TRP is a post-Great War AU RWBY RP set in Mistral City and Haven Academy with no canons, no rank claims, no maidens, and no god interference. We offer a progression system and site-wide events that change the setting based on player actions.
Post by Kishka Burzanova on Jan 14, 2021 6:22:13 GMT -5
Maybe she really did hate herself this much.
Sweat poured off of her back and forehead as she lined up shot after shot at the punching bag, putting on an excellent performance of her life, in metaphor, with every punch.
An almost endless stream of perfectly-placed blows, each one hitting the same spot on the bag, each one delivered with pure, perfect, technique. And yet, as elegant and precise as her punches were, not a single one carried enough weight to move the bag more than a gentle swaying, back and forth. Kishka was hardly an effective pugilist, after all- and even so, there was nothing she would rather be doing.
Not because she enjoyed it, of course.
Her fists hurt, even past the veil of her Aura, and she was quickly tiring herself out.
But somehow, it felt more satisfying than tearing through trees with her umbrella, or blowing holes in cement with her cannon. Maybe it was the self-destructive nature of attempting to weaponize her own body; instead of utilizing the tools she had learned so well that they felt like extensions of her very soul, she was forcing her hands into pitiful fists, and throwing them relentlessly into an unfeeling sack of sawdust.
She paused between a jab and a hook to appreciate the way the bag looked so worn out; it had carried the brunt of so many students using it for their own gains, too lost in thought, she imagined, to waste time wondering about how a punching bag probably felt.
Kishka didn't have to wonder- she knew.
Because it seemed like the entire universe was using her as its personal punching bag for the past month or two. Ever since Holly'[d died, it was like the world just decided to smack her around with its beating stick, over and over again. It was funny, she reckoned. Every time she tried to stand on her own two feet in defiance of a world not worth living in, someone pulled the rug out from under her again.
Case in point; her breath burned like a still.
She wasn't proud of it.
And she refused to let anybody know.
She'd been clean for a week and a half, ever since Shadecloak and Bianca had found her in the Gardening Club, a crumpled heap of a broken woman, lying on the floor in a puddle of vodka and vomit. She was thoroughly disgusted with herself, then.
Just as she was, in the gym, at that moment, wailing on the most brutally pummeled bag at Haven.
How much trauma had it gone through, she wondered?
Not the punches and kicks- the pain.
How many students came down here, all hours of the day, to pound out their misery and frustration?
If this bag could speak, what stories would it tell? Sad stories of halfhearted, miserable, training sessions, dismal with the sense that no amount of hard work could close the gap? Triumphant, victorious bouts, as a cool-down after a well-won fight? Maybe it was filled with fury- all manner of rage poured into it. Anger at an opponent. At a classmate. At an enemy, the Grimm, a professor, the world, the Faunus, the humans,.
She wasn't even certain what she was contributing to the bag, herself. Her anger was placed all over, spread so far and wide that she doubted it was concentrated enough to leave a dent in the bag, any more than her fists could. Her grief was burying itself in the four shots of gin she'd thrown back before she had managed to put the bottle down and remind herself that her problems were too big to drink away anymore. That she couldn't do that.
She still wanted to.
Because she was pretty sure she was coming to terms with the fact that she hated herself.
She hated being alive.
It was a lonely existence, then. She felt alienated and isolated from a world that no longer wanted a damn thing from her that she wanted to give, but was more than happy to take, take, take, take, take from her, whatever she thought sacred, and irreplaceable. The world was cruel, and she just wanted to be left alone.
Solace was hard to find, though.
Especially now that her breakdown was old news.
Most people hadn't heard any of the details, considering both Bianca and Professor Shadecloak weren't the type to go around gossiping about such things, but it wasn't exactly a secret that Kishka had had a large role to play in the Academy's new mandatory weekly therapy policy for every student. And nobody who'd seen her just a few weeks ago could deny that she'd looked like hell, the handful of times she'd attempted to drag herself to classes. Nobody could deny that she had looked as bad as she'd felt.
She looked better now.
Marginally, at least.
There were bags under her eyes, but not as severe. white roots had once again begun to peek out from the deep lavender mess of hair atop a head filled with troubles and heartache.
And while her movements at the bag were precise and accurate, when she moved to grab a drink of water, she did so without the benefit of years of muscle memory guiding her- she wasn't so far gone that it was too obvious, but anyone with a trained eye for body language could probably pick up on the fact that she was a bit more sluggish than skipping a night's sleep would cause.
And anyone with a keen enough eye would note that it wasn't a water bottle she grabbed initially, but a half-empty bottle of gin.
She stared into the glass for a while, contemplating it.
She knew she shouldn't, but...
Maybe it would help her more than harm her? She just needed a little bit, after all...
Just a little bit.
One more shot, and then she was done.
...Famous last words.
She finally moved to unscrew the cap, when she noticed another presence in the room. She had no idea how long she'd been standing there, or how much she'd seen, but at this point, Kishka was too resigned to the fact that she was a mess and a failure as a human to actually close the bottle again and put it away. Let her see, why not- funny enough, she was almost relieved to see the crooked creature standing before her.