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« Last post by Nicole on Today at 06:16:57 AM »
I close the door behind me and let the lock click. Soft, deliberate.
For a moment, my hand stays there, palm against the wood. My pulse is steady, familiar. Not fear. My body recognizes this feeling before my mind does. The quiet charge, the way competition against another woman settles in me like something reclaimed, reborn.
On the other side of these walls, a room full of men who have never been told no are waiting to see which one of us breaks first.
I catch my reflection in the mirror and really look this time. I feel like a woman who belongs anywhere she chooses to stand. I don’t look like someone who enjoys fighting. But I secretly do.
My dress comes off slowly, folded with care, the way I always do. Respectability is a habit; it lingers even when no one’s watching. My bikini underneath is simple. Functional. I don’t need spectacle. I need balance.
As I change, the last traces of hesitation dissolve, not into recklessness, but into focus. I don’t crave chaos. I crave the moment when everything else disappears and there’s only another will pressing back against mine. That’s when I’m clearest. That’s when I feel most myself.
I remember the basement. The concrete cold under my feet. Chelsea coming at me fast, furious, convinced momentum would carry her through. I remember the exact second her strength went uneven, how her breathing changed before she realized it had. That moment still lives with me. Not because it was violent, but because it was final. She hadn’t a chance that night and she knows it. I know it.
I roll my shoulders once, feeling my arms loosen. Calm settles in, heavy and welcome. My husband doesn’t know this side of me exists. My kids think I’m predictable, safely contained inside the borders of their lives. They don’t know about this hunger for pressure, for knowing exactly where I stand when someone wants to take something from me. I keep this part of myself secret not because I’m ashamed of it, but because it’s powerful. And power doesn’t need witnesses.
I adjust my bikini top and step closer to the mirror. Calm. The kind of composure people mistake for indifference. I smile faintly at that. Somewhere down the hall, Chelsea is probably pacing, feeding her anger, rehearsing her version of what happened. She’ll tell herself she was robbed. She’ll tell herself this is justice. And maybe she believes it.
I straighten, inhale, and turn toward the door and opening it, revealing a room full of men here to see a spectacle. For them this nothing but a night of entertainment, for whatever happens they’ll go back to their lives tomorrow without a second thought. But for me, for us, tonight’s outcome will surely be etched deep within our consciousness for all time….
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