Beating Myself Up


He kept on talking. Talking and talking and talking like an annoying little gobshyte. Like a right twat. Like a complete fool. He just wouldn’t stop. Droning on incessantly. In that horrible awful excruciating monotone of his. Whining on and on in that dreary stupid voice of his, getting right inside my head. Like a blunt drill. So I hit him. I walloped him one. I just let him have it right in his face. I smacked him one and it felt good! Boy did it feel good! It felt SO good that I hit him again. And again and again and again. I pummelled him. I laid into him. I let him have it good and proper. Damn right I did. I just kept belting the bastard for all I was worth. Raining down blows on him. I couldn’t stop – I was like a machine! All my frustration with the bastard came out then and I gave him a right good hiding. I PASTED the fucker. I whaled into him big time. ‘Take that you bastard,’ I said, full of demonic glee, revelling in this opportunity to release all my pent-up pain and frustration. I steamed right into him.


‘You  –  dirty  –  lousy  –  scumbag’ I went on, punctuating each word with another savage blow, ‘why  –  don’t  –  you  –  just  –  fuck  –  off   –  and  –  die.’ My shirt was splattered with blood at this stage. He’d caught it pretty bad, I can tell you. He’d caught it good and proper. I’d done a right job on him. Eventually my arms grew tired. I had run out of steam. I slow down, the red haze in front of my eyes gradually abating. My breathing slowly coming back to normal. Then all of a sudden the pain hits me like a ton of bricks and I realize that I have gone and beaten myself up again…







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