I slipped. Just one little moment of weakness and the shears seemed to leap out on their own. A gash appeared down the front of it, ruining the sweate... forever. Immediately, my hand recoiled. No, I wouldn’t, I couldn’t. But I had. The damage was done. My hands cut again and again, tearing, ripping, destroying. Screaming in forlorn rage, I tore into it, crying out all my frustrations against the clothing because I could never do against my real tormentor. Again and again I cut, ripped, tore,. Despite her reputation as a good time girl, Sharon was a clean screw, there had never been any talk of her giving boys the clap, as they said about some girls who were known to have round heels. She was a ladies hairdresser at a shop in town but lived over on the council estate with a father who regularly gave her and her mother a good beating and so Sharon spent most of her time hanging around the pubs in the centre of Salisbury. I liked Sharon, she had been kind to me when I needed it, after. More

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