Helen was like a rag doll, sagging, leaning heavily to one side, letting herself be flexible enough that the relaxed motion absorbed the impact more than her head did.

Walter lurched forward, slamming Helen against the wall, forearm against her throat.

Mary started, as if she was going to run forward.  I put my hand out, stopping her.

Walter was tall, and he was muscular, probably someone who did sports to get away from the hassles and stresses of spending much of the week in the Bowels.  With his ruddy complexion, it was probably something like horseback riding or a field sport.  His belly suggested that it wasn’t all muscle, either.  Women tended to like a guy with a barrel chest, broad shoulders, and Walter was very much that.

All in all, our man was fourteen stone, maybe.  Maybe as much as seventeen.  Helen was less than half his weight, and he was leaning hard, the vast majority of his weight pinning her down, pressing down on her windpipe.  It made for an awkward, hunched position, as Helen still hadn’t let go of him.

...

Slowly, he began to slip, huffing, panting, tearing at the eyes.  His arm moved, jerking.  He started to groan, and the groan became a scream.

Then he broke away, releasing her, falling onto his back.  One of his legs was twitching, as if the pain was bad enough it couldn’t stay still.

Helen released him, then grabbed one leg, holding it still while she wiped the blood off of her hand, where it had seeped through cloth.  She apparently didn’t think he was up to putting up a fight.

She flashed a smile to our little group by the door, rubbing at her throat.  She didn’t seem to be having trouble breathing.

Wildbow, Twig, 2.03