14
This may be a bit too far for most. Its not erotic or sexy. It is brutal and to the end. You have been warned.
The air in the living room was thick with sweat, cheap deodorant, and a crackling, unspoken energy that made my skin prickle. I was pressed against the wall, my black skirt—mum called it a belt, and honestly, she wasn’t wrong—riding up, but I didn’t care. All I cared about was the raw, heaving spectacle in the centre of the room. Two boys, shirts long gone, were grappling and swinging, all grunting effort and no grace. Their bodies slid against each other in the clinches, and a hot, thrilling shiver shot right through me. I wanted to see someone fall and not get up.
Across the sea of faces, I saw her. A blonde. A mirror, almost. Same height, same… curves, squeezed into a white skirt and crop top. Jenny. She was screaming for blood, her pretty face twisted with a hunger that matched mine. When the boys’ fight petered out into a lame draw, a voice yelled, “Who’s next?”
My heart hammered against my ribs. I wanted to step forward, but I hesitated. Then *she* did.
“I wanna knock a bitch out!” Jenny announced, her voice cutting through the bass from the speakers.
The crowd shifted back, forming that human cage again. But I didn’t move. It was like the room narrowed to a tunnel between her and me. This was it. This stranger.
“Try knock this bitch out, then, you c**t,” I said, my voice low but clear. A wave of whispers rolled around us.
They strapped the big, padded gloves on us. Some lad pushed us together to mumble rules about rounds. We ignored him, taking an extra step until our foreheads were touching. I could see the flecks of gold in her blue eyes, the same furious excitement I felt. She spat. A wet, disgusting blob landed on my pink top.
And then it was just chaos.
Round one was a wild, swinging mess. No skill, no defence, just pure, red-hot want to hurt. We crashed into a clinch, and I felt the shocking warmth of her stomach against mine, the swell of her breath hitting my face. We were strangers, but in that moment, we hated each other more than anyone else in the world. We traded slaps, taunts, and crude insults with every gasp. When the bell went, my cheekbone throbbed with a rising lump, and she was nursing her jaw.
Round two, we found a rhythm of sorts—a rhythm of pain. More punches landed. We clinched, kept swinging, and then the world tipped. We went down together in a tangle of limbs and cheap fabric, rolling on the sticky carpet, still trying to throw punches. It took four boys to haul us apart, our skirts offering the room a show neither of us had intended. We flew at each other again, the cheers now mostly high-pitched screams from the other girls. By the end, her eye was a storm cloud of purple, and my nose was leaking blood onto my top.
Round three. No letting up. Another clinch, another tumble to the floor. This time, no one dared pull us apart. We fought on the ground, a savage, scratching, hair-pulling mess for what felt like forever until I shoved her off with my feet. We staggered up, both of us bleeding from our noses, breathing in ragged sobs. Some people shouted to call it a draw.
“No way!” Jenny screamed, her voice hoarse.
“You want more, blonde? I’ll give you more!” I yelled back.
Groups of boys held us apart, but a chant started from the girls around us: “Let them go! Let them go!” In the commotion, my right glove came off. Jenny saw it, ripped both of hers off thinking it was a challenge. I tore my last one off.
And then it wasn’t a boxing match anymore.
For ten brutal minutes, it was pure, unregulated savagery. Slaps, scratches, hair yanked so hard I saw stars. The sound of fabric tearing. My top ripped at the shoulder. Her skirt split at the seam. We were a rolling, snarling ball of exhausted fury until, finally, we just lay there, spent, a few feet apart on the ruined carpet. She flipped me off. I spat in her direction. The party was over.
People filed out. I saw her, suddenly shy, clutching her torn clothes, and slip out the back door. I don’t know why, but I followed.
In the cold, dark garden, we didn’t speak. We just swapped numbers on our phones, our screens illuminating our battered faces. No words. Just a look.
The messages started Sunday morning.
**Jenny (10:14 AM):** U look worse than I thought. Pic attached: her black eye, livid and swollen.
**Me (10:17 AM):** U should see ur nose. Won’t be so pretty now. *[Attached photo of my bruised cheek and split lip.]*
**Jenny (10:20 AM):** All surface. Didn’t hurt.
**Me (10:22 AM):** Liar. I felt u flinch.
It escalated. Fast. The messages weren’t just taunts; they were blueprints for round two.
**Jenny (3:45 PM):** Next weekend. Proper fight. No gloves. No boys.
**Me (3:47 PM):** Scared u need a week to heal?
**Jenny (3:50 PM):** Scared U’ll chicken out. Public. The old park.
**Me (4:01 PM):** Boring. Somewhere private. Where we can finish it.
The photos got more intense. Close-ups of scratches down arms, the deep purple bruises on our ribs. Then, bolder ones. The bruises on our breasts from the clumsy, grappling punches. It was a competition in damage.
**Me (7:30 PM):** Tonight. 10pm. The clearing by the lake. Final.
**Jenny (7:31 PM):** Don’t be late, bitch.
We didn’t discuss it, but we both knew the rules. It wasn’t just about fighting anymore. It was about dominance in every way. I put on the tiniest denim shorts I owned and a flimsy lavender halter top that I knew wouldn’t survive a struggle. No room for underwear. I saw her get on her bus across the street, in microscopic white shorts and a cropped vest. We met at the lake path.
“Going for the desperate lesbian look?” she sneered, her eyes raking over me. “Trying to distract me?”
“You’re one to talk,” I shot back, my voice cold. “That outfit’s just begging for it to be ripped off you.”
The fight was long, and ugly, and somehow beautiful in its brutality. We were better now, more calculated, but just as vicious. The trash talk was our soundtrack.
“That all you got?” she’d gasp, after I landed a slap.
“I’m just warming up, princess,” I’d snarl, yanking her hair.
“You fight like your mum dresses you!”
“Yours isn’t here to save you now!”
It ended, again, in a stalemate. Two broken, heaving girls in the moonlight, too equally matched to win. We parted without a word, the unsaid ‘next time’ hanging in the air.
The messages started an hour later. Drunk, furious texts from both of us, fueled by vodka and rage. It culminated in one final agreement.
**Jenny (1:15 AM):** NOW. Lake. No more draws.
**Me (1:16 AM):** Bring it.
We met at the water’s edge, a half-empty bottle of vodka in each of our hands. The fight was different immediately. Darker. The bottles became extensions of our hands. We didn’t punch; we swung. Glass glittered in the moonlight. I caught her shoulder. She grazed my arm. The taunts were guttural, primal screams.
“I’ll end you!” she shrieked, swinging her bottle wildly.
“You can’t even end a sentence!” I yelled back, lunging.
We grappled by the water’s edge, the slick mud under our feet. She raised her bottle high. I swung mine in a wide, desperate arc. It connected with the side of her head with a sickening *thunk*. Not glass—the heavy base. Her eyes went wide, then blank. She staggered, tripped on a root, and fell backwards into the black water.
She didn’t splash. She just… sank. The ripples settled.
I stood there, the bottle slipping from my hand. The world was silent except for the thrumming in my ears. I just watched the spot where she’d disappeared.
That’s where you found me, Officer. Just standing there. I’ve been telling you the story. All of it. The party, the messages, the fights… the bottle. I didn’t mean to… I just wanted to win. I just didn’t want to draw again.
Emma’s voice trailed off. The sterile interview room felt a million miles from the sweaty party and the cold lake. The policewoman across the table, who had listened without a word, finally moved. She stood up, the chair scraping harshly against the floor.
“Emma Black,” she said, her voice devoid of the fury or passion that had filled Emma’s story. It was just flat. Final. “I am arresting you on suspicion of murder. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”
The cuffs were cold. Colder than the lake water.
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