Where my wife Jenny has a meeting with our neighbor Christine
"I swear to God, if that bitch tries it one more time..." Jenny slammed the front door so hard the windows rattled.
Her heels clicked like gunshots across the oak floor. She flung her leather bag onto the sofa, missing my coffee cup by inches.
Brown liquid sloshed over the rim onto yesterday's crossword puzzle.
I lowered my paper slowly. "What's wrong, darling...?"
The scent of her jasmine perfume clashed violently with the ozone-tang of her fury.
She spun on her boot heel, fists clenched at her sides. The white shirt strained across her chest with each ragged breath. Her dark eyes burned.
"Christine...that absolute fucking *bitch*...!"
Spittle flew from her lips as she stabbed a finger toward the shared wall with our neighbor's house.
"Please, not again..." I sighed, setting the paper aside.
Coffee soaked through the crossword, blurring '7 Down: Ancient Phoenician city'.
Stepping close, I tried to stroke her arm. She jerked away like my touch scalded her.
"Forget her. Don't consider her." Jenny vibrated with coiled energy, a tremor running from her shoulders down to her boot-tapping toe.
"Easy for you!" Her voice cracked. "You don't hear her whispering about 'mail-order brides' when I get the groceries! That damn old tart watches me hang laundry and mutters 'whore' under her breath!" A vein pulsed in her temple.
"I swear, if she looks at me sideways one more time, I'll drag her off her porch by that ugly perm!"
Her knuckles whitened. "I'll slap her face and kick her bony ass into next week!"
Just then, a sharp knock rattled the door. Three precise, impatient raps.
Jenny froze mid-rant, her furious gaze snapping toward the sound. Her breath hitched.
"Leave it," I murmured, standing abruptly. "I'll take this."
Jenny’s eyes widened, pleading silently .
“Don’t let her in, don’t you dare” but I was already moving toward the foyer, the scent of her fear mixing with jasmine.
I swung the door open. Christine stood on our porch, her face flushed crimson beneath her tightly permed silver curls.
Despite her fifty years, she held herself with rigid poise, dressed in a crisp white shirt tucked into impossibly tight blue jeans.
Her red leather ankle boots sported sharp stiletto heels that sank slightly into our welcome mat.
The late afternoon sun glinted off the tiny silver crucifix hanging at her throat.
She did not let me speak as her sharp voice cut the air.
"Tell that little bitch of your wife that I am waiting for her in the back garden to settle our problems, woman to woman."
Christine's thin lips curled as she jabbed a finger toward our shared fence.
Her breath smelled faintly of peppermints and gin.
"See if she is not freaking out and has the ball to face me."
She spun on her heel with surprising speed, her boots crunching violently on the gravel path as she marched toward the side gate.
I turned and saw my wife standing behind me. Her face showed a hard expression.
"Honey don't you really want to end into a fight with Christine, do you?"
I asked, gripping the door frame. Jenny’s knuckles whitened against her hips.
The jasmine perfume now mingled with the sharp sweat beading on her temples.
"Why not?" Her voice dropped low, dangerous. "I will kick her ass as she deserves and shut her dirty mouth once for all."
Without hesitation, she pushed past me onto the porch, her heels echoing like gunshots on the wooden boards.
The late sun caught the fury in her dark eyes—a predator’s focus.
Christine was already at the fence line, arms folded tightly beneath her small breasts.
Jenny marched straight toward her, stopping just feet away. The air crackled.
"You wanted to settle things?" Jenny's voice cut through the suburban quiet.
Birds fell silent in the oak trees overhead.
Christine’s eyes narrowed, darting from Jenny’s flushed face to her clenched fists.
"Brave without your man to hide behind?" she spat, deliberately raising her voice so I could hear it from the porch steps.
Her gaze swept Jenny up and down, lingering on the tight black shirt stretched over her breasts, her tight stretched jeans
and black leather fashion boots with heels.
"Dressed like cheap street trash again, I see."
A cruel smirk twisted her lips as she leaned closer, voice dropping to a venomous whisper.
"Does he know how many men you've spread those legs for?"
Jenny didn’t flinch. Her laugh came out sharp as broken glass. "Still bitter your husband left you for someone younger?"
The words hung in the thick air like smoke. Christine recoiled as if struck, her face paling beneath the rouge.
The scent of crushed grass and Christine’s stale gin breath mixed with Jenny’s jasmine rage.
I followed silently, stopping near the rose bushes. The late sun cast long, jagged shadows across the lawn.
Jenny shifted her weight, the leather of her boots creaking.
Christine’s knuckles tightened around the fence post, tendons standing out like cords.
"You think you’re so clever?" Her voice trembled. "Parading around in clothes two sizes too small—"
Jenny cut her off, stepping closer until their noses almost touched.
"Jealousy smells ugly on you, Christine." Her whisper carried clearly. "Just like that cheap perfume."
"Let’s do this then, old cow...!" Jenny hissed, launching forward like a sprung trap.
Her fist aimed straight for Christine’s jaw. But Christine didn’t flinch—she flowed sideways with unnerving grace, her stiletto pivoting smoothly on the gravel. Jenny stumbled past, momentum unchecked. As Jenny’s heel caught a loose stone, Christine’s worn boot snaked out.
A sharp hook behind Jenny’s ankle.
Jenny hit the grass with a heavy “thud”, a soft grunt ripped from her lips as the air punched out of her lungs.
Her dark hair splayed across the damp earth. Above her, Christine loomed, hands planted firmly on her hips, a cruel laugh bubbling up.
"Is that all you have?" Christine crowed, her voice dripping vinegar.
"You hot-blooded little mouthy bitch? All that fire, snuffed out by a grandma?"
She shook her head slowly, silver curls catching the fading light.
"Pathetic." Below her, Jenny gasped, fingers clawing at the cool, wet blades of grass, dirt streaking her cheekbone.
The scent of bruised greenery mixed with Jenny's sharp tang of sweat and Christine's bitter gin breath.
Seething rage ignited Jenny’s eyes. With a guttural cry, she bucked violently beneath Christine, twisting her hips to unbalance the older woman.
One hand shot out, grasping Christine’s crisp white shirtfront; the other locked onto a bony forearm.
Years of simmering resentment fuelled her strength. She surged upwards, dragging Christine down onto her in a chaotic, graceless tumble.
Arms flailed, legs kicked wildly at the air, heels scuffing the gravel path.
They rolled once, twice—a whirlwind of curses, tearing fabric, and flying gravel—before Jenny heaved her entire body weight sideways.
Momentum carried them crashing back onto the lawn.
Jenny landed hard on top, pinning Christine’s shoulders against the damp earth.
Jenny’s knee jammed into Christine’s ribs, eliciting a sharp, wheezing gasp.
Jenny’s dark eyes blazed inches above Christine’s furious, flushed face.
"Still pathetic?" Jenny hissed, her breath hot on Christine’s skin.
The jasmine rage was suddenly overpowering, mingled with the earthy smell of torn turf and Christine’s faint, panicked scent of fear beneath the gin.
Jenny didn’t hesitate. Her open palm cracked against Christine’s left cheekbone—a sharp, stinging slap that snapped the older woman’s head sideways. Before Christine could even cry out, Jenny’s hand reversed with brutal efficiency.
“Smack!” Right cheek. Christine’s startled yelp choked off into a groan. Jenny’s arm pistoned back and forth. Left. Right. Left. Right.
Each slap landed with a sickening wet smack against yielding flesh, echoing across the suddenly silent garden.
Christine jerked her head wildly, her forearms rising in a feeble, frantic defense, trying to shield her face.
Her blond/silver curls tangled against the grass, her crucifix bouncing wildly against her throat.
Flecks of spit flew from Jenny’s lips with every strike.
"Shut! Your! Filthy! Mouth!" Jenny snarled between hits, her voice thick with fury.
Christine’s groans grew louder, desperate, muffled against her own forearms.
Beneath Jenny’s knees, Christine’s body convulsed, her crisp white shirt stained green at the shoulders,
her carefully applied rouge smeared into livid crimson streaks across her rapidly reddening face.
Christine’s eyes, wide and watery with panic, darted wildly beneath Jenny’s furious onslaught.
Her jaw clenched, teeth grinding audibly. Then, with a desperate, guttural growl, she twisted her torso violently, freeing her right arm just enough.
Muscles trembling, she drove her fist upward in a wild, flailing arc. Whether it was blind panic, a surge of adrenaline-fueled strength, or some long-buried instinct from her youth, the punch found its mark.
Her knuckles slammed squarely into Jenny’s jaw with shocking impact.
A sickening *CRACK* cut through the garden air – the sharp, brittle sound of teeth smacking violently together inside Jenny’s mouth.
The force was brutal. Jenny’s head snapped backward violently, whipping like a rag doll in a hurricane. Her dark hair flew wildly as her neck arched unnaturally far back. For a terrifying instant, she seemed suspended mid-air, her entire body rigid. Then she collapsed backward like a marionette whose strings were abruptly severed. She landed hard on her backside, legs splaying awkwardly outwards. Her torso slumped forward limply, chin hitting her collarbone.
When her head slowly, sluggishly lifted, tilting upward as if pulled by an invisible string, what I saw chilled me to the core.
Her eyes, always so fierce and alive, were vacant. Unfocused.
They stared straight ahead, wide open but seeing nothing – opaque pools of dark brown glass reflecting only the fading sky above.
They looked utterly lost, gazing into a terrifying void.
A thin trickle of bright red blood seeped from the corner of her swollen lower lip, stark against her pale skin.
Christine slowly pushed herself upright, her movements stiff and deliberate.
She winced, pressing trembling fingers gingerly against the burning crimson splotches covering both cheeks.
Her breath came in shuddering gasps. She stared down at Jenny’s crumpled form on the grass, her eyes narrowing with cold,
unnerving intensity. Her gaze wasn’t fearful or remorseful; it was predatory. Calculating. A hunter assessing a newly stunned quarry. She didn’t rush.
She took a slow, deliberate step forward. Then another. Her sharp stiletto heels sank slightly into the soft turf as she approached without hurry.
Standing directly over Jenny, Christine blocked the dying sunlight, casting a long shadow that engulfed Jenny’s motionless figure.
She tilted her head slightly, studying the vacant eyes, the slack jaw, the steady drip of blood onto Jenny’s black shirt.
The silence hung thick and oppressive, broken only by Christine’s ragged breathing and the frantic chirping of sparrows high in the oak trees.
"Well, bitch," Christine hissed, her voice low and guttural, stripped of all its earlier forced superiority. It was raw, primal, thick with malice.
"It looks like you are not talking any longer."
She watched, unmoving, as Jenny groaned softly, eyelids fluttering weakly.
Jenny’s arm jerked spasmodically, fingers scrabbling weakly against the damp grass blades, feeling for purchase.
Slowly, painfully, she tried to push herself up. One elbow dug deep into the soil, muscles trembling violently with the effort.
Her head lolled heavily on her neck, like a broken doll’s.
Her dark, unseeing eyes stared blankly past Christine’s knees toward the crumpled mess of Christine’s own white shirtfront, stained green and torn.
Jenny managed only to lift her torso a few inches off the ground before collapsing back with a choked whimper, her breath ragged and shallow.
Christine stood poised, motionless, savouring the complete absence of Jenny’s fire.
Christine didn’t rush. With deliberate, almost ritualistic slowness, she shuffled her stilettos feet sideways, the sharp heels sinking deeper into the soft lawn with each small step. She stopped directly above Jenny’s sprawled torso. Jenny lay flat on her back now, legs splayed awkwardly, arms limp at her sides.
Her chest rose and fell in rapid, shallow gasps beneath the tight black fabric.
Christine’s gaze travelled down Jenny’s body – the heaving ribs, the vulnerable curve of her abdomen beneath the shirt.
A thin line of saliva mixed with blood trailed from Jenny’s slack lower lip. Christine’s eyes narrowed, her lips tightening into a grim line of triumph.
She positioned her feet wide, straddling Jenny’s hips. Jenny’s eyelids fluttered again, a low moan escaping her parted lips.
Christine locked her gaze onto Jenny’s vacant, upturned face, drinking in the utter helplessness reflected there.
Then, without warning, Christine simply let her body drop. There was no jump, no dramatic leap – just a sudden, dead-weight fall.
Gravity pulled her straight down. She landed squarely with her full, bony weight onto Jenny’s unprotected stomach.
The impact was brutal – a sickening, air-forcing *WHUMPF!* that echoed across the quiet garden.
Jenny’s mouth flew open impossibly wide in a silent scream that instantly transformed into a harsh, agonized groan ripped from her very core.
Her entire body convulsed violently beneath Christine’s weight, a grotesque bouncing shudder that lifted Christine slightly before slamming her back down hard onto Jenny’s compressed diaphragm. Jenny’s spine arched painfully off the grass, her hips bucking instinctively but uselessly.
Her hands flew spasmodically toward her crushed abdomen, fingers clawing weakly at Christine’s blue jeans.
A fresh torrent of crimson blood welled from Jenny’s lip, spilling down her chin onto her neck.
The scent of terror sweat overwhelmed the jasmine perfume.
"So..?" Christine hissed, her breath ragged but laced with pure venom.
Her face, inches above Jenny’s tear-streaked, swollen cheeks, was a mask of twisted triumph.
"You liked slapping *me*. See if you like getting slapped instead."
Even pinned and gasping, a flicker of defiance sparked in Jenny’s unfocused eyes.
She sucked in a shallow, desperate breath. "G-go... to hell..." she rasped, the words thick with blood and pain.
Christine’s nostrils flared. "You first, slut." Christine’s right arm snapped back, fingers rigid. Then it whipped forward. *CRACK!*
The open palm landed with shocking force against Jenny’s already bruised left cheekbone.
Jenny’s head jerked sideways, a fresh welt blooming instantly.
Before Jenny’s stunned brain could register the sting, Christine’s hand reversed. *SMACK!* Harder, across the right cheek.
Jenny’s head snapped the other way. Christine leaned her weight harder onto Jenny’s compressed ribs, pinning her chest so she couldn't twist away.
Her arm became a piston. Left. Right. Left. Right. Each slap echoed like a gunshot across the lawn – sharp,
wet impacts that made Jenny’s head rock violently against the hard-packed earth.
Flecks of spit mixed with blood flew into the fading light. Jenny’s groans dissolved into choked, wet gurgles.
Her eyes squeezed shut, tears streaming through the grime and swelling.
Jenny tried to raise her arms, a feeble, instinctive gesture of protection. Her right arm trembled, lifting perhaps an inch off the grass,
fingers twitching uselessly toward Christine’s descending forearm.
But another brutal slap slammed her head back, snapping her neck.
Her arm, robbed of strength and purpose, fell limply back to the damp turf.
Her fingers uncurled, palm upturned and open like a discarded doll’s hand.
Another slap landed. And another. Jenny’s head lolled loosely with each impact, unresisting.
Her eyelids fluttered once, then remained shut. Her shallow, gasping breaths grew slower, shallower still.
The frantic clawing at Christine's jeans ceased entirely. Her body beneath Christine’s crushing weight went slack, utterly boneless.
Only the faint, terrifyingly slow rise and fall of her bruised ribs indicated any life remained.
The crimson trail from her split lip flowed steadily now, pooling slightly in the hollow of her slack jaw.
Christine paused mid-swing, her raised hand trembling slightly. Her chest heaved as she stared down at the ruin beneath her.
Jenny’s face was a grotesque canvas of swelling welts, smeared blood, and tear-mudded dirt.
The vibrant fire that had fuelled her moments before was extinguished, leaving only stillness and ruin.
A low, guttural sound escaped Christine’s throat – part exhaustion, part savage satisfaction.
She drew breath, her gaze fixated on Jenny’s unresponsive face, fingers flexing as if anticipating the next blow.
The garden was deathly quiet save for Christine’s ragged panting and the distant, oblivious chirp of a sparrow.
I moved without conscious thought. The paralysis shattered, replaced by a cold surge of adrenaline that propelled me off the porch steps and across the dew-slicked lawn. The scent of crushed grass, spilled blood, and Christine’s sour gin breath hit me as I closed the distance in five long strides.
"Christine..." My voice, low and hard, cut through the oppressive silence like a blade.
She flinched violently, her head jerking toward me. Her eyes, wide and momentarily startled, held a feral glint beneath the triumph.
"...that’s enough." The command landed with physical weight.
I stood mere feet from them, my shadow falling over Christine’s hunched form.
Christine stared at me, panting, her raised hand slowly lowering. The fury bled from her expression, replaced by a chilling calculation.
Her gaze flickered from my face down to Jenny’s limp, broken form beneath her knees, then back to me.
Slowly, deliberately, a grotesque smile twisted her swollen, crimson-streaked lips. It wasn’t amusement;
it was spite distilled into something horrifyingly intimate. She said nothing, just held my gaze with that terrible smile, savouring my helpless rage.
Without breaking eye contact, she shifted her weight off Jenny’s chest and rose to her feet.
Her movements were stiff, deliberate, fuelled by vindictive purpose rather than grace.
She stood directly over Jenny’s head, blocking the last rays of sun.
Her eyes never left mine as she unzipped her impossibly tight blue jeans, the metallic rasp obscenely loud in the stillness.
She didn’t hurry. She took her time, positioning herself squarely above Jenny’s blood-smeared, vacant face. A low, guttural sound escaped her, almost a grunt of effort, and then the steady, harsh sound of liquid splattering directly onto Jenny’s forehead, cheeks, and slack, open mouth began.
The acrid stench of urine instantly overpowered the blood and crushed grass, sharp and invasive. Jenny didn’t stir. Didn’t flinch.
Only her shallow, ragged breaths continued, utterly unconscious beneath the degrading torrent. Christine watched the flow intently, ensuring it covered the bruises and blood, her face a mask of cold, hateful satisfaction.
Once the stream ceased, Christine re-zipped her jeans with a sharp tug.
She looked down at her handiwork—Jenny’s face glistening wetly, hair plastered with the foul liquid, the scent thick and nauseating.
A flicker of disgust twisted Christine’s features, but it was swiftly replaced by that same chilling triumph.
She straightened her stained white shirtfront, tugging it down over her hips. Christine smiled again.
Not the smirk from earlier, but a wide, unnerving grin that showed her yellowed teeth, stretching her swollen, crimson cheeks grotesquely.
Her eyes locked onto mine, bright with malice. Then she spit on Jenny one last time.
Christine’s lip curled. "Now you can scratch that pathetic bitch and drag her home," she hissed, her voice hoarse but dripping venom.
Then she turned sharply on her stiletto heel, the sharp point gouging the turf beside Jenny’s limp arm. The gravel beneath her boot crunched loudly as she strode away, her gait stiff and purposeful. She didn’t look back. Not once. Her rigid shoulders receded, crossing the lawn toward the shared fence.
The late sun cast her shadow long and jagged across the torn grass, stretching like a dark accusation toward Jenny’s broken form.
Christine climbed her porch steps without hesitation, snapped her door shut behind her with a sound like a gunshot, leaving only the fading scent of gin, urine, and violence hanging thick in the air.
I guess that Jenny will be very careful in future, when dealing with Christine. Unless, knowing how stubborn and hot head she is, she might go for a re-match.
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