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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5. Dead Paradise

He kept his promise. He came for me at eight o'clock. They couldn't find me at first. They didn't see Rhoda, lying on the floor. Instead, after 30 minutes, they stumbled across a shell in the shape of a girl that once lived, with a torn white summer dress and a clammy face and violently red arms and legs, sitting in the fetal position by the disused basin.

I didn't know or think. Buzzes and blurs. I didn't need to think. I remember the screams and shouts of a man, probably Daddy. Murmurs of faint gasps from female teachers and parent volunteers. Severe grunts from the others. Scooped and cradled and lifted into blissfuly adundant limbo. A dead paradise.

Of course, to those people, I am just the empty seat in classroom 6B. The poor little girl who was obviously so crazed that she mutilated herself in a petition for attention.

 

Each day, for 3 weeks, I saw Mummy.

My eyes were singed and my mind diluted with her image. The same sketch. It's night time. The lighting in my room is warm and dim and the blinds are closed. Mummy is sitting with me in my bed and has a book firmly grasped in her hands. It is about two lovers and their tragic struggle. The covers are blanched and starched and pristine but there's something... A certain smell.

Mummy's voice quietens and she whispers the last lines:

 

The larks and their dappled songs now exit the skys,

"To bed now, you lovers, the light shuts it's eyes"

Yet Life mocks the lost loves, the ones in between,

Their stories forgotten, forever unseen.

 

And I... I know... Oh, God. That smell, that smell. The bed sheets.

They smell of blood.

And I scream.

But Mummy doesn't hear.

No.

Because she is screaming.

And she flails and snaps and disperses on the covers. Blood spilling from her neck. Her eyes writhe in her sockets. And stop.

They stop.

She's broken.

She's.

Dead.

My Mother is dead.

 

 

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