She looked at the chunk of hair in her hand and a sinister smile twisted her lips.

She was in a trance. From a distance, she could hear a scream, a woman, begging someone to stop. She clawed on, like a deranged person; pulling, punching and biting like her life depended on it. From the corner of her eye she could see strange faces peering through the window panes; smartphones held high recording what appeared to be a fight. She was in the fight.

Strong arms grabbed her from behind, lifting her off her victim. Her arms and legs waved wildly in the air as she kicked and threw punches. Before long, four more arms restrained and carried her away from the screaming woman and led her to another room. They talked soothingly, trying to calm her down.

Her actions had not registered in her head yet. Her blood was boiling and she was foaming at the corners of her mouth. Her breathing was heavy. Insults she would never have imagined she could utter came out of her mouth in rapid fire as she threatened to kill the other woman and hang her by her skin in the street for all to see.

The three men who had pulled her away from her victim sat with her in the room, telling her to think about her children and her future; the scandal that a woman of her stature was causing, which was about to trend on social media.

They said whoever the man was they were fighting over, was not worth her dignity or dragging her name through the mud for.

For the first time she scanned the room and looked the men’s faces but none registered. The expression on her face was of sadness and disbelief. She looked around the sparsely furnished room — a bed, shoerack and an untidy dressing table with knock-off cosmetic brands was all it contained.

Then she hung her head in shame, regretting her actions and behaviour. It was unlike her to lose control the way she did, fighting another woman and yelling obscenities, especially over a man.

Blow out of proportion

“Is she hurt? Have I hurt her?” she heard the words escape her mouth, remembering the chunk of hair she had ripped off the scalp of her victim.

“Only slightly, but she will be fine. Just hope she does not press charges against you for assault,” a voice replied. “It would be a shame if this small matter were blown out of proportion. Besides, these things happen. Do you think you are the first woman to get cheated on?” the same voice asked.

The words stung her to her very core and she zoned the voice out. The man had no idea how she was feeling, the hurt and the betrayal. She was indeed ashamed of her actions but none of them had a right to belittle her pain.

She looked down at herself — her dress torn, stained with patches of blood. One of her heels was broken and a few of her acrylic nails had fallen off. This was not who she was. She did not lose sleep over things like these. It was neither her first nor second relationship to be rocked by infidelity.

So why had she reacted the way she did, going as far as following her husband around to find out the woman he was seeing behind her back? She had an infidelity clause in her prenuptial agreement and she was entitled to half of his wealth if he cheated on her. This was more than enough for a girl from the wrong side of the tracks, so why did she degrade herself in this way?

Maybe it was the fact that she had given herself to him, wholly and unreservedly. Maybe it was because with him there had been no mind games, no pretence and no long con as there had been with all her previous lovers. She was not after his money, although it did not hurt that he was wealthy. Maybe it was because with him she had been herself and had allowed herself to feel and accept love.

Pent up anger

She had not wanted to believe the rumours that her mogul of a husband was seen at questionable night spots in the company of a college student half her age. The rumours, which came from her closest friends, had gone on for months. She had questioned her husband about it but he had denied the accusations. But her friends persisted with their information, and they did not let the matter rest.

Deep down she thought that they derived pleasure from her agony — secretly wishing she would her wealthy husband to lead a life as pitiful as theirs, then they would be real peers. But the talk gave her sleepless nights and slowly the inconsequential titbits morphed into a pent up anger that she needed to let out. And she became obsessed with catching her husband in the act. Now that she had, she wondered what she had gained from it.

She got up from the corner were she was huddled and straightened her dress. Then she walked, head held high, to the cracked mirror above the dressing table and fixed her fake eyelash that was almost falling off. She reached into her purse for her makeup bag, fixed her face and pinched her cheeks to put some colour in them.

She took off her high heels and looked around the room for the heel that had broken off. Not finding it she neatly put her makeup bag back into her purse and closed it. She turned around and saw the men looking at her transfixed.

“Good day, gentlemen,” she said as she walked out of the room into the living area. She made a beeline for the door, reaching again into her purse for her car keys.

From the corner of her eyes as she walked out of the door she caught sight of her husband, the man who had broken her heart crouched in a corner like a baby, and felt something hot rise in her throat. She held herself together and walked out without a backward glance. Some things were just not worth fighting for.