Mercy.

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! :)

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3. Bitter Junk

Perhaps I loved Daddy. But he was not a brave man. When things were bad, he would cling to the darkness, seeking comfort in it. The pain did not go away but, by drinking, my father eluded himself into thinking that it could dull the hurt inside of him. It's odd how people believe that drink brings out human dominance. It simply makes mice of men. What bitter junk.

 

At school, however, my situation did not define who I was. I was smart but just enough so that I could lapse under those who truly excelled. However, I did have a noticeable talent for Art and I would spend many lunch times sitting patiently on the school benches, sketching little insects and clouds. Sometimes, I would skulk on the out-skirts of different friendship groups, hoping that I would be noticed and be able to laugh with them. Tagging along was tedious. It clarified that I did not belong. And that hurt. It was a bitter type of hurt, that would cause my skin to go somewhat colder and more flushed and for my heart to ache in anxiety.

And it seemed that nobody but me woud ever experience it.

 

Then, at the age of 11, I found some solace in Ursula and Wendy. Two girls who liked to talk about themselves a lot. Ursula had light moccha skin, with consistent black braids and Wendy had impossiby straight blonde hair. Their appearances did not matter as they had hard, fickle interiors. But at first I couldn't see that.  They had been notorious buddies for a long time and they were rather popular. However, they'd had an "11-year old's dispute" with their group and had left, seeking new cronies. When we first began to talk, I was wary. Of course, they saw me as a social cast-off. But my skin did not recoil in angst I walked around with them. I tasted the grass on the other side and thought it good. And, when the intervals cropped up when they weren't talking about themselves, they interogatted me about my home life. And they wondered why my mother was never outside the school gate at home time or at parent's evenings or at class assemblies.

So, me, the subdued introvert, told them everything.

 

Of course it was perfectly alright for a time. They were all doey-eyed and sympathetic and trod carefully. But humans are not designed to withstand a deficiency of usurped power. At some point, they must feed off another's pride and self-respect. And in this case, I was the victim. Just before the year 6 Easter holdiays, a new girl arrived. Her name was Tanya and she was insanely good-looking. Her skin was a smouldering beige matched with liquidized amber eyes, making her instantaneously popular. She was the perfect accessory for every cool kid. To my dismay, Wendy and Ursula jumped on Tanya's band wagon, forgetting I ever existed.

Yes.

It hurt.

God, it stung like hell.

But there was something else.

See, it wouldn't have been as bad, if it wasn't for what they did next. Solitude was familiar, which eased the disappointment of loosing the ones who you thought were true. But, as I said before, humans crave power. My teacher saw how edgy I had become and told me to talk through my situations to my friends and see if we could figure something out. And I did. One afternoon, in the sticky, swelling humidity of May, I approached Wendy and Ursula as they wove intricate little daisy chains with Tanya and two other girls. "Hey, guys", I crooned, as I plonked myself down on the bench. "Wow, you're good at these." I acknolwedged the daisy chains. Wendy and Ursula looked up irritably but Tanya continued deftly, oblivious to my existence. "Um, so anyway, I was wondering if, er... I mean, you know when we used to hang out together? Well, maybe I could hang out with you, um... again? I was talking to Ms. Owens told me tha-?" Wendy tucked her hair behind her ears and pursed her small severe lips together. She turned to Tanya and said: "Hmm, she's the one I told you about. Rhoda Henley. The one with the freak Mother." Tanya eyes widened in recognition. "Ooooh!" She clapped and pointed, "The weirdo one that killed herself?!"

"Yeah, that one."

Tanya turned and looked at me. There was no look of contempt, or disgust. Simply a calm and placid: "That why you're by yourself so much? You crazy like your Mummy?"

I stood.

I opened my mouth.

What?

Did they... were they... how could they...?

No.

"I..." Laughter. "No, no, you've got it wro-" Laughter. "You...You...What? I... No, sto-" Laughter.

 

Of course. It wouldn't stop. It carried on. And on. And on.

 

Why should it stop?

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