Road Rage
By the Masked Writer
It was on hell of a hot July day. The asphalt shimmered under sun, like a molten ribbon stretching towards a heat-hazed horizon. The air hung thick and heavy. In a beat-up blue sedan, Claudia tapped her fingers impatiently against the steering wheel. The air conditioning in her car, sounded suspiciously like it was battling a losing war against the heat. Claudia, a woman of 43 was in a perpetually simmering impatience and she felt the heat seep into her bones. She wore a sensible, if slightly too tight, floral print blouse and pragmatic denim shorts.
Ahead of her, a sleek, silver SUV, its windows tinted to an impenetrable darkness, suddenly braked abruptly, forcing Claudia to slam on her own brakes. A cloud of dust billowed up, coating her windshield in a gritty film.
Claudia swore, her voice a gravelly rasp. She honked her horn, a long, indignant blast that seemed to evaporate into the oppressive heat. The SUV remained infuriatingly stationary.
Finally, the driver’s side door of the SUV opened. A young woman emerged, her movements fluid and unhurried. Carrie, 27, radiating an almost defiant vitality, was dressed in a bright yellow athletic tank top that hugged her toned physique and a pair of fitted black athletic shorts. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and her blue eyes, even from this distance, seemed to spark with an inner fire. She casually checked her phone, seemingly oblivious to the inconvenience she’d caused.
Claudia’s temper finally boiled over. She leaned on her horn again. Carrie looked up, a flicker of annoyance crossing her otherwise composed features. She slowly walked back towards Claudia’s car.
“What is your problem?” she asked in a clear and steady voice, a stark contrast to the agitated tremor in Claudia’s.
“My problem? My problem is you stopping in the middle of the damn road like you own it!” Claudia retaliated, rolling down her window, the hot air rushing in like a furnace blast. “Are you blind or just stupid?”
Carrie’s eyebrows arched, showing a mix of “annoying” and “surprised”. “Watch your mouth,” she said, her tone hardening. “I was checking my GPS. You could have just waited a second.”
“A second? You were parked there for ages! And don’t tell me to watch my mouth, you little… pampered brat!” The insult tumbled out, laced with a raw, unthinking venom that surprised even Claudia. She was a secretary, used to the controlled environment of an office, but the heat and Carrie’s perceived arrogance had stripped away her usual politeness.
Carrie’s eyes narrowed. The easygoing demeanor suddenly vanished. “Pampered brat? You’ve nerve !.” Her athletic build, honed by regular tennis and jogging, was evident even in her casual stance. She was leaner, more compact than Claudia, whose few extra pounds were generously distributed on her middle-aged body, her skimpy clothes leaving some cellulite and love handles for all to see.
“Oh, I do, do I?” Claudia sneered, feeling a surge of angry adrenaline, feeling almost reckless. She stepped out of her car, the hot pavement burning through the thin soles of her sandals. She was shorter than Carrie by a few inches, and her average build did not look inadequate against the younger woman’s lean frame.
“Yeah, you do,” Carrie shot back, taking a step closer. Now the air crackled with tension and only the buzzing of unseen insects broke the silence.
“You think you’re so tough, don’t you?” Claudia taunted, puffing out her chest, trying to look impressive. “You think because you’re young you can just shove people around?”
Carrie let out a short, humorless laugh. “Who’s shoving people around ? You’re the one who’s been honking and screaming like a banshee.”
This was it. The point of no return. A cocktail of frustration, heat, and a venomous dislike for this effortlessly confident young woman, made Claudia act suddenly. She shoved Carrie, a clumsy, ineffectual push.
Carrie stumbled back, surprised more by the sheer audacity than the force. Then, her eyes flashed. “You wanna go?” she said, her voice dangerously low.
Claudia, her heart hammering against her ribs, a strange mix of fear and exhilaration washing over her, nodded. “Yeah, I wanna go.”
The fight, when it truly began, was a flurry of misplaced aggression and defensive agility. Claudia, her face contorted with a mixture of fury and desperation, lunged forward first. Her right arm, thick with unexercised muscle, swung in a wide haymaker, aiming for Carrie’s head. But Carrie, with the reflexes of a young, athletic woman, was already moving. She dodged the wild punch, the wind of it ruffling her ponytail. As Claudia’s momentum carried her forward, unbalanced, Carrie delivered a sharp, open-palmed slap to Claudia’s forearm. It wasn’t a punch meant to inflict damage, but more of a warning, disrupting Claudia’s balance.
Claudia yelped, the stinging sensation in her arm adding to her growing frustration. She attempted another punch, this time a slow and telegraphed jab. Carrie easily sidestepped. She countered with a swift, open-fisted strike to Claudia’s ribs. The impact with a dull thud, stole Claudia’s breath and forced a pained gasp from her lips. She doubled over for a split second, her hand clutching at her side.
"I said watch it!" Carrie’s voice was tighter now, her cheeks red. She wasn’t enjoying this, but did not see what else she could do.
Claudia, however, was beyond reason. The pain, the humiliation, the sheer injustice she felt boiling within her spurred her on. With a guttural cry, she lunged again, a desperate, grabbing motion. Her fingers, clumsy and thick, managed to snag the hem of Carrie’s bright yellow tank top. She yanked, hard. The fabric stretched, a small seam tearing with a ripping sound.
Carrie’s eyes widened, not in fear, but in anger. Claudia had crossed a line. An argument is one thing, physical assault, another entirely. Before Claudia’s grip tightened, Carrie reacted. A sharp, upward motion of her knee connected with Claudia’s thigh. It was a targeted, painful strike. Claudia cried out, a sharp, involuntary sound, and her grip on the tank top loosened as her leg buckled, sending a jolt of pain.
Still, Claudia refused to yield. She swung again, a desperate, clumsy hook that lacked any real power. Carrie saw it coming. With a fluid movement, she brought her forearms up in a defensive cross-block, deflecting the punch with a solid THWACK. The impact vibrated through Claudia’s arm. As Claudia’s arm came down, Carrie followed through with a quick jab, aimed not at Claudia’s head, but at her shoulder and upper arm. Two, three sharp blows landed, each one stinging. Carrie clearly had superior speed and precision.
Claudia staggered back, her arms feeling heavy and sluggish. Her breath came in ragged gasps, the stitch in her side now a fiery torment. She could feel sweat plastering her floral blouse to her back and on her breast, but it was not just the heat; it was the exertion. Her vision was slightly blurring with the effort. She looked at Carrie, who, though breathing harder, stood straight, her stance athletic, her movements conserving energy.
Then, Carrie saw an opening. Claudia, fueled by pure rage and a dwindling reserve of strength, threw another wild punch, her arm moving like a lead weight. Carrie easily deflected it with her left forearm, and in the same fluid motion, stepped inside Claudia’s guard. With a sharp, controlled shove to Claudia’s sternum, Carrie sent Claudia staggering backward.
Claudia’s feet tangled. Her legs gave way. She tripped, her body falling awkwardly, the rough asphalt scraping against her skin. She landed with a jarring thud, the wind knocked out of her for a second time. The gritty dust coated her palms, her knees, her face. She lay there, stunned, a burning pain in her limbs, her ribs aching.
Claudia dragged herself to her feet, trying to swallow the humiliation. Her legs trembled, her body aching everywhere, but the fury that had set her ablaze refused to disappear. She gripped the broken edge of her tank top, the torn seam flapping like a ragged banner, and attacked once more, eyes narrowed to slits of rage.
The second charge was even slower than the first, her shoulders slumped under the weight of exhaustion. She swung a half?hearted hook that barely cleared Carrie’s jawline before it hit air. The sound of the miss was a week swoosh, swallowed by the heat that rose from the pavement.
For a heartbeat, Carrie’s face was a mask of calm—her breath even, her posture controlled. Then something snapped, a flicker of reckless resolve. The patience that had kept Carrie’s movements measured and defensive suddenly evaporated. “Enough!” Carrie’s voice cracked. It was a command, not a plea, and it was also a warning. The words fell on deaf ears; Claudia’s rage was already too far gone.
Carrie pivoted, her legs springing from the ground with practiced precision. She closed the distance in two swift strides and before Claudia could even raise her arms in a feeble block, Carrie’s right hand drove a hard punch into the side of Claudia’s neck. The impact sent a jolt through the nerves there, the sound of bones meeting flesh with a soft smack that sounded almost like a gunshot.
Claudia’s head snapped to the side and her balance shattered, she stumbled backward. Carrie was already there, jabbing a second punch, this time into Claudia’s ribs.
Claudia’s breath hitched as the pain radiated through her midsection. Her knees buckled, and she crumpled to the hot asphalt, rising like a cloud of dust around her. The moment she hit the ground, Carrie hesitated for the briefest instant—and went from controlled defense to outright aggression.
When Carrie moved again, there was no pretense of restraint. She knelt beside her fallen opponent, planting her left knee against Claudia’s thigh to pin it. Then, with her right hand she drove a series of rapid strikes into the soft spot just below the clavicle. The palm landed with a wet smack, then another, then another. Claudia’s eyes widened, tears spilling from the corners as the sting of each impact radiated from her collarbone into her chest.
Carrie’s forehead glistened with sweat, her breaths coming in short, sharp bursts. Yet she did not stop. She twisted her wrist, delivering a flat, hard hook across Claudia’s cheek sending Claudia’s head snapping to the side, the skin flushing a stark crimson against the dusty pavement. A muffled sob escaped Claudia’s lips, swallowed by the hot wind.
For a few agonizing seconds, Carrie continued, to beat up Claudia. Because it was not a fight anymore. Just cruel and unusual punishment. She landed a final, solid blow—her fist slamming into Claudia’s plexus with a soft noise as the air left the older woman’s lung with the sound of a balloon deflating. Claudia’s body went limp, her shoulders slumping as the breath fled her.
Then Carrie stood, chest heaving. Silence fell, heavy. In the distance, a faint siren wailed, growing louder—a sound that seemed to herald an inevitable end to this brutal confrontation.
Claudia lay there, on the hot pavement, dust, and the taste of iron in her mouth. She could feel every bruised muscle, sweat and blood mixing on her skin, and shame. Yet somewhere deep within the haze of pain, she realized that the fury that had driven her to this point had only led to a deeper, more painful defeat.
Hearing the police coming, Carrie, in a last gesture of cruelty, tears up Claudia's top, exposing her breast to the sun and to the cops coming, without Claudia having the energy to prevent it.
The torn fabric ripped, exposing Claudia’s pale skin to the harsh glare of the approaching squad. A final wave of humiliation washed over her, worse than any physical pain. She instinctively wanted to cover herself, but didn’t have the strength, even for a simple move.
Carrie watched, her expression unreadable, as the police car screeched to a halt. Two officers emerged, their faces grim, their hands already reaching for their radios. The moment was stark, exposed, and irrevocably documented. Claudia did not think she could be humiliated further but then, she saw the bodycams. Her bruised, almost naked body, would soon be on the internet for all to see.
“What the hell happened here?” one of the officers demanded, his voice amplified by his radio. He took in the scene – Claudia a heap on the ground, her clothes in tatters, Carrie standing over her, breathing hard.
Carrie’s gaze met the officer’s, her eyes holding a flicker of defiance. She didn’t speak. Claudia, meanwhile, squeezed her eyes shut, the vulnerability of her exposed state making her ache all over again, not just in her body, but in a place far more tender. The fight was over, but the damage, she suspected, had just begun.
The End
