Saturday, July 14, 2007

Stress Relief (another short story)

We all love feeling like we're in shape and healthy.

Sometimes the desire to please ourselves with a toned body crosses over into the desire to please others with it.

And of course in some cases, we simply exercise to reduce stress.

***

Bruce threw his single bag of groceries into the passenger seat and plopped into the driver's in the same motion. An overzealous yank on the car door produced a loud WHAM as it closed, drawing the annoyed eye of another shopper in the supermarket parking lot.

"Fucking BULLSHIT", Bruce yelled to himself, now alone in his car.

Today hadn't been good to Bruce. Work sucks, ex-wife's attorney won't stop calling, dog shits everywhere ... perhaps 'fucking bullshit' described it all pretty well.

He threw the car into gear and sped away from Cub Foods, en route back home with one fist clenched in his lap and the other wrapped around the steering wheel. Bruce lived alone in a 2-story condo on the southwest side of Marietta, Georgia and was he ever ready for a session of heavy lifting in his home gym.

A massive man, Bruce stood 6'5" with a broad, sculpted back that resembled an upside-down triangle. No one fucked with Bruce and he liked it that way; religiously spending 2 hours at least 4 times a week lifting weights had a lot to do with it.

Bruce turned into his driveway, got out of his car wielding his purchases and made his way inside, first through the small foyer and then directly into the kitchen. After almost throwing the milk and mustard into the refrigerator door Bruce headed downstairs to his gym, bypassing his dog Zoink who seemed quite insulted.

He slammed his closed hand against the bottom wall as he rounded the corner into his weight room.

Today was in fact, 'back' day. First exercise: shrugs.

Bruce's adrenalin surged while cinching on his lifting straps. The shrug machine he sat down to required the user to load the appropriate amount of weight and then unlock the lifting bar, bringing all the loaded weight into motion.

Because of his brazen nature, Bruce had removed the safety feature added by the machine's manufacturer to prevent overextension and injury. Who the fuck needed that anyway?
His last use of this machine saw a final lift of about 750 pounds. After this last workout, he hadn't bothered to remove any of that weight.

"Screw it! FUCKING SCREW IT!" Bruce yelled.

He grabbed the handles and brought his lifting straps securely around the bar, creating an almost locked grip on the long, cold piece of iron. Bruce closed his eyes and threw his shoulders up in a monstrous burst of energy, unlocking the weight catch and putting 750 pounds into his two, white-knuckled hands.

This was too much weight to be starting with. He knew it. He just didn't care.

He squeezed his shoulder blades together and performed his first repetition. The second came shortly thereafter, with a little less effort than the first. Reps 3 and 4 were slowly executed with surprisingly good range.

Seething with hatred for the causes of the day's stress, Bruce bellowed out a painful roar as he brought the weight up ... again ... and held it with animal-like effort. It was enough to momentarily blur his vision.

Suddenly Bruce's left trapezius muscle ripped at its connection with his vertebrae.

The pain was excruciating and sent the weight he was holding straight down. This force was distributed equally in two places: directly on each of Bruce's wrists. The thick, leather lifting straps immediately dug deep into Bruce's skin and produced a slow flow of well-oxygenated blood; it began dripping from his knuckles.

Instinctively Bruce loosened his grip but to no avail. The 750 pounds of iron combined with a noose-like attachment of him to his weight machine rendered him completely incapacitated. He was trapped.

He began screaming, at first from the pain and then from the fear. Unfortunately no one but Zoink was within earshot. The lactic acid and blood seeping into his system from his torn muscle began pooling in his shoulder. The ache was unbearable and was being multiplied by the immovable weight holding him in place.

Then, the numbness came.

Bruce soon realized that he couldn't feel his hands. A quick look down revealed a serious problem: his hands had turned blue and were slowly being pulled further down by the force of the loaded weight.

Panic set in and Bruce began to wail like a baby. His hands were being ripped from his arms. Had the safety catch of his shrugging machine not been removed, it was at about this point in the movement where he'd have been relieved of the 750 pounds.

He knew what had to happen. Bruce clenched his teeth as hard as he could and with all his might moved his torso forward from the weight machine. The move was enough to send an obscene amount of pain through his body as his wrists were ripped in half at the carpals, releasing him from the machine's hold.

Blood covered the area and Bruce's hands lay near-white and detached from his body, gushing, on the hard surface. Each one was still wrapped tight as could be with the leather straps.
Crying and disoriented, Bruce brought his bloody stumps to his chest and ran back upstairs. He bolted outside and to the house of The Sundenbergs, his neighbors, who thankfully were home.

Back inside the house, Zoink had made his way downstairs. Blood ... the familiar smell of the sticky red substance greeted the dog's nostrils.

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