Shorts: Workplace Violence

 Part of the shorts series. Shorts are short one off stories done by request of the person generally in the story. Meaning, they will be self contained even if they have characters from other stories. Good for when you are looking for a quick fight that won't hurt your eyes reading for a long time. 

 Ben stood quietly in the back stockroom, the dim overhead bulbs casting long, flickering shadows across the stacked rows of cardboard boxes lining the shelves. It was always cooler back here, nice, still, quiet, a pocket of order tucked away from the day’s noise. He liked that. He’d always liked the calm predictability of it. Everything had its place. Everything made sense. Anyone who ever worked retail would understand.

But today… the air was off.

There was a tension in the room, not loud (yet), not obvious (yet), but definitively present. Subtle and steady, like the low hum of a wire stretched too tight. Ben shifted his stance, arms crossed over his broad chest. He wasn’t bulky in the way of gym rats or athletes, there was no carved six-pack or veiny biceps on display either, but his frame was solid, sturdy. Built like someone who could carry more than his share without complaint.... which he often did. He was above average in size, the kind of man who moved with quiet purpose rather than flash. He wore a dark blue button-down today. Crisp but casual, sleeves rolled neatly to the elbows. His beard was trimmed close, every line clean. A little older than most guys his age would try to look, but Ben had always carried himself like that. More mature. More put-together. But even with all that discipline, he couldn’t shake the feeling coiling in his gut. Something wasn’t right. And whatever it was, it had followed him back here, into his quiet place, and settled in the shadows between the shelves.

That something, came a moment later from around the corner.

Around the corner came James, strutting more than walking of course. That was him after all, young, inexperienced, walked around like he owned the place, even though everyone knew he barely had his foot in the door. James was the kind of guy who always talked too loud, flirted with anyone breathing, and pushed every boundary HR ever laid down. Men, women, it really didn’t matter. He hit on everyone with the same sloppy charm and wink that somehow kept him just on the barely tolerable side of trouble. His shirt was untucked as usual, not to mention the shirt itself looked like it was making a failing effort to look clean, and his hair was a tousled mess that might have been intentional. His beard, patchy and just shy of unkempt, gave him that "I-don’t-care" edge he wore like a badge of honor. He spotted Ben and lit up like a kid who just found someone to pester.

“Well, well, if it isn’t Mr. Always-in-Control!”

James said, grinning wide. His voice carried a teasing lilt, playful but pointed. Again this was James, he was always trying to get under someone’s skin, and Ben was his favorite target.

“What’s the matter, stockroom a little too intense for you today? Must be that stick up your ass.”

He sauntered further in, arms swinging, then folded them across his smaller chest in an exaggerated pose, puffing himself up like a rooster with something to prove. He had a wiry frame. Not really super scrawny, but not solid either. But that really didn't matter, no, he never let his size stop him from acting like the biggest guy in the room. Confidence, misplaced as it was, oozed off him.

Ben of course, didn’t flinch. And that, of course, only made James smirk harder.

 

 

Ben stood still, facing James, shoulders tight, jaw clenched just enough to notice. The ever-patient manager, the one who let things roll off his back, who kept his voice level no matter how loud the chaos got, he was fraying. James didn’t see it. Or maybe he did, and just didn’t care. He kept talking, that smug little grin plastered across his face, tossing out another careless jab like it was all some game. The same cocky routine, the same arrogant tone, needling Ben like a dog chewing on the same damn bone day after day. Ben had let it go for weeks. Let James run his mouth, let the immature pokes slide off him like rain off a roof. But today was different. Something in the air felt charged, it was much heavier, and so much meaner. A quiet storm churned in Ben’s chest. It wasn’t rage, but it was close. A pressure, slow and steady, building behind his ribs. Every word out of James’ mouth pressed against it like a thumb on a bruise. Ben’s brow furrowed, his eyes darkening as they followed James’ movements. The younger man laughed at his own joke, completely unaware, or maybe willfully blind, to the shift in atmosphere. Honestly with his mental powerless it could be both...

Ben didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.

He just stood there, the weight of restraint tightening in his muscles like a rope pulled taut, and wondered... how much longer could he keep this up? A few more days? A few more hours? A few more seconds.... Because for the first time, he could feel it, the crack forming.

And it wasn’t going to stay small.

Ben took a breath, trying to steady himself before he spoke.

“James,” Ben said in his usual controlled tone, his voice firm but devoid of any threat. “You need to understand that there’s a line. And you’ve crossing it far to much.”

Calm, cool and to the point, anyone else would have gotten the message. But James? Nah, he didn't stop. Couldn't stop maybe? James had heard Ben’s warnings many times before, and he saw no threat in the repeat words. The older man wasn’t built for violence, after all. He was just a glorified stock boy... or so James thought.

“You’re nothing but a weak manager. You’ve been here forever and done nothing with it. You’re pathetic.”

James shot out another insult, another jeer, another poke to annoy. But these words hit different. These words stung more than they should have. Ben clenched his jaw and slowly exhaled, his arms at his sides, fists clenched tight. It was rare that Ben let his temper show, but James had pushed him too far this time. He had no intention of keeping this under wraps any longer.

 

With a sudden, silent step, Ben moved forwardno warning, no hesitation. The distance between them vanished in a blink, and before James could register what was happening, Ben’s hand shot out and seized a fistful of his shirt. The grip was iron. No flair. No drama. Just raw, barely controlled strength. It was the kind of strength that was supported by man who held far to much back for far too long. James blinked, then scoffed, half-laughing as if it were another one of his games.

“Easy, man,” he chuckled, trying to jerk back. “You finally gonna grow a pair or—”

But Ben didn’t budge. He didn’t blink. Didn’t speak. Just stared at James with a gaze that was no longer tired or annoyed, but something colder. For a moment, James’s smirk faltered, maybe finally realizing what was going on? What he had done? He grabbed at Ben’s wrist, tried to peel his fingers off. Nothing. Ben’s grip only tightened, slowly, like a vice being turned one notch at a time. There was no anger in his face. No satisfaction either. Just silence, hollow and heavy. It was the kind that, if at a bar, you knew someone was about to get into a fight and not be alive at the end of the night.

“Alright, alright—hey, shit man, it was a joke!”

James said quickly, his voice rising slightly, his tone still dancing on the edge of sarcasm but with a sharp edge of nerves creeping in.

“C’mon, man. Don’t take it so personal, the hell is wrong with you.”

Ben said nothing. Continued to say nothing, because really he didn’t need to. His silence? That was the message now, and it was one that shock James to his core. James’s eyes darted around the stockroom, the endless shelves, the stacked boxes, the flickering overhead lights. This corner of the warehouse was dead space. No cameras. No foot traffic. No reason for anyone to wander back here. No one would hear a thing... assuming they would even care to begin with.

“Okay...” James muttered, a nervous smile flickering on his lips, “Okay, let’s just, uh, let’s calm down, alright?”

In that awful, stretching silence, the shift happened. James’s bravado drained from his face as fast as the color did. The weight of the situation settled on him, full and suffocating. He had made a mistake. A real one. Because whatever he thought he knew about Ben, that quiet, patient, keep-to-himself manager and man, that was gone. What stood in front of him now wasn’t someone who wanted to talk.

It was someone who’d already decided he had nothing left to say. And for the first time since he started working here, James felt something unfamiliar claw its way into his chest.

Fear.

The first punch landed square in James’s gut with a dull, sickening thud. It was deep, unforgiving, and deliberate. It was the first physical expression and manifestation of pent up frustration. The impact to James was immediate and profound. James' breath tore out of him in a ragged gasp, knees buckling as his torso folded reflexively. But Ben didn’t wait, his restraint was gone now. The second punch came before James could even register the pain of the first, driven low and hard into the same soft spot just above the belt. James let out a guttural cough, spittle flying as his back arched. His hands twitched upward to protect himself, but it was already too late. To late and wouldn't have been effective anyway. Ben’s third punch drilled in under the ribs, cutting into whatever air James had left like a blade. He doubled over, eyes wide, his mouth frozen open in silent agony.

And still, Ben said nothing.

No growl, no threat, no curse. Just the rhythm of knuckles finding flesh and the steady thunder of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. This wasn’t rage. This wasn’t heat. It was cold, mechanical, with purpose. It was almost a love language, if such could ever be born of violence. James, somehow, still tried to struggle, to even stumble back, and free himself. Such would not happen, nor could it. Ben held him in place, he was not done. A fourth blow, low and brutal, cracking into the pit of James’s gut and folding him nearly in half. A fifth, angled up, forcing James’s body upright again only so the next could find its mark.

Six.

Seven.

Eight.

Each punch drove deeper, harder. James’s eyes rolled, his mouth forming helpless shapes but no sound. His legs trembled violently beneath him, twitching with each impact, each jolt. His arms had given up. His whole body was now a rag doll caught in a slow, punishing rhythm.

Nine.

Ten.

Eleven.

Ben’s fists slammed into his stomach like jackhammers to assault. Ben punched away to end his pain, punched away to finally shut up James for more than five minutes, punched away to accomplish his goal. His goal was to erase something, to carve out all the bitterness and humiliation James had ever made him swallow.

Twelve.

Thirteen.

James’s body jerked with each hit, his face gone pale and damp with sweat. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t stand. His stomach had turned into a pulsing, bruised wreck. His lips moved, but no words came out. No apology. No plea. Just helpless, wordless suffering.

Fourteen.

Fifteen.

By the time Ben paused to take a breath, James crumpled, collapsing to his knees, then to his side. Curling in on himself. Shivering. Gasping. Ben stood over him, breathing through his nose, chest rising slowly. Still not saying a word. The silence was louder than any scream. No one was coming. No one had heard. And in this forgotten corner of the stockroom, justice, ugly, violent, and overdue, had found its voice through clenched fists.

As Ben stood over him, his chest heaving in quiet, rhythmic bursts, his eyes locked on the crumpled form beneath him. James was half-curled on the concrete floor, wheezing faintly. His shirt had ridden up during the assault, bunching under his chest, exposing the canvas of his stomach. The sight did things inside Ben he didn't think possible. James' stomach, his core area, was now dark red, bruises swelling like storm clouds beneath pale skin. The shapes of Ben’s knuckles were already blooming there, angry marks of something deep and personal. Symbols of restraint long buried... and now, finally, unleashed. Ben’s expression remained carved in stone, lips tight, jaw rigid, his fists still clenched like he didn’t even realize he hadn’t let go. There was no satisfaction in his face. No release. Only pressure.

It was still mounting.

It was still building.

It was still boiling.

His, Ben's, thoughts were no longer forming. They were smoke. Sparks. Static. He couldn’t hear James, couldn’t hear himself. His whole body vibrated with a dark noise only he could feel, as if the years of swallowing shit had finally become too much, and now, all he could do was break something. Break someone.

He reached down.

James barely moved, managing only a twitch, a whimper as Ben grabbed the front of his shirt and aided (hauled, forced, manhandled) him upright... dead weight, groaning, coughing. The fabric stretched as Ben dragged him like a ragdoll to his feet, bracing him against the nearest shelf. James slumped, barely able to keep his knees under him. His head lolled, and he blinked slowly, mouth half open in shock and confusion. Ben then reached with one hand, grabbed the edge of James’s shirt, and yanked it upward, dragging the fabric to his chest and holding it there tight in his fist, exposing every inch of James' battered, trembling stomach.

Then, with his other hand, Ben made a fist, and the beating began again.

The first punch, that of round two one may call it, hit hard, the sound meaty and close, like someone slamming a hammer into wet clay. The sound of a punch from a man who had totally checked out, and just let emotion take over.

“GUHHH—!”

Another blow.

“OOHHH—ghh!”

A third.

“Nggh—AH!”

James’s arms dangled uselessly at his sides, spasming with each hit. His stomach rippled with every impact, pain crashing through him in brutal, sharp waves. Ben didn’t stop.

A fourth punch landed low, just above the groin.

“Ughnnn—!”

Then another.

“Ahhh—!”

Then two in rapid succession, each thudding into the same spot.

“Hrrrk—khhgh—!”

He wasn’t even gasping anymore. Just reacting. Reflexively. Eyes wide and unfocused. Spit dripped from the corner of his mouth. His legs shook so badly, it was only Ben’s fist gripping the shirt that kept him standing.

Thud...

“NGHH—!”

Thud...

“GHHHah!”

Ben’s face never changed, not once. It was blank, always blank. Always cold. His eyes were locked on the damage he was doing. Not out of sadism, but out of necessity. As if something deep inside him had decided: This was the only way. He didn’t know how many punches he had thrown. He lost count. He also didn’t care. He only knew that James hadn’t fallen yet.

And until he did… Ben wasn’t going to stop.

BAM!

THUD!

WHAMP!

Ben’s grip on James tightened more and more as he slammed him against the cold metal shelving. The sharp edges rattled under the force, steel biting into James’ back, drawing a grunt of pain from deep in his gut. He tried to move, to shift his weight, but Ben wouldn’t let him fall.

Not now.
Not yet.

He didn’t deserve the mercy of the floor.

Ben's breathing was ragged, jaw clenched so hard it seemed like he’d crack his own teeth. That small, reasonable voice, the one that whispered about jobs, consequences, possible security cameras when there really were none... that was long dead now. Buried under every slight, every smirk, every time James had laughed in his face and walked away without a scratch.

Ben wasn’t thinking.

He shoved James harder against the shelves, holding him up by his shirt as if the younger man weighed nothing. James’ legs were useless now, numb, trembling, deadweight beneath him. His arms hung limp at his sides, and his head lulled slightly, struggling to hold itself upright. No jokes now. No clever lines. Just the shallow sound of breath being survived.

James, for his part could not think steadily, only subjected to brief bursts of thought. In and during them, he wasn’t sure what he was anymore. A man? An employee? A smartass? No, in this moment, under Ben’s grip, under the rage of a man who had swallowed too much for too long… James felt, and was, like a thing. A bag of meat. A target. A punching bag that had finally fulfilled its purpose. He wanted to ask why. Wanted to scream I was just messing around, it was a joke! But the words never came. They wouldn't have helped.

Ben’s hands moved with purpose, not hesitation. One gripped the collar of James's shirt, and with a sharp jerk, yanked it upward. The fabric bunched, dragging over James’s chest, past his collarbone, and up, pinning over his head like a hood. He was blind now, even more vulnerable and exposed. His stomach was out, red and swelling, mottled with blooming bruises and the deep impressions of fists already thrown. Ben stared at it, breathing heavy. His fist clenched again. Someone was still hungry, and Ben for round three, would get his fill... 

 

Ben’s fist came down like a hammer, no warning, no hesitation, slamming into James’ exposed gut with a meaty, sickening thud. The sound echoed in the stillness of the stockroom, swallowed by the steel and cardboard and silence. James’s body jolted violently, all the air shoved from his lungs in a choking gasp. He folded forward, his body done with the abuse, but Ben yanked him back up by the shirt, not letting him collapse.

Another blow.
Harder.
Deeper.

The knuckles buried themselves into the soft muscle, drawing a strangled wheeze from James. His entire stomach area spasmed involuntarily, already failing to protect what little remained inside. Ben didn’t blink. The next punch slammed into the exact same spot. Flesh gave way with a defeated yield, and James’s body lurched. James would’ve dropped to his knees, probably all the way down and stoped moving, if Ben wasn’t holding him up like a sack of weight. Ben then shifted, he twisted slightly and drove a fourth punch into James’ lower stomach, knuckles angled, digging into the gut like he wanted to crack something underneath. From the sound of it, from the spit and bile pouring out of James mouth, from the dead look in the eyes, it looked like Ben had done just that.

A fifth hit.
Then a sixth.
And seventh.

Each one heavier than the last. Not wild or sloppy. Deliberate. Calculated. Powered by the rage that took Ben.

Eight.

Nine..

Twelve...

Fifteen....

Twenty two....

James wasn’t reacting anymore or moving that much. Sometimes, between the hits, noises... wet, broken grunts. Pitiful sounds. His stomach was no longer resisting; it was absorbing every hit like raw meat. His head was trapped in his shirt, his shirt was soaked in a mix of sweat, spit and throw up that had no where else to go.

Ben stepped in close, chest nearly pressed to James’s sagging form, and wound his arm back once more, this time his whole torso behind it. When the punch landed, it wasn’t a strike. It was a message. One that shook James’s core so violently his entire frame jerked and convulsed, knees finally buckling. But still, Ben held him up. James gasped for air, his chest heaving. He opened his mouth, probably to say something, but all that came out was a strained moan of pain. The odor of his own defeat, of his own display of weakness assaulted what senses not yet overwhelmed by pain.

He wanted it to end, and for once, it looked like his prayer would be granted.

The final blow came with a terrifying brutality, which was saying something, considering the relentless punishment James had already endured. Ben’s fist moved like a wrecking ball unchained, driven not by muscle alone but by something deeper, something far more primal, godless, and unspeakable. There was no hesitation in the hit either, no mercy. It wasn’t a punch from a man anymore. It was judgment. It was sentence. It was execution.

And it landed, square against the raw, ruined meat of James’s exposed stomach.

But it wouldn't be fair to say it just hit, more, it hit and sank in. James felt it drive through him, like a steel piston punching into the core of his being. Not just muscle or skin, no. This one dug into his organs, found the soft, unguarded parts of him that had never known trauma before and ruptured them. And oddly enough, there was no sharp pain this time, at least at first. Something inside him folded, bent, gave out. Maybe forever, probably forever. His vision whited out. His mouth opened, but nothing came out, no sound, no breath, no hope. There would be no scream or begging. Just the complete acceptance and giving into, to obliteration. For the briefest of seconds, his body lifted off the floor, as if his gut had been hit so hard even gravity didn’t know what to do with him. His limbs hung useless in the air. His shirt bunched above his head. His abdomen, red and swollen and trembling, quivered from the shock, and then—

Collapse.

The air didn’t return. The pain didn’t ease. In fact it was like a song stuck on repeat. It kept deepening, like it was crawling inside him, coiling around his ribs, burrowing through his spine. His body wasn’t just broken, it was betraying him. Every nerve below his chest burned, and he couldn’t tell if it was sweat or blood or bile rising in his throat. His stomach twisted violently, every muscle spasming without rhythm, as if they didn’t belong to him anymore.

He couldn’t breathe.
He couldn’t think.
He couldn’t even remember what he was before this moment.

All he knew was this agony, this permanent mark. Something inside had torn. He felt it. Something that wasn’t going to heal right. If it healed at all. The warehouse lights overhead blurred, stretching into halos, and the world began to spin, fast, uneven, cruel. His thoughts unraveled into panic, but even that was too late. There was no fight left in him. No words. Just a single, horrible truth:

He wasn't a person anymore.
Just a target.
A punching bag with a heartbeat.

He had finally, for the first time in his life, paid the price for his mouth.

The silence that followed was deafening. The rest of the warehouse, once filled with the sounds of busy work, seemed to fade into the background. Ben still stood over James, unmoved, his voice cold and final. James, despite the sharp sting in his stomach, understood. This wasn’t a fight he could win, not when he was up against someone like Ben. The older man had been patient for too long. With a low groan, James staggered to his feet, his hands weakly tugging at his shirt. The moment had passed, and the reality of the situation settled in. He wasn’t untouchable. He wasn't “the man”. He wasn't anything really. But Ben? Ben wasn’t someone he could push around.

It was over...

With that the rage haze past, and Ben stood still, his chest rising and falling with heavy, uneven breaths. His knuckles throbbed, slick with sweat, maybe blood. James was crumpled at his feet, groaning softly, more a sound of confusion than pain now. Like he couldn’t comprehend what had just happened. Like his brain hadn’t caught up with the damage done to his body. Ben adjusted his shirt, wiped his hand on a stray packing towel, and walked out of the stockroom without a word.

In the coming days, no one would try and stop Ben in passing. No one dared asked questions. Retail was a strange world. It ran on unspoken codes, "Keep your head down." "Mind your business." "Don’t make waves if you want your paycheck on Friday." The hum of fluorescent lights and minimum-wage silence could cover a lot. James knew this, so James stayed quiet. He came in, returning to work, two days later. He was limping slightly and his usual swagger was stripped to something much smaller. He avoided eye contact. He wore a looser shirt. Didn't bother people. Did the work by himself. Didn't speak unless spoken to, and even then, it was short. Brief. His eyes always wondered, like he was watching the air itself for signs of danger.

Also naturally, James didn’t file a report. Didn’t go to HR. Maybe because he didn’t want to admit he got wrecked by someone he had mocked for months. Maybe because he knew, back there, in that stockroom, no cameras had been rolling. No witnesses. No one to save him. No one to side with him.

Or maybe… he knew he deserved it. Ben, meanwhile, returned to work like nothing happened. He nodded politely in meetings. Signed off on schedules. Made small talk with the assistant manager about inventory numbers. People could tell something, maybe slight, was different, but no one knew what could be... or really would ask about it.

But people noticed.

When the two were in the same room, same section, same area, James never poked again. James never ran his mouth, or let out a string of insults. James, like the stock room, stayed quiet. Ben would carry the weight of what he’d done. The guilt? The release? The strange sense of power and shame? He didn't know, but it was not a part of him just as much as Jame's permanently bruised gut was.

But consequences? In retail?

Only if someone talks.... and James never did.

 

 

 

 

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