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by Rebecca Williams

The hockey stick cracks down on his head like a spoon bashing an egg, blood oozes out like yolk. The look on his face is one of extreme surprise, as if he’d found his passport after a frantic search, worried about missing a flight.

I don’t know if the surprise is because he didn’t expect to have someone caving in his skull or because it’s me doing it. I bring the stick down again and it comes away with a wet squelch. Something wet and slimy hits my cheek, slithers down my face to the corner of my mouth.

You always expect soccer moms to be pushy. Assertive is what men get called. But not us. Aggressive, pushing our children, quite literally to the front of the line on occasion. Feral in our pride. We cheer, we motivate, we bare our teeth in a rictus grimace, we are lionesses.

Well, I don’t think he can read my face now; his body is turned away from me, limbs crumpled beneath him, a marionette with the strings cut.

The hockey stick comes down again and again — and again — until his head is a deflated football. He is curled up, foetal. Like my daughter, in her pink frilled, preteen bedroom.

Grey matter and blood spatter my face. Like the tears I shed last night, in my daughter’s room. The scent of body spray in the air, peach and vanilla mixed with shame and fear. “Lost Innocence” said the label on the can.


Rebecca Williams has always wanted to be a writer. She completed the first draft of her novel — about bored housewives on a vigilante crime spree — in August 2017. She is killing time before second draft edits by dabbling in flash and shorter fiction. You can find her on Twitter @stupidgirl45.

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