Fiction, Writing

Shelley’s Fight

Shelley rose from her seat, her lips tight, jaw firm. Her fists were clenched, ready.

The woman across from Shelley glared at her.

Despite an overwhelming desire to lean over and thump her, Shelley lowered herself back into the chair. She smiled at the woman, nodded, ‘It’s fine. I’m fine.’

The woman spat into Shelley’s face. A warm glob of saliva and mucus dripped down Shelley’s cheek, towards her chin. She reached into her handbag for tissues, pulled one out from the pack and wiped it.

‘You’re filthy,’ Shelley growled. Her nostrils flared. This time, before she even realised, her fist smashed into the woman’s nose.

She heard the crack. Blood streamed out of her nose, streaking down her top. Shelley stared in awe at what she’d done. There had been no delay in her resorting to hitting. It scared her, this reaction. Why had thumped that person. What was wrong inside?

‘I’m so sorry,’ Shelley offered. ‘I didn’t meaโ€”’

‘You fucken did!’ The woman roared. She held her nose, the blood was all over her fingers. ‘You’re a dirty slag.’ Her foot swung behind her, and then forwards, into Shelley’s groin. ‘That’s what you deserve.’

Shelley sank to her knees, screamed in pain. Who knew a kick to the girly parts could wound so much. Tears smarted her eyes as she felt more blows to her back. She cowered in fear. Trembled.

Then deep inside, the trembling set fire in her belly. Sometimes you have to fight back. She kicked madly, blindly. Her feet connected with the brutish woman. She stood, and landed more blows to her face. Pulled her hair.

While the woman was bent over, Shelley limped away, leaving her behind.

‘Enough,’ she muttered to herself. ‘It’s done.’

 

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