She lunged at him, and they hit the ground.
She slapped him, he shrieked.
She glared into his terrified face, twisted his right wrist. He yipped.
He held up his hands to stop her, as if that would do any good. She pinned his hands to his sides without effort.
She clawed at his eyes, his hair, landed a punch to his jaw, his muted yelling sending shots of adrenaline through her energized heart.The air around her felt hot and cold all at once, the faces of the horrified gathered audience and the buildings behind them blurring in the background of her rage.
Gasps and shouts were heard, but she payed no mind. She needed to do this, to show him what he gets for trying to talk to her.
Her hair fell to her eyes as she slapped.
His screams were a barely noticeable sound in her ringing ears.
She leaned back, taking in the face of a man that she despised, had despised since laying eyes on him. Now after today, he wouldn't be a problem anymore. That was her goal. And she would accomplish it no matter what, or who, got in her way.
The chances of her parents or brothers or another certain person finding out about this were very, very slim anyway. At least they were slim enough that she had confidence in her plan, a confidence that had stayed with her for weeks.
She ignored the stab in her heart at mere thought of how cruel this was-- not to her victim, but someone else, someone whom she had made a promise to.
A promise that she was breaking.
But hopefully, when he found out about this, he would listen to her explination and his anger would be melted.
Hopefully he would listen to her.
If he didn't find out about her doing this before she was finished.
She leaned down, her fists balled around his shirt collar, her nose touching his scratched one, her narrowed eyes getting a better look at his bloodshot ones. Then she said her victim's name in a low growl.
"Ernesto."
More hoarse whimpers came from the figure held in her grasp, loud, tormented ones that he'd never been capable of. She raised an eyebrow, her ire being thawed by confusion as she brought her face away from his to get a better look at him.
But when she did that, she didn't see Ernesto's face, nor did she hear his cries. Instead, somehow, she saw something more unsettling, a thing that shot a jolt of guilt and nervousness through her.
Instead of Ernesto's face, she saw his. Instead of short, gelled hair matted from her palm pressed against his head, this person's hair was untamed and thick, a very familiar, darker shade than Ernesto's. Rather than glaring at her like Ernesto often would, he stared at her in a blankness that made her stomach lurch.
And when she looked down at her hands, it wasn't Ernesto's white suit clutched in them, but a smooth dark purple one with gold patterns woven in. She could see his skinny build through the jacket, which she dropped out of her hands and veered away from. Her heart was pounding, thrashing around in her chest as she held up her hands, standing slowly and watching him do the same.
The glare of the sun did nothing to protect her from the heaviness of his fear. Miraculously, there wasn't a scratch on him, but he still looked damaged. He still looked broken.
He sent her a withering look, tears pooling in his eyes, before he dashed away, his arms glued to his side and his head down. Imelda stood there in an overwhelming shame as she watched him.
For whatever reason, however it happened, she hadn't been hurting Ernesto. She'd been hurting him. She didn't know how, but somehow her anger was aimed at the wrong person.
It didn't matter that he looked suprisingly unaffected.
She had still done it.
She had still broken a promise.
She had still made the move.
She had still torn him apart.