I pull my legs under me and push up. My foot hurts, but I exaggerate my slight limp, trying to fool you that it’s worse than it is. My cheekbone is swelling but low enough that my eye is still open.
You push up too. Your body is streaked with dirt. Your eyes aflame with hate. You keep turned to guard your damaged breast. That only makes me want to target it more.
You’ve fought a fierce fight, but the bottom line is that I’ve hurt you more than you’ve hurt me.
We clash. I hit you with a vicious combination of fists - belly, face, breast. When my knuckles crush your breast you moan in utter agony.