Cole's hand, demanding affection, completely indifferent to the ghosts in Cole's head.
That was real. That was grounded. That was the life he had fought so desperately to carve out of the wreckage of his past.
He took one more deep, shaky breath, holding it in his lungs until they burned, and then let it out slowly through his teeth. The tremors in his hands began to subside. He was putting the monster back in the box. He was turning the locks.
Cole reached forward, twisted the key, and the engine roared to life. He shifted into drive and pulled out of the parking lot, merging into the sparse nighttime traffic. He didn't look back at the gym. Tomorrow, he would have to find a new place to do his physical therapy—somewhere quieter, somewhere the peacocks didn't strut.
He drove into the dark, a quiet man carrying loud ghosts, leaving the illusions of violence behind him on a rubber mat.