devil's backbone 🗝 tommy shelby

chapter 3

n// italics = romany

It'd been a week and a half since the wedding, and Sybil had (for the most part) gone back to her normal routine. Get up, get ready, drink a cup of tea, go to work, come home, maybe get a drink, and then stay in the rest of the night. But now her routine had a new step: walk past the Garrison every chance she got.

At first, she denied doing it. Passing it off as a change of scenery on the way home from work, or even deeming it safer. But the truth is that none of her excuses were true. The real truth was that she couldn't stop thinking about that fucking Peaky Blinder boy and their conversation at the wedding. And since she knew better than anyone that she couldn't be seen — let alone associated — with the man, she settled for walking past his bar.

If she was being honest, she didn't really know what she hoped to get out of doing so. Maybe it was to remind her of the conversation, so she'd never forget it. Maybe she was hoping that he would see her and act on something (whatever that may be). Or maybe she was tempting herself with the idea of going inside the Garrison.

Maybe it was a combination of all three.

But regardless, she continued to strut down the street that the Garrison resided on, pretending that her heart rate didn't increase out of excitement when she recalled the conversation. That she didn't hope Thomas Shelby himself would come out and invite her in for a drink. That she didn't seriously consider going in every single time.

But one day, as she strolled down the street (as usual), there was a change in her plan. The Garrison was closed for some reason, and the sound of heavy footsteps was approaching, coming up faster and faster until they were mere paces behind her. Noticing this, and never being one to shy away from confrontation, she turned abruptly to face the man.

"May I help you with something?" She questioned, taking the man off guard. "No? Good. So, please, if you could be so kind as to fuck off and give me some space, that would be greatly apprecia—"

But she didn't get the chance to finish her sentence as the man dragged her into the alley next to the Garrison, pushing her up against the wall.

"You've got quite the mouth, 'aven't ya?" He slurred, getting close to her face. "You should put it to use elsewhere."

"I concur," Sybil grunted out, struggling a bit more before spitting in the man's eye. "How's that for elsewhere?"

This action only (unsurprisingly) angered the man more. Releasing the grip he had on her neck, he swiftly backhanded her. Letting out a cry of pain, she reached up to cradle her cheek, only to be stopped by another blow.

"You bitch!" The drunkard sneered, watching as her eyes welled up with tears and blood trickled down her cheek.

Throwing her to the ground, Sybil felt the her head hit the concrete in a harsh manner, earning another cry on her end. At that point, her dress had been ripped, her face was bleeding, the tears had fallen from her eyes, and she her head was aching like she'd never experienced.

But if there was one thing about Sybil Day, it's that she was never one to back down from a fight. If she was going down, she was going to go down swinging.

With that being said, she turned her head, seeing an old beer bottle, and used what strength she had to scramble up. Shattering the bottom half, she wielded it as a weapon against her attacker, making him laugh.