She let her face receive the first kick. Sometimes it was easier to go down to ground rather than resist. Depending on his mood. If he was tired then he would leave it at one smack. However if he was tanked up, then the beating would go on for a lot longer.
She went to ground. And received another kick in the ribs. It looked like he had the energy to go all night long.
The funny thing about receiving a beating was that it was not the immediate pain. In fact she felt nothing as she received blow after blow, covering her head, trying to protect her face. But this man didn't care, he kept on at it, as if she was nothing more than a sack of potatoes.
And then the blows suddenly stopped. She waited, daring not to breathe. Ironically she could here him panting heavily from the physical exertion he put into beating her.
Yeah, the funny thing about the beating was not the immediate pain. Her adrenaline kicked in, and she knew that what was happening to her would not hurt immediately. It was what was going to come afterwards. When she finally got home. When she would see her bruised body and bloodied face in the mirror. As always it would take a long time for the wounds to heal, if they would ever heal. And after an hour or too, the pain would begin. A dull throbbing that would last for days.
He was cunning, he never put in enough force to break any bones, as that would mean a trip to the hospital and come-back for him. But he would hurt her enough that she was out of action for a few days, unable to earn money and eventually in his debts as he lined her up with a score or two.
She slowly crawled away and received another kick to stomach. She went to ground again. It was obvious that he wanted her to listen to him. Some wise words of his that was supposed to make her think again.
'You're too sick now. Don't come back. I don't want you scaring off the punters!'
She hated that cross-dressing freak, but there was nothing she could do. She was sick. And he was right. She was no longer welcome.
Slowly she crawled away, into the alleyway. She could feel his eyes on her as she managed to get away from that place. She turned the corner and waited. A puddle was on the ground. She sniffed it, it smelt clean. The rain had only stopped a few minutes ago. She washed her face in the muddy water and put a few drops to her now cracked lips.
She got to her feet. It was going to be a long journey home. And she did not feel like taking the bus. All those staring faces, but averting eyes was not something she could put up with. But as the bus pulled in, she staggered on board, straight past the driver without paying and slumped on the seat.
The bus pulled off. Good, this driver just wanted to get home. He didn't care about her or her bus fare. She squinted out of the window, the interior lights of the bus hurting her eyes and looked at the city pass by. Puddles and people littered the streets. All of those outside nursing their own wounds...