Chapter 12: Plague of Memory

It had been a tumultuous weekend, to say the least. Illyana had been wrapped in a blanket of rage and despair and spent every free moment writing scathing letters to her ex-boyfriend that she never intended to send. Writing was a sort of release for her, it was more productive than banging her fists against a wall but wasn’t as satisfying. She’d even been inspired to pen a couple of angry songs and accompanying guitar riffs too. Maybe one day she’d perform them, they’d get produced and he’d be forever immortalized as the worst man in the world.

Monday afternoon, after her class had let out, she had decided it would benefit her to do some breathing exercises to calm down, to keep her emotions at bay, and to keep from weeping or screaming curses openly.

It was a small feat to put on a good face for her friends–she didn’t want to worry them and hopefully, she’d be more emotionally stable by the next week to drive them to Pandora. She couldn’t help to also feel annoyed by her moping. She should be glad she no longer had to deal with that asshole who had cheated on her. Rose-tinted memories had a way of sneaking into her mind, however, and that was problematic.

The day was nice, sunny, not too hot for mid-autumn so she took advantage of it and went outside to meditate in the shade of the community college orchard. Agricultural-focused students maintained the produce garden and fruit trees. In another week or so, the apples would be ready to harvest.

Illyana took a deep breath and put her palms together before exhaling and lifting her bent knee into the tree position. She let her eyelids fall, hoping to concentrate on breathing and banish the current, torrid thoughts that were brewing in her brain.


The warm temperature and the sound of chirping birds eased her somewhat despite the metaphysical gaping hole in her chest cavity. She’d turned her phone off because she feared that he’d call. That she’d be too tempted to answer, to hear his excuses, to be swayed by them and risk the chance of taking him back–to have that feeling again–the incandescent happiness he had brought her before it all came crashing down around them.

Like the times when they first started dating when he’d drive over from Sim State campus and surprise her after class. He’d wait on a bench outside of the lecture hall and if she saw him first, she would sneak up behind him and cover his eyes. In those days his hair was relaxed, his stormy blue-grey eyes could be hidden behind the length of it and it was one of the many reasons she was attracted to him, and loved him. Realizing it now, that was a young, naïve love she had held for him in her heart.

Illyana had thought she was so lucky to have his attention because she never dated in high school. She figured most boys thought her too prickly to be ‘girlfriend’ material. But Adam was different; he liked her—prickliness and all.

That memory was one of the many that frustrated her. A good way to block such deceitful nostalgia was to think of how the scumbag slept with another woman-—but then that led back to the anger dangerously brimming at the edges of her mind.

Two breaths.


Even when he had quit school to focus on the band, he’d still visit her often. They’d hunker down in the common room when it was too cold to go on walks together and discuss everything from the latest concert in town to their favorite childhood memories. He made her laugh so much, and it distracted her from worrying about planning for complicated mid-term modules. Every time that he would make her smile she felt herself falling a little more in love with him.

She knew that she shouldn’t be thinking about him, but every time she tried to clear her mind, thoughts would drift back to their time spent together.

Why wasn’t she remembering their fights, the insults, the way he made her feel guilty about missing his shows? Was love that strong of a drug to diminish those vital moments that would be clear to any outside observer that they were not such a great couple after all?

Three breaths.


Remembering the way he kissed her and held her against him as they fooled around in her dorm room, in the dark, and the warmth of his skin encasing his toned muscles–it was exciting and sexy and…


Illyana’s eyes snapped open and her breathing became quick and short as her emotions caught in her throat.

Why was she doing this to herself?


Breathing exercises were not working. Clearing her mind was useless if all that preoccupied it again was that son of a bitch. She swallowed those thoughts and the rage bubbled up in their place. She wanted vengeance, she wanted satisfaction, she wanted to hurt something.

She abandoned her yoga pose and all but tore down the pathway toward the small community college gym. It contained a few exercise machines, a treadmill, and a punching bag. She had used the punching bag before but was revved up and could only imagine that beating it to a pulp would give her anger reprieve at the moment.

She entered the building, pushing the door open with force, and all the energy she had pent up inside of her deflated at the sight of someone already using the punching bag.

A guy she knew of yet had never exchanged words with was ripping into the bag with as much vigor as she had felt like unleashing herself. The chain holding the heavy bag swung back and forth as he jabbed out a quick succession of left and right hooks. His face was pulled into an angry, concentrated stare, and though he wasn’t making any noise, he looked like he was growling. His wide shoulders were hunched forward slightly; that look paired with his substantial height and obvious muscle made him an absolutely menacing figure.

She had heard rumors about Franz Schoulsburg, knew of his reputation, and how he was the cause of concussions when he was younger. He never seemed to speak either. She stared numbly at him, too intimidated to interrupt his workout.


He halted his punches, grabbed the bag to steady it, and inhaled few deep breaths before smoothing away some of the hair that had fallen into his eyes. That was when he finally noticed Illyana standing there and slowly turned his head, his face suddenly wiped expressionless. It unnerved her to the bone.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, looking away from him and down at her running shoes.

He frowned slightly, stood straighter, took another breath, and wiped the sweat from his brow, “What for?”

She didn’t mean to look like she had crept in to stare at him, but that’s probably what she was sorry for. For bothering him, for being in this space. She didn’t want to say all that so she just kind of bit her lip and shrugged. Ugh, she hated feeling like this! Sure the guy was like a foot taller than her and had enough strength to throw her clear across the room if he wanted but she finally met his eyes and put her hand on her hip, proving she couldn’t be intimidated.

“I wanted to use the punching bag, were you going to be finished anytime soon?”


Her tone was a tad bit too aggressive, but she was glad she wasn’t acting pathetic and timid like she had a moment ago.

He raised a brow, then nodded, “Yeah sure. You can have it.”

Well, that was easier than she thought. Maybe the whole break-up ordeal had made her only think men were hard to deal with. Maybe Franz Schoulsburg wasn’t so scary after all. He disappeared into the gym bathroom, presumably to wash up.

She took a position at the punching bag, curling her hands to fists, letting that anger return to the forefront of her thoughts and propel her arms.

She threw a punch, her knuckles hit the bag with a dull thump. She took another.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

It felt good. Satisfying. Now, if only Adam Hamilton were to replace the space that the punching bag occupied.

She kept on punching. It probably wasn’t a healthy thing to do, but it was less destructive than bottling it up or destroying items in her room. Alarie had once suggested Illyana should talk to a therapist about her anger, but Illyana didn’t have extra simoleons to throw around on something like a therapist. She never had!

Even for what she won in her share of the Battle of the Bands grand prize, it wasn’t enough to allow her to join the lifestyles of the rich and the famous. She had used the money to save for college fees, dorm rent, and to start an emergency fund.

Alarie and Leona came from families much better off financially than Illyana’s and it was frustrating when they glibly suggested she should try things that may not seem expensive for them but would put Illyana out of money for a whole week!

Her tunnel vision for punishing the punching bag must have been pretty strong because she didn’t even realize Franz had returned to the room, like some kind of silent, menacing, shadow. He put his hand on the punching bag which halted its swinging and motioned for her to stop.

“What?” She snarled, not appreciating the interruption.


His face was slightly more expressive, showing something akin to mild concern, “I couldn't help but notice that you’re angry.”

“Yeah? So? What’s it to you?” Illyana narrowed her eyes.

Franz didn’t realize it until he had seen Illyana taking swings, but he felt just as angry with recent developments and that is why he had found himself at the punching bag that afternoon too. For once in his life, he just needed to talk to someone, preferably Alanna—as soon as she had some free time to hang out again.

He hesitated to think about Illyana’s question. Franz was never one to address people he barely knew about his observations; he didn’t really care much for others’ problems but he knew Alanna considered this young woman a friend. Even if she were a stranger, Alanna would have at least shown some kind of concern for her.

“I'm just wondering, are you okay?”

Illyana’s frown unraveled as did her fists. She stepped back a few steps while shaking her head, “No. No, I’m not.”

For a moment, a wave of emotion caught in her features and she looked like she was about to start sobbing but it passed and she took a few deep breaths instead.


"Do you…need anything?”

She fell to the seat of one of the weight machines, considering.

He took a seat at the opposite weight machine, patiently waiting, hoping he wasn’t screwing up the whole 'being sympathetic’ thing that Alanna always told him he needed to be more of.

“I guess, I just need to vent,” she admitted to herself while biting a hangnail from her thumb, not paying mind to Franz’s concentrated stare.

“All right,” he nodded.

“What? You want me to vent to you?” She looked across the gym at him in utter bewilderment, as if he’d lost his mind, “I’ve never even spoken to you until today!”

“You can if it makes you feel better,” he gave a slight shrug of one of his shoulders.

She seemed hesitant, giving him a good once over—seeming to try and discern if he was trying to trick her.

She knew nothing about him. He knew nothing about her.

And yet, she had nothing left to lose.