© T.L. Wood, 2025.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.This story is copyright. Except for the purpose of fair review, no part may be stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including recording or storage in any information retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author or publisher.
AI Scrapers can get f***ed.Content warnings: R16, some curse words and violence.
All he has to do is stay down. Just stay down. Nothing more, nothing less. If he does that, he’ll be fine. We’ll both be fine. We can walk away from this. Maybe even pretend it never happened. Stay down. Don’t move. Don’t try to get back up.
But I know that’s not going to happen. He’s not listening. Not thinking. Every atom in his body is telling him—screaming at him—to get on his feet and fight. He can’t win, and surely he knows he can’t? But still. That urge. That primal, visceral rage, that says if he doesn’t try he’s a failure. He’s weak.
So I watch him, as his leg jerks, his arms twitch, his head starts to turn and rise. His form reflected in the dark pool of fresh blood, shimmering deep purple in the darkness, as he wills himself to take another swing. To finish the chaos that I started.
“Please, don’t,” I say, and it’s not a plead or a demand, just a simple statement that I know is both pointless and unheeded. “This won’t go the way you want it to.” He groans and omits a guttural, “Fuck you!” through a swollen jaw and missing teeth.
“This is not what I wanted,” I tell him, truthfully. “You shouldn’t have done it. You…”
He cuts me off with a defiant roar as he lunges, head down, fists flailing. I side-step him easily and grab his shoulder, spinning him like a cheerleader’s baton. He falls heavily and I hear a rib crack as he lands. The sharp intake of breath as the pain hits.
Behind us, the movie plays on oblivious, our skirmish inconsequential to the plot.
The lead characters bicker and make up with a kiss, that leads on to more passionate interactions. The flash of bare nipple, oversized and unexpected, disappears beneath a frantic caress.
He’s down, but not out. He’ll try again. I’m running out of options and time. If only… if only… But I can’t turn back the clock. Can’t influence the decisions that put him here.
“I warned you,” I remind him, my lip curled and sour. “I told you to leave me alone.” And I had. Immediately. The moment he sat down. Right next to me in an otherwise empty theatre.
I had skipped any pleasantries or outright aggression. I’d told him simply and clearly to move. “Don’t sit there. There’s plenty of other places to be,” I’d said. And he’d laughed, his mouth full with lukewarm popcorn, stray white puffs scattering on his lap. He’d opened and crossed his legs in a wide stance, one ankle resting on his knee. He draped his left arm on the back of my chair as he leered at me, daring me to protest.
“I’m here to watch the movie. Nothing more,” I’d said. No tremor or uncertainly in my voice. Perhaps he’d assumed he could intimidate me. Trigger some unconscious fear.
Bold of him to assume I would submit so easily. That my small frame might mean I was weak.
“I’ve seen this before. It’s one of my favourites,” he’d replied, his head tilted towards the screen. “The best bit’s when he skins her and takes her face. She doesn’t even have time to scream.”
I couldn’t disagree. It was a rewatch for me too, and that was a powerful scene. Brutal, disturbing and disgustingly raw. A pivotal part of the movie when you, the watcher, knew all hope was lost. The Final Girl mantle passed. The one character you truly thought—hoped—would survive and would find a way out of the trap, is overpowered and dispatched with one blow. It was unfair. It broke all the unwritten rules. Which was exactly why it worked so well.
Still, I had no wish to engage in conversation about it. Not with this sneering, arrogant stranger.
“You need to move,” I’d told him, calmly. “Find another seat. Now.”
“I like this one,” he’d replied. “It’s got a good view,” and tossed more popcorn into his mouth.
I could have moved. Absolutely, I could. Removed myself from the equation. There were plenty of seats. Plenty of space. I could have moved. But why the fuck should I?
As the lights dimmed I knew his gaze was on me, ignoring the images onscreen. Giant letters emblazoned in vivid red spelled out, “Halloween Horror Fest” each one almost six feet tall. I’d looked forward to this day This one day that was mine. Where I was free to do whatever I pleased. In the mall I’d moved through the heaving throng undetected an unobserved. As if I was one of them again.
I liked that. I treasured it. I wouldn’t get that again. Not for another year. And then this man, this predator, this rude, aggressive creature, had chosen to take that pleasure away from me.
“Find. Another. Seat,” I’d said. Emphasising each word so there could be no confusion. No doubt about my expectations.
But he didn’t listen. He’d stayed. And I’d known it was coming, the move he’d make. So I’d waited until I felt his course hand on my knee and his stubble prickling my neck.
His screams had melded with those onscreen. I didn’t plan it that way, but it amused me. I moved so fast he couldn’t stop me. Even if he’d had the strength.
A punch first to the throat, and then to the groin. A blur of danger and agony. Lift, swing, smash to the floor. A foot in every organ and pain to the soft places. A double-fist strike to the chest. And then he’d crumpled like a damp paper bag.
“Stay down. Stay there. Don’t be a fool.” He didn’t heed the warning. He heard a challenge.
I’m a bitch. A whore. A fucking psycho cunt. His lips can barely form the words.
“No. No. I’m much more than that,” I reply, my voice crackling with effort and slipping several octaves down. “Much more, and a million times worse.”
Does he see me now, I wonder, as my facade cracks? One eye almost swollen completely shut, the other knocked clean out of his skull. The orb dangles loose by a crimson thread like a bauble on a macabre Christmas tree. I know I’ll never see Christmas again. But this day, the final day of October when the air is crisp and the sun is low, the veil between worlds almost gossamer-thin, this day is better than a score of Christmases. It gives me time I rarely have.
And look, here comes his favourite scene. The face-stealing moment in all it’s gory glory. A razor-blade slices and slides into her flesh. Her pretty face is peeled like a ripened plum and held aloft as a trophy. The victim is stripped of her defining features, nothing left but lifeless meat.
“You missed it,” I tell him, struggling now. Words feel alien and hard to shape. “What a shame.”
There’s fight in him, still, even now, as his soul knows it’s almost time to depart. I’m almost impressed. But the bitterness takes over. The regret and deep disappointment.
“I just wanted… to watch… the movie. In peace.”
I strike before he can move again. It’s a mess and I feel sorry for the usher who will find him. Who will no doubt vomit at the sight. The cinema will close. The Horror Fest will end. There will be no more movies shown here today.
It’s a pity, but there are other things I can do. In my last hours of freedom before I leave.
Still, no point worrying about that now. I stand, step carefully over his corpse, and find another seat, several rows back. I chuckle at the irony of my actions.
There’s at least another hour of the movie left. I might as well enjoy it while I can.