Page 75 of Broken By Silence
Claire starts circling me. “No emotion yet. No anger. Just control.”
I move first. A jab, sharp and clean. A pivoting kick, fast and clumsy. She blocks both without effort, her movements liquid, like she’s dancing with my failure.
“Again.”
I strike again. Jab, kick, spin, duck. She blocks everything. Always one step ahead. My muscles burn, sweat pricks under Archer’s sweatshirt, but I welcome it. Pain means progress.
“You’re faster,” she says, and then her hand snakes out, catches my elbow mid-swing, and flips me hard onto the mat. The impact cracks through my bones. “But you still hesitate when you think.”
I groan, dragging myself up. “I’m thinking less now.”
“Good.” Her eyes narrow. “But not enough.”
This time, she doesn’t wait. Her leg whips up, a high kick snapping past my face. I barely dodge, stumbling. The air stings against my cheek where her heel nearly connects. My heart stutters, then surges as I sweep low at her legs.
She jumps easily, lands with grace, and strikes again.
We fall into rhythm—strike, block, dodge, counter.
My lungs sear, each breath a knife. Sweat soaks the sweatshirt until it clings like a second skin. Claire doesn’t relent. Doesn’t soften. But she doesn’t belittle either.
“Come on, Little Bird,” she spits suddenly, the nickname like poison, and I freeze.
The word slices through me. My chest locks.
“Don’t call me that,” I snap, voice trembling.
“Why not?” she presses, eyes blazing. “It’s what he called you, wasn’t it?”
The world tilts. My hands tremble as I barely manage to block her strike. My body wants to collapse, to shrink.
“You gonna freeze again when someone says it?” she demands.
“Shut up.”
“No.” Her voice cracks like thunder. She drives forward, merciless. “Because the next time you hear it, it might be the last thing you ever hear.”
Anger ignites in me, molten and wild. I swing, wide and desperate. Too wide. She catches me, flips me down, pins my wrists to the mat like I’m nothing.
“Get up,” she barks, weight pressing me into the mat. “If Lorenzo says it, what will you do? Flinch? Cower?” Her face hovers over mine.
“Shut. Up.”
“Make me.”
The fire erupts. I shove her off with every ounce of strength I have, my body trembling with fury. I scramble up on my hands and knees, shaking all over, lungs clawing for air.
But Claire doesn’t come at me again.
She crouches across from me instead, her breath controlled, her eyes softer now. “You hate it because it made you feel small. Because it made you feel owned.”
The truth burns. I nod, unable to speak.
“I was thirteen when I got my name stripped from me,” she says, her voice quiet, steady. “They called meDoll.Told me I was pretty. Told me I was theirs. I spent years reclaiming my voice, Lottie. Years convincing myself I was more than what they took.”
Her words land heavy. I see her differently now—not just a fighter, not just a trainer, but a survivor clawing her way out of chains that never fully let go.
She isn’t teaching me how to fight Lorenzo. She’s teaching me how to fight the echo of him.
