T e n O’ C l o c k
Vandal slunk in the school’s shadow, watching over the staff car-park. The air was damp from fresh rain that ceased to stop. The air was humid, blue and heavy. His eyes peeled wide, set with the weight of blood unpaid, lips forming a taut line, tense and anxious. The staff door creaked like an old ship, his brows knit and lines creased his forehead. His knuckles stretched white on the rusty wrench in his left hand.
She was shorter than he remembered. Clad in a black jacket with white dots, leather jacket, leather pants and a full cloth suit underneath. Rich bitch. He’d have to aim for the head, she'd too much padding.
The woman made a break for her bike, the rain and moonlight might as well have put her in the beam of a lighthouse.
She inched closer, closer.
Closer.
Almost.
She straddled her motorcycle, her back to him. He lunged; wrench curling round like a compass to crack her temple.
Unluckily, she slipped in mount and he simply smashed her in the shoulder instead. The blow shoved 'er clean off the bike and onto the pitch. He didn’t feel bone, meaning she was fine.
Time to fix that.
Grunt “w-Who?”
Who wakes up in the morning expecting to be confronted by a wet bloke two heads taller than thee, wielding a wrench big than one’s own shin and dressed like a poor redneck. This was, by far, the most terrifying experience she’d had since coming out of jail.
Not so much before jail, but still her system was proper shaken, lighting back up in turn. Heat pooled in her core like she’d downed a full bottle of vodka and she could practically feel the sparkle in her eyes.
Finally! Something familiar!
Sure, the shoulder was a bit unfortunate, but this was doable.
The figure held the left side of his neck, cracked it, then charged at her like a rampaging comet. His wrench arced over his head, but she was quicker and ducked left, kicking his right calf on the way. It almost buckled, his head teetered sideways just into her reach. Lightness returned to her feet and she floated to his flank, scraping his eyes before he recovered his balance.
Didn’t quite see the fist tunneling under her chin.
Her world wrenched upside down and her tongue tasted bitter, grit and coarse.
She groaned, her fingers caught on the gravel and tore furrows. Her breathing was harsh, but she knew better than to take a break. Her neck snapped upwards. Eyes. Always. On. Target.
The hood fell from her head, her face. He saw her face.
He froze.
You must, understand, dear reader.
It is more than easy to hurt another.
All it takes is a lack of care for another.
A great hate that eclipses hope for any future that doesn’t involve jail.
Something so fiery that you don’t care what happens next.
Something so fierce and all-consuming it pricks the corners of your eyes, raises the sinews of your neck to pipes of iron printed through flesh. It tumbles your shoulders, rising and falling like the crest of a wave and flushes your palms vibrant, pulsing red.
It fills you, demanding to be let out.
Yet, there exists something that overcomes even that.
Fear
A beaten dog will remember the face of it’s tormentor, their voice, their scent.
Any of these things, can drag that mutt back, back and back to when they suffered.
A great beast will loom over them; their mind will turn black and trembling will possess their frame.
Vandal’s shoulders shook.
Their breath will shallow
He couldn’t breathe.
They will lose perception of their surroundings
The wrench clattered onto the pavement.
They will lose their sense of self
He felt smaller, younger, afraid, ‘Why did I ever think I could win?’
And suddenly, the dog can no longer fight.
CRACK