**Dottie**
Wherever Dottie went, she turned heads. The way she dressed made the entire supermarket staff—where this thirty-year-old, red-haired, curvy woman worked as a cashier—quietly stifle their laughter. And then there was her sweet tooth. A little bag of sweets always sat by the till.
Her love for costume jewellery and garish outfits clearly outweighed common sense. Customers often froze, staring at the woman perched behind the counter, her towering red curls crowned with ribbons, bright clips, and bows. Dottie dressed in outrageously gaudy blouses (where did she even find them?), draped herself in scarves, and wore rings on every finger. As they say, Christmas had come early—and never left.
Yet the best thing about her? She never took offence. No matter how much they teased her, no matter how often they urged her to dress sensibly or cut back on sweets, she’d just laugh it off, wave a hand sparkling with chunky rings, and pop another toffee in her mouth.
Dottie was brilliant at her job. Efficient, polite, always smiling, always kind. Customers left happy, warmed by her wide, white-toothed grin and cheerful wishes for health and love. They’d return just to queue at her till, drawn back to the radiant, vibrant cashier.
Not a single complaint, not one reprimand—only praise. Management commended her excellent work but gave up trying to tone down her style. They tolerated her quirks.
No one knew Dottie carried fear in her heart—and a stun gun in her handbag.
Five years ago, on a rainy night, a gang of lads had jumped her, beaten her, stolen her phone, money, and jewellery. She remembered crawling home, wiping blood and rain from her face, the terror and pain. After that, she never went out without her stun gun.
She told no one. Beneath the cheerful façade and flamboyant outfits, she hid her dread. She feared young men and the dark. But to the world, she was just a daft, frivolous woman.
Then came the day Dottie became a hero.
On her day off, she took the bus into town to browse for new outfits. What else was a single, independent woman to do? Treat herself. Lost in thought, she barely noticed three lads—scarcely more than boys—boarding at a stop.
The bus rolled through a deserted stretch of park when they sprang up, brandishing knives.
“Stay down, you lot! Wallets, phones, jewellery—now! No funny business!”
One pressed a blade to the driver’s throat while the other two began robbing passengers. Terrified, people handed over their belongings without protest.
Dottie’s stomach twisted. That same sickening fear surged through her. Clutching her bag, she fought to steady herself.
*Not again… Why me? God, help me!*
Memories flooded back—the kicks, the punches, the helplessness. The humiliation. And then—anger. Anger at herself, at the silent passengers yielding to these thugs.
In tough spots, sweets always calmed her. A couple of chews, and she’d think straight. Now, fumbling in her bag, her fingers brushed the stun gun.
What happened next even surprised her.
Gripping the device, she flicked it on. As the robber reached her, she yanked it free and jammed it into his stomach—right where his ridiculous slogan T-shirt ended.
He yelped, crumpled, and went still. The second lad rushed over—only to get a jolt to the neck. The driver, quick-thinking, slammed the brakes and wrestled the third. Passengers sprang up, helping tie the dazed boys.
When the police arrived, they couldn’t believe the robbers had been subdued by a plump woman in a floral blouse and absurd hair bows.
Dottie never breathed a word at work. But for the first time in years, that gnawing fear was gone. She walked home in the dark, unafraid.
They awarded her a commendation for bravery, shocking her colleagues. The officer presenting it held her hand a little too long, gazing into her blue, lash-fringed eyes. Funny thing—he didn’t seem to mind her gaudy rings or garish clothes.
He saw the woman beneath.
**Lesson learned:** Courage doesn’t always wear a uniform. Sometimes, it’s hidden under layers of glitter and a heart too kind to show its scars.
