CHAPTER 198: GIRLS’ DAY OUT: THE TEMPLE OF FORGOTTEN GRUDGES

I arched an eyebrow. "Release?"

Aria’s smile curved into something wicked, the kind of grin that always spelled chaos for me. "Yes, darling. A catharsis. A purging of negative energy through the most civilized means known to womankind: destruction."

My suspicion deepened. "Aria... what exactly are you planning?"

"Eat your pizza," she commanded, wagging a slice like a general with a sword. "Fuel is required for the journey."

A laugh escaped me despite the heaviness still clinging to my chest. "You’re insane."

"Yes," she said smoothly, raising her glass to mine, "but fashionably so." She winked, the glint in her eyes daring me to protest. "Now hurry. Our destiny awaits."

I did as I was told. There was something in Aria’s certainty that was impossible to defy, a current that swept you along in its magnificent, chaotic wake. We demolished the pizza, leaving only a faint dusting of flour on the wooden board. The wine disappeared with similar efficiency. By the time Aria paid the bill – waving away the card with a flick of her wrist – a strange, buzzing energy had replaced the hollow ache in my stomach.

Our destiny, it turned out, was a twenty-minute car ride away, in a part of town dominated by converted warehouses and graffiti-adorned brick. Aria gave the driver an address that sounded more like a clandestine code than a destination. She spent the ride humming along to a dramatic orchestral piece on her phone, tapping her fingers on her knee, a general preparing for a glorious campaign.

Eventually, we pulled into a nondescript industrial park, a collection of grey, windowless buildings that seemed utterly removed from the vibrant city we’d just left.

"Aria, where are we? This looks sketchy," I muttered, eyeing the corrugated metal siding of the building.

Aria beamed like a proud parent. "Welcome, darling Isa, to the Temple of Forgotten Grudges. Or, as the mundane call it, ’Smash Therapy.’"

My eyes widened as I looked at the building. A faded sign, barely legible, indeed read: "Smash Therapy: Unleash Your Inner Beast." Below it, a scrawled drawing of a cartoon person enthusiastically breaking a television.

My eyes widened. "Oh, no. Aria, you didn’t."

"I absolutely did," she said, her smile flashing in the civil dust as she hopped out of the car. "The finest in therapeutic demolition."

Inside, the air hummed with a strange energy – a mix of anticipation and the faint, lingering scent of dust and shattered ceramic. The reception area was surprisingly clean and modern, contrasting sharply with the muffled thuds and crashes that echoed from behind a heavy, soundproofed door. A young man with bright blue hair and several piercings, possibly a modern-day oracle, greeted us with a bored-looking smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He handed over clipboards stacked with waivers. "Sign here. Don’t sue if you bruise."

A door opened. Shattered glass crunched under boots as another group emerged, flushed and laughing, helmets under their arms. One woman clutched a bent metal chair like a war trophy.

I quickly skimmed the waiver, noting the clauses about projectiles, sharp edges, and the importance of eye protection, before signing my name with a decisive flick.

The receptionist, who introduced himself as Kai, gestured towards a back room. "Alright, ladies. Head that way. We’ve got your gear waiting. Pick your weapon of mass emotional destruction when you get in there."

The gear room was like a cross between a locker room and a tactical supply store. Rows of heavy-duty jumpsuits hung from racks – mine, a slightly-too-large olive green, felt surprisingly comforting when I pulled it on over my clothes. Helmets with full face visors, thick work gloves, and steel-toed boots completed the ensemble. I felt less like myself and more like an extra in a post-apocalyptic movie.

"Chic," Aria declared, adjusting her helmet. "Now, for the main event." She led me to a wall lined with an impressive array of tools: sledgehammers, baseball bats, crowbars, even golf clubs.

"Oh, wow," I murmured, my eyes wide. My gaze fell on a particularly hefty Louisville Slugger. It felt strangely compelling.

Aria, meanwhile, had picked up a small, almost delicate-looking sledgehammer. "I’m a precision instrument, darling. No need for brute force when you have surgical intent." She winked, adjusting her grip on the sledgehammer.

Dressed in the gear, we looked less like two women having a fun day and more like a high-risk disposal team.

"We look like avenging astronauts," Aria declared, admiring our reflections in a grimy mirror.

Kai gave a lazy salute. "Room three is all yours. Your pre-selected package is inside. Thirty minutes on the clock. Safety’s on the left, panic button’s on the right. Try not to use the second one." He pushed a button on his console, and a heavy metal door buzzed, unlocking with a solid clunk.

Aria grabbed my gloved hand and pulled me forward. "Mission control to Major Isa," she stage-whispered into her imaginary comms, "prepare for atmospheric entry."

The room hit me like a physical force – a cacophony of sound and a visual feast of organized chaos. It was a concrete bunker, roughly the size of a small garage, bathed in the harsh glow of industrial lights. Every surface was smattered with paint, dust, and the ghostly outlines of previous demolitions. But it was the contents of the room that truly stole my breath.

Against one wall stood a collection of old television sets, their screens cracked, their innards exposed. To the left, a tower of ceramic plates and mugs teetered dangerously; A worn-out looking recliner sat forlornly in the center, flanked by a stack of ancient computer monitors. Even a toilet bowl sat patiently in one corner, awaiting its inevitable obliteration. Speakers in teh far corner blasted heavy bass, a beat that rattled through my chest. It was a junk store’s nightmare, but here, it was an invitation.

"This is... insane," I muttered.

"Behold, Isa," Aria said, sweeping her hand dramatically across the room. "Your canvas. Your crucible. Your therapy." She turned to me, her voice muffled by the helmet but still resonant. "The rules of engagement are simple. You see something that reminds you of something you hate, you hit it."

She didn’t hesitate. She raised her sledgehammer, shrieked like a banshee, and obliterated the nearest printer with a resounding CRUNCH that echoed even through my helmet. "This is for her," she said, her voice a low growl. Plastic shrieked in protest, circuit boards snapped, and a cloud of fine grey dust exploded outwards. She let out a wild, exhilarated laugh, the sound distorted but unmistakable.

I flinched.

She turned, eyes wild behind the face shield. "Your turn!"

I gripped my Louisville Slugger, feeling its weight, the satisfying heft of it in my hands. Aria’s infectious energy coursed through me. The glass bottles glistened on the table.

I raised the bat, feeling the muscles in my arm tense. "This is for making me feel disgusted at myself," I shouted, my voice barely audible over the music. I swung with all my might.

For a split second, the room dissolved into another place... I wasn’t in the room anymore. I was back in that nightmare—my cheek stinging from a slap, the drug flooding my veins like fire, my body refusing to obey me while one of them leered, stroking himself like I was some kind of performance. Helpless. Humiliated. Filthy.

Then the bottles exploded. The sound of shattering glass ripped through the memory, scattering it into jagged, glittering pieces. Something inside me cracked open with it.

Aria, who had been watching, lowered her sledgehammer and let out a triumphant whoop. "YES, ISA! THAT’S IT! LET IT OUT!" Her voice was a joyous roar, slightly muffled by her helmet.

The jolt that went through my arms was electric, vibrating up to my shoulders, through my chest, and into my very core. A raw, unfamiliar laugh bubbled up from my throat, surprising me with its ferocity. I was laughing—ugly, breathless laughter that tumbled out like it had been trapped since like forever.