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A woman could beat a man to death with a wooden broom.
Leon collapses onto his chest as I whack his shoulders, his arse and his thighs. A red mist descends and with every punishing blow I scream out words of hate and disgust. They pour from me like blood from an open wound.
“Killer.”
Whack.
“Monster.”
Whack.
“Pain.”
Whack.
“Bastard.”
Whack.
“Fire.”
Whack.
“Devil.”
Whack.
“You. Killed. My. Mama.”
Whack. Whack. Whack. Whack.
I know I’m not making any sense, but I don’t care. I don’t care.
I hit him again, and again, and again. Fury has no boundaries. Rage no ceiling. Violence no walls. I’m lost to it. Completely and utterly lost.
The harder I hit him, the less he responds. His cries of pain turn to grunts, then whimpers, then nothing. Just silence. I expected him to fight back. Wanted it, almost. Yet he doesn’t.
He takes every punishing blow that I rain down over him. He just fucking lies there.
“Fight back, you bastard!” I scream, wanting a reaction. Wanting to fight.
But he remains still.
He doesn’t try to kill me like the Numbers warned. He takes this punishment because deep down he must know he fucking deserves it.
He. Deserves. It.
I keep going until my arms begin to tremble with exertion, until deep red marks appear across his back and thighs, until his skin splits in places, and starts oozing blood.
Blood.
Fuck!
FUCK!
As quickly as my rage appeared it drains away, taking every last ounce of energy with it. My arms drop as my knees buckle and the broom clatters to the ground.
“Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God,” I cry, heaving and retching at what I’ve done.
