Not a victim. Not a bystander. This is about the bully. Rhoda. A murderer.
Of course, I'm not saying that murder can ever be justified but I am trying to get across the point of view of a bully in the situation.
Hope you enjoy reading it- please provide some kind of criticism because I always find writing stories harder than poems. :D Always happy to return the favour! :)


1. Prologue

Everyone is someone's son or daughter. To deny another human being that rite would be a breech of Life's divine conduct.

But it's not as simple as that.

Because I broke her. And now I can't fix her. Because I'm walking on her and she's covered in dirt. Because she's been forgotten. Because the world doesn't need to know.

Because Life doesn't give a damn.


Yes. Oh, yes. Call me the common thief. I stole from Life. So Life stole from me. Something small. Unnoticeable. Intangible.

Life stole my humanity.

Not what you make of it. Not a gift, not plentiful, not fruitful, not precious, not sacred. Most certainly does not give you lemons. Vengeful, bitter, meticulous, eluding. And so very, very real.


"An eye for an eye will end up making the whole world blind" said Ghandi. Dear Mahatma, the world has always been blind. I stole, Life stole. It's a pattern, see?

I judged. I stole. Life stole.

I judged. I stole. Life stole.

I judged. I stole. Life stole.


Show no mercy.




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