The Abused Sister's Spectacular Vengeful Comeback

Kristopher's face was inches from hers, his eyes half-closed in anticipation. Alissa didn't panic. Her mind was a cold, empty room. She dropped her center of gravity. Her knees bent sharply, and she slipped her body sideways, sliding out from under his heavy hands with a fluid, unnatural grace. Kristopher lunged forward into empty space. His chin smashed violently against the rough bark of the oak tree. He let out a sharp cry of pain, stumbling backward. "You little bitch!" he snarled, spinning around. He swung his right arm in a wide, clumsy arc, aiming to grab a fistful of her hair. As his hand flew toward her, Alissa moved. She didn't try to block the strike with force. Her frail bones would snap. Instead, she stepped inside his guard. Her left hand shot up, slapping the outside of his incoming wrist to redirect the momentum. Simultaneously, her right hand snaked under his arm, gripping his elbow joint. She locked her grip. She threw her entire body weight backward, hanging off his right arm like an anchor. The sudden downward force pulled Kristopher off balance. He pitched forward. Alissa didn't try to overpower him. Using his own momentum against his collapsing frame, she hooked her right foot sharply behind his ankle and twisted her hips, sweeping his leg out from under him. It wasn't a strike of brute strength, but of desperate, anatomical precision. A sickening pop echoed in the dark. Kristopher's leg completely gave out. He crashed to his knees in the wet mud with a heavy thud. Before he could even process the pain of hitting the dirt, Alissa dropped her weight. She didn't scramble up his back; her frail, trembling arms couldn't possibly support that kind of explosive movement. Instead, as he fell forward, she slipped behind him, using her legs to hook around his waist for a desperate anchor. She didn't have the bicep strength for a traditional hold. She slid her left forearm across his trachea, grabbing her own right wrist to create a crude, bone-on-bone lever. She threw her entire body weight backward, using gravity rather than muscle to lock the choke. Her own shoulders screamed in agony, threatening to dislocate from the strain. Kristopher's eyes bulged in absolute terror. He couldn't comprehend what was happening. The weak, pathetic girl was suddenly a machine of violence. He reached back wildly, his fingernails clawing at her arms, trying to rip her off. Alissa squeezed. She didn't crush his windpipe. She adjusted the angle, pressing the hard bones of her forearm into the carotid arteries on both sides of his neck. She was cutting off the blood flow to his brain. Kristopher's face turned a deep, mottled purple. A wet, gurgling sound tore from his throat. He thrashed violently in the dirt, kicking his legs, sending wet leaves flying into the air. Alissa's face was pressed against the back of his head. Her expression was completely blank. She felt his frantic pulse hammering against her arm, slowing down with every passing second. One. Two. Three. She counted in her head. His thrashing became weak. His hands dropped from her arms, falling uselessly into the mud. Six. Seven. Eight. His eyes rolled back into his head. His body went completely limp, turning into dead weight. Exactly at the eight-second mark, Alissa released the choke. She uncrossed her legs and pushed herself backward, landing lightly on her feet a few yards away. Kristopher collapsed face-first into the rotting leaves. For a terrifying moment, he didn't move. Then, his body convulsed. He rolled onto his side, coughing violently, gasping for air like a drowning man pulled from the ocean. He retched, spitting a mouthful of saliva into the dirt. Alissa stood perfectly still, watching him. Her breathing was slightly elevated, but her hands were steady. Kristopher managed to push himself up onto his elbows. He looked up at her, clutching his bruised throat. His eyes were wide with a primal, paralyzing fear. He was looking at a monster. He tried to stand, but his right knee screamed in agony, and the lack of oxygen made his head spin. He collapsed back into the mud, pathetic and broken. Alissa reached into her pocket and pulled out the black cassette recorder. She held it up so the faint moonlight caught the plastic casing. Click. She pressed the stop button. The sound was loud in the quiet forest. Kristopher stared at the box, his chest heaving. Alissa pressed rewind. The machine buzzed angrily for a few seconds. Then, she pressed play. The tiny speaker crackled to life. "Ainsley doesn't know how to take care of you... Only I can make you feel good." Kristopher's own voice, dripping with predatory intent, echoed through the dark woods. "As long as you keep your mouth shut and do exactly what I say, she will never know a thing." The color completely drained from Kristopher's face. He looked like a corpse. The reality of what she had just done crashed down on him. He was ruined.