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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2. Dust and Laughter

There were no golden days of old, swarming with summer haze. Just the bottle. And that sickly sweet smell, that would take away Daddy's pain. Like a wolf in sheep's clothing. Clinging to the senses. Engulfing Daddy.

And me, too.

But, back then, I was still someone's daughter.

Yes. The little girl belonged to a father and, for a time, a mother. But then the mother got lost. She fell down the back the back of Life's mantlepiece to reside with the dust and the hollow laughter and the forgotten.

And now the girl and the father sit apart. Severed.

 

I was 6 when my mother killed herself. She had been manically depressed for 3 years previously. Life did not steal her; my mother rebuffed Life. She did not love me: if she had, she would have let me love her back.

If she had loved me, she would have taken me with her.

 

Daddy did not forgive her. She was always that one street ahead. She was the back of that one mistaken woman's head in the swollen market scene. She was that creaking floor-board at night that could be her, returning to us. He hated her because, even though it was just a lingering faint flutter of the heart, my mother had made him hope.

And how that hope destroyed.

 

My father has never killed. But life stole from him. Although his heart would pulsate and his lips would quiver and his lungs would fluxuate, he did not live. He would believe and then dis-believe and wait. And die.

I'm not sure that I fully understood the situation at first. I have never been stupid or ignorant but... Mummy was meant to be coming back. If, like Daddy said, she was gone, why couldn't we find her? One day, just before my seventh birthday, we were set a task by our teacher at school to write a letter to some one far away. I wrote a letter to my mother. I told her that I was cross with her because Daddy wasn't very good at making spaghetti bolognese and also he cried a lot in the evenings which made me sad. When I pondered in, after playtime, I saw that every lined sheet of paper, adorned with the fruits of desperate concentration were situated on a pile. And my letter, with my distinct crayon depicition of me and Mummy and Daddy with a rainbow and a unicorn was still grasped in Ms. Moss's frail palm. So Ms.Moss sat beside me and stroked my hair and looked as sad as she could. All for me.

Innocence epitomized.

 

 

 

 

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