Sarah and Emma Part 2: Bent on Revenge
By the Masked Writer
In the weeks that followed the humiliating confrontation in the elevator, Sarah found herself consumed by thoughts of that day in that confined environment. It was not the physical pain that lingered – that was quickly gone- it was the memory of Emma’s condescending smirk, mocking words, the memory of being so easily overpowered, feeling small and weak. Every time Sarah closed her eyes, she could hear Emma’s sarcasm, feel her strength, and recall the frustration of being so helpless.
At first, Sarah considered many ways to get back at Emma. Biting remarks at future meetings, perhaps, sabotage at work or anything that would throw Emma off balance, if only briefly. But nothing felt right. Nothing seemed strong enough to erase the humiliation she had endured in that elevator. She wanted to see Emma’s confidence shatter, wanted to see surprise and frustration in Emma’s eyes, to see the same humiliation she had felt.
The more Sarah thought about it, the clearer it became that her revenge had to be on the same battleground that had wounded her pride in the first place. It had to be a fight—an actual, physical fight. She wanted to stand toe-to-toe with Emma, but, this time, she had to be capable of challenging her. And, most importantly, she needed to be capable of winning
It was not just about payback; it was about reclaiming her sense of self. That brief, humiliating struggle had stripped Sarah of all her fragile confidence. In Emma’s unyielding grip, she had felt every bit of insecurity, every ounce of doubt, crash down on her. To defeat Emma physically was the only way to overcome that humiliation, to prove to herself that she was not a wimp.
But she knew the odds were stacked against her. She had never been particularly athletic, and her attempts at working out had always been short-lived. Emma, meanwhile, was a regular at the local gym, her powerful physique and steady stance had made that clear: she was a natural athlete and a fighter. If Sarah wanted to stand a chance, she would have to work for it—harder than she’d ever worked at anything.
So, Sarah resolved to train relentlessly, to push her body and mind to their limits until she could take Emma on and winning. Only then would she be able to face her ennemy and wipe that smug look off her face.
So, Sarah went for the more obvious. She signed up for self-defence classes at another nearby gym. Not the one Emma frequented. She did not want Emma to know about it.
The first day of self-defence class was a rude awakening. She arrived at the gym feeling slightly apprehensive but still fueled by her anger at Emma. The room was filled with students of all sizes, ages, and skill levels, yet all of them appeared more coordinated and confident than she felt. As they moved through the warm-up drills, Sarah struggled to keep up. Her arms and legs were heavy, her muscles aching before they had even begun learning technique. She was breathing hard by the time they had finished basic stretches, her cheeks already flushed with embarrassment as she tried to shake off her fatigue.
The instructor, Carla, moved them into basic blocks and stances. Sarah’s movements felt clumsy, her body untrained and unfamiliar with the controlled moves Carla kept trying to teach her. She flinched each time she missed a block or lost her balance, which happened more often than not. The other students seemed to grasp the movements with ease, their bodies flowing smoothly from one position to the next, while Sarah’s limbs lagged behind. Every fumbled motion reminded her how far she was from where she needed to be.
When it came time for sparring, Carla paired her with a young woman named Lily, a petite, quick student who had clearly been training for months. As they began, Lily moved with confidence and precision, each jab and block fluid, well-practiced. Sarah, on the other hand, could barely hold her own, her arms weakly attempting to parry Lily’s controlled strikes. After a few moments, Sarah overextended in a desperate lunge, and Lily sidestepped, grabbing Sarah’s arm, and twisting her into an armlock that left Sarah immobile, her face flushed with humiliation. The other students watched briefly, some of them exchanging glances, and Sarah felt her stomach sink. The sting of her failure brought back Emma’s voice, taunting her again, to her mind. She left that first class with aching muscles and bruised pride, unable look anyone in the eye.
Yet Sarah returned, determined, even though each class felt like an ordeal. During the drills, she struggled to control her breathing, her arms quivering after just a few minutes of sparring. She would leave the gym with her limbs so sore she struggled to lift her bag. Worse, many of the other students had that look on their face when they saw her: they did not take her seriously, believed she would never get the knack of it. At night, she lay in bed, every muscle protesting, reliving each humiliation of the day. More than once, she considered quitting; the humiliation and exhaustion seemed unbearable.
Her next sparring partner was a tall, wiry woman named Jackie, who barely took her seriously, smiling as she half-heartedly dodged Sarah’s punches. Sarah tried to anticipate Jackie’s movements as Carla had taught her, but she was not quick enough. Before she knew it, Jackie swept her feet from under her, and she landed on the mat with a thud. The big girl offered her a hand with an awkward smile, muttering, “You’ll get there,” but, at the moment, the encouragement felt empty.
Each sparring match chipped away at her pride. She dreaded facing new partners. She knew her opponents would easily throw her off balance or dodge her clumsy attacks. Carla encouraged her to keep trying, but Sarah could not ignore the impatient looks from her partners or the whispers from other students. The frustration simmered, but her old anger at Emma was a fuel of which she had ample reserves.
Determination replaced the shame. She began arriving early, practicing her stances in front of the mirror until she felt steady. She pushed through each drill, repeating blocks and jabs until her muscles burned. Gradually, she noticed small improvements. Her movements became less rigid; her arms did not tremble as much when she held a stance. She began running in the mornings to build endurance, timing herself as she pushed for longer and longer distances. She lifted weights. And as the weeks passed, she felt her body hardening, adapting to the physical demand. She even had to surprise of feeling an egg growing when she flexed her biceps, which had always been flabby.
Then, one evening, Carla paired her with one of the stronger students, a broad-shouldered girl named Erika who was known for her powerful strikes. She felt the familiar nerves but held her ground as Carla had shown her. Erika came at her quickly, her punch aimed straight at her shoulder. Instinctively, Sarah blocked, her arm snapping up with enough force to deflect Erika’s hit. For a split second, she could hardly believe it, but did not lose her focus. Erika lunged again, and this time, Sarah sidestepped, keeping her balance as she landed a punch squarely on her arm.
Erika stumbled slightly, caught off guard. Seizing the moment, Sarah locked her grip around her arm, twisting it. Her strength, her control—they held, and she felt Erika’s resistance give way. She forced her down to the mat, her expression a mix of shock and respect as she held her in place.
The other students glanced over, some nodding in silent acknowledgment, a few smiling in approval, other staring at each other in disbelief. Sarah, breathless, released Erika, her heart pounding not just from exertion but from triumph. She had finally done it. She had overcome the initial wave of weakness, the self-doubt, and the humiliation, and she’d proven to herself—and everyone else—that she could fight back.
She COULD fight back.
Erika shook Sarah’s hand and said: “Good job.” Carla clapped her hands, and the other students applauded and cheered. Sarah’s face became red, as much of pride as of shyness.
It was only one victory, but as Sarah stood up, catching her breath, and wiping the sweat from her face, for the first time, she felt confidence. This was the strength she had longed for, the power that had once seemed beyond her reach. And now, she knew she just had to keep working and soon, she would be ready to face Emma again.
Months of grueling training had transformed Sarah, both inside and out. She no longer felt the frailty and self-doubt that had plagued her at the beginning. Her muscles had firmed, her stance was steadier, and her movements were quicker and more controlled. She did not get tired so quickly. She had learned to move with intention and precision, and, most importantly, she had tasted the power she’d been after since that day in the elevator. Every bruise, every stumble, every sparring defeat had built her resolve, increased her focus and determination. Now, it was time to meet Emma again.
But arranging a confrontation would not be simple. They shared a few brief moments at work—meetings, glances in the hall—but nothing that offered the privacy Sarah needed. She wanted a space and time where she could finally stand face-to-face with Emma without risking anyone intervening.
In the days that followed, Sarah observed Emma quietly, looking for patterns, routines, places she might confront her alone. Emma often worked late, taking phone calls, or reviewing files long after the rest of the office had gone dark. That had to be it.
One night, Sarah stayed behind, pretending to be working on a specific project until she noticed Emma gathering her things and heading for the stairwell. She waited a few minutes, her pulse racing, before following her.
To be continued
