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I was a trained fighter. I knew how to hurt a person, but I also knew when to end a fight. But at this moment, the rage was boiling inside me.
"Brad," I said, and he turned, his eyes going wide. He knew exactly who was standing in front of him. He had met me and had even been in my home and at my father's funeral.
That motherfucker.As his eyes went wide, my hands turned to fists, and I attacked.
I immediately heard the crack, knowing I broke his nose. I hit him again and again. At some point, we fell to the ground, but that didn't stop me. I felt the ooze of the blood, and I smelled the coppery aroma, all of it fueling me to continue.
All the training I'd had went out the window. At this moment, any control I'd had was gone. My fists moved, and I couldn't stop them.
In the distance, sirens whined. They started off faint but got louder. It didn't matter, I wasn't done. I was no longer in control.
I stopped hitting him for only a moment to lean into his ear.
“How does it feel, you fucking piece of shit?" I asked, but he was too weak to answer.
I hit him again, the sirens getting even louder. I got one more hit, blood flying into my face when I was dragged off and thrown to the ground. I closed my eyes as I felt the cuffs around my wrists.
Stay tuned for Conor's story . . .
