Spoiler
June 3, 2008
I’m almost certain that I’m broken beyond repair. I’m numb now, but earlier today, I remembered how pain was supposed to feel. It wasn’t even physical pain; purely emotional. The emotions overwhelmed me and I thought, perhaps I had returned to a time I could feel. The physical struggle didn’t bother me nearly as much as the hate that was emanating from his eyes and the venomous words that spewed from his mouth.
The attempts he made to hurt me failed, while when he threatened the others, I broke. The tears came because he was hurting and through that pain, he was striking out at everyone else. It was the same as when I was struggling with another to keep him from hurting others. I was blamed then too; strangely, I still don’t mind. I’ll take the blame and hate. They can’t hurt me. I’ve been conditioned for this.
They just can’t hurt each other. They haven’t realized it yet, but they’re supposed to be there for the other. They need to find a balance so they can fix what’s broken between them. One strikes out to feel powerful, and in turn, the other strikes out to overcome his sense of powerlessness. It’s a vicious cycle in time, with only one blamed. Me.
He threatened the others and me; I told him, “Go ahead. You can’t hurt me; just leave the others alone. I’ll do as I’ve done before and take your anger. Don’t ruin the Third. You won’t lay a hand on the others when I’m around. I’ve done the same thing to keep him from hurting you and the Third; I’ll keep you from hurting the First and Third. Go ahead; you can’t hurt me.”
He tried. He really did. The lack of momentum was probably the only thing that kept the pen from breaking my skin. I came away with trivial marks; he left with the intent not to return. He tried to flee, to escape the cycle. I wouldn’t let him go. I couldn’t. When he can take care of himself, I’ll let him leave; until then, I’ll keep following behind him until he turns around. I’ll lose more shoes if I have to, but I won’t let him go. Not yet.
His folly would have ended in disaster had I allowed him to leave. When he has what he needs to survive in this world, he can go with my blessing. For now, I won’t let go; I’ll be the reason he wants to stay. If only because I promised him that, I’d leave him alone as long as he was on this land.
So, I followed him. I trailed behind his angry form and he walked the fence, searching for a place to climb through or over the wire. I followed him on the neighbor’s land, and I followed him when he went on the other neighbor’s land. I let him walk for a bit, and then told him, “I’ll let you go to that electrical pole, but no further. If you try to go any further, I’ll pick you up and carry you back.”
One of his pocketknives was in his right hand. He opened it when I stepped in front of him because he reached the pole. He flipped it closed and played with it for a moment before telling me to move out of his way and to let him leave. I couldn’t. I stood there and when he moved to brush past me; I picked him up. I had the upper half of his body over my shoulder. When I turned my head, I could barely see his knife out.
It was open again. And pointed towards my torso. His voice was quiet and full of anger when he spoke again, “Put me down; I’ll stab you. Leave me alone. Everyone bullies me and everyone lies.”
“Go ahead. I don’t care. -I have never lied to you, and I’m not planning on starting now. I’m not letting you go, and I’ll leave you alone when you’re back on her land.”
“You’re lying. You won’t leave me alone; no one does.” The knife point was against my back- a slight pressure, and then it was gone.
He closed it again. I set him down briefly to readjust my grip, and he stepped back. I was calm. No anger was left; just an empty ache because I was the trigger of this episode. The First was the fuel, but I lit the match. “I promise you; after you are back on her land, and you stay there, no going onto the other neighbor’s land, I will leave you alone. I won’t bother you anymore.”
His rage was back. The calm anger was gone; the knife was open yet again, when I reached for him, he swung his arm back. Once again, the words crossed my lips, I didn’t stop to think because I’ve said them so often, “Go ahead. Do it.”
The Second’s arm swung forward; his intent to strike was in his eyes. He would have landed the blow had I not caught his arm. He smirked, “Afraid?”
I smiled, “Nope.” – My unspoken words resonated through my head. I’m not afraid for my well-being; I’m afraid of what it would do to you if you cut me. You’d regret it, and you would never be the same. I couldn’t let you hurt yourself that way.
After that, he put the knife up, and he didn’t open it again. I picked him up, and lost a shoe when I began walking towards the fence. The other shoe was being sucked down into the water, so I kicked it off. “You lost your shoes. You should get them.”
“I’m not worried about them right now. They can be replaced; they’re cheap. You aren’t. I’ll either find them or I’ll get new ones later.” I again set him down to readjust my grip. Picked him back up, and began shuffling again. He was heavier than the last time I needed to carry him.
The third time I set him down, he started walking towards our fence. “You’ll leave me alone once I get back on her land?”
“Promise.” – That he still doubted me hurt. It really did. After all, I had been protecting them all for a while.
I followed him until he was back on the correct side of the fence, and then I turned to try to find my flip-flops. I looked for about five minutes before I gave them up as a lost cause. The tall, waving grass kept them hidden, and I couldn’t find the bent grass that was the proof of our passing.
The Second, once he was across the fence, looked back once to make sure I wasn’t following him any longer. Other than that, I wasn’t worth his time, I guess. I was keeping my word, so therefore, no longer a concern.
I picked my way across the pasture, crying. I wasn’t crying because the Second almost stabbed me. I was crying because I could still feel the anger in him as he held the knife, threatening me. He had been shaking with rage.
~~~
It’s a day later, and I’m reviewing my journal. I can see I did leave out part of the fight before the Second attempted to run away, but it was just him over-reacting to something I asked of him. The First stepped in, trying to be the bully or maybe the hero for a change. I’m not sure, but he blew up the fire I set. Anyways, the First didn’t help; he made it worse, and that caused the wrestling match between the Second and myself.
I’m bruised, but the Second isn’t. Most of my bruises aren’t visible, those that are, well, a couple resemble fingerprints, while a few others resemble welts. My joints are bothering me, but I reckon that’s because I was carrying the Second. I think I pulled something in my back, too. But, it’s okay since the Second seems to have gotten most of his anger out.
I’ll continue writing the events that happened after I returned to the orphanage. – Not much did happen, but it was good for the Second, I think. --
I found him on his bed, playing on his gaming system. I left him alone; I had promised after all. I picked back up cleaning as I had been before the incident, but a few minutes later, the Second came in the room, looking for the First because his charger was missing.
The First denied having it (as he normally does), which caused the Second to blow up. He returned to his room, where I found him. He was sobbing, (he was ticked off), but there wasn’t anything I could really do.
He kept saying he wanted to leave and not return, which led to him saying he wanted to die because all he knew was that the First and Third always bullied him and were never nice. Then he went back to wishing he would die.
The knife was back out, but I convinced him to put it up after he opened it and lay on it (blade, flat on the bed). For a few more moments, he cried and kept saying the same things, and then he left the room. I remained crouched where I was, and within a couple of minutes he was back; he laid back down, and then started playing with a lighter. He mentioned hiding it from the First, and that he’d had it for a couple of years.
I asked him to give it to me, but he dropped it in the crack between his bed and the wall instead. He continued to cry and repeat that all he wanted to do was leave or die. Eventually, he told me I could go because he wasn’t worth my time. I disagreed with him and stayed.
“I bet you feel sorry for me now.” – His voice, thick with tears, rose from his balled up form.
“No, I’m sorry that I feel useless; I don’t think I’m helping you any.” I lowered my head to my knees, and just watched him for a moment. “If you want, after I finish my chores, we can go out in the woods, and you can talk to me.”
“No. You’ll just laugh at me. That’s what she does.”
“I wouldn’t laugh, but okay. I’m going to finish my chores, but let me know if I can do anything.” – I think that since they came here, he’s changed. The Second is no longer the carefree boy he was; now, he’s bitter, and full of anger, just like the First. If the anger and disregard to others continues to spread, I’m afraid of what the Third will turn into. As of today, he’s a happy, little boy—a bit on the strange side, but happy nonetheless. That’s basically what I believed of the Second though.
That anger the Second has bottled inside needs to be dragged out of him. I’m not sure how, and simply making him angry at me will only cause more issues since I’m not the initial cause. I think I’ll just wait and see. I’m used to waiting and watching from the sidelines, but this time, it’s not affecting me. It’s the Second. It’s his life that could be screwed up if I wait too long or act rashly. When it was my game, I didn’t care, but the three need to be treasured. They need to care; being like me isn’t normal. It isn’t what’s best for them. They won’t survive the loneliness that resides in me.
“I will always be there for you. If the First starts to mess with you, come find me. I’ll take care of it.” Those words, once a promise, now a lie.
August 3, 2009
I prayed last night; I cried some too, but that was after the relief of telling someone the truth. After the relief, I felt guilt. I shouldn’t tell anyone, not even Him. I know he sees it, but telling Him makes me feel like I’m betraying her. Even if I’m not really since he sees and knows everything, I still shouldn’t.
Prayer is slowly becoming harder and harder to do. If He sees everything, why is He allowing this to continue? This was the second time she left bruises. No one else can see them under my clothes, but I can feel them. They’re like brands, burning every time my shoulders brush against the cotton fabric of my t-shirt. In a few days, they’ll be yellow and green, and in a week, they’ll be gone. But they hurt now.
The first time she left marks was when I took the blame for the Three. They were new to the orphanage, and didn’t deserve her anger; it wasn’t their fault that they didn’t know the rules yet. I took the blame for the missing lighter and the broken scissors. The mud on the carpet from the foray into the woods, I cleaned up; if she knew we had left, we’d all be punished, even if it had only been the Second and myself that actually left.
-- I had welts crossing my lower back; some of the deeper ones seeped fluid. I prayed the night that happened too. Nothing changed.
The second time, she didn’t have an excuse to hit me. They were gone, after three years of protecting them from themselves and her, I was once again alone. I knew the rules, and rarely messed up. She bided her time, waiting for me to make any small error. She beat me with a wooden paddle for tripping over an umbrella that fell away from the wall and rocking the china cabinet. I stood there, shoulders slumped, waiting for her rage to be spent and her to leave the room before I crumpled into a ball. My shoulders ached.
I stayed there for half an hour, making sure she wouldn’t come back, and then I locked myself in my room. And I prayed. I prayed that someone would come and rescue me. Yelling and stomping around the house had turned into slapping. Slapping had now changed into beating me with whatever ‘disciplinary’ objects lay close to hand. I wanted to leave, but was too young to survive on my own. But I was too old to be wanted by a family. So I prayed. I wanted it to end, but I couldn’t tell anyone because she didn’t deserve to be betrayed.
I prayed because He already knew, so it wasn’t tattling. I hoped He would do something like He did in the bible. I prayed someone would hear the screaming and the resounding smacks that seemed to fill the house when she was raging. Time passed, and no one came. No one commented when I went to school with bruises lining my arms, no longer hidden beneath my clothes.
Eventually, my prayers became fewer and fewer. A few weeks later when the beatings increased in severity again, I missed a week of school. I couldn’t walk; my legs were covered in welts and bruises, and a few cuts from the switch got infected.
After the latest time, I stopped praying. If He really existed, he wouldn’t have let me get beaten over and over. Someone would have seen and stepped up. I couldn’t say anything to anyone; I tried once and nothing came of it. - No one believed me. – I quit believing. My faith had slowly been beaten out of me, and had she found out, I probably would have had broken bones.
Regular attendance at church was a must while I lived there. She took me every Wednesday and Sunday, and expected me to confess to the preacher every other week. I made up sins, sins that normal teenagers committed, but never mentioned the beatings. After all, He should know about them already. And the preacher couldn’t do anything, even if I did mention it.
When I stopped praying, I began planning. I made plans and discarded them. None would work towards breaking free of her reign. I didn’t stop; all I needed was one that I could pull off. Just one functioning plan, and I’d be free. Just like the Three. All I needed to do was plan and bide my time.
October 3, 2009
I’m not sure when exactly she stopped breathing. However, I am sure I caused her to draw her last breath. It might have been after a few seconds, or it might have been minutes. I know it was in the afternoon during summer break. But I don’t remember the exact time.
Once, I watched as another was dragged to his end. Twice, I stood and watched, helpless, as yet another disappeared. The third time, I made a decision. As a result; she ended.
Obviously, I’m writing this after the fact, I think it’s been two weeks since I walked away. I didn’t cry because she ceased to exist. I don’t think I cried because she reminded me of an earlier time in my life when I quit feeling my emotions consistently. I cried because I was afraid.
I was afraid. I was alone, and I didn’t want to watch another to be punished. So I made a decision, and now, I can’t remember where I buried her. I’m straining my mind to remember, but I can’t. All that comes to mind, is the pasture. I know she’s in the pasture somewhere, but where specifically, I don’t know.
No one misses her; no one noticed that there was one fewer. No one noticed the fresh soil on the shovel, and no one paid my tear streaked face any heed. She just disappeared. One moment she was there, and the next, gone.
She was fading slowly, fighting to continue living. Green eyes blinked wearily, and tiny noises would escape occasionally, but they stopped. They had too. I made them.
Once, I tried. Twice, I failed. The third time, I succeeded.
Worms feasted on her flesh, I’m sure. Did she attempt to claw her way out of her grave? I don’t know. And frankly, I can’t say that I care. No one else does, so why should I? I walked away. That made caring obsolete.
After walking away from her, away from her last moments, how I felt didn’t matter. Now, I don’t feel anything; not sorrow, not regret. Absolutely nothing. I do remember, as I walked away, tears streaming down my face, I did one last thing. I laughed. I laughed because if anyone asked, I could tell them she didn’t make it.
Sure, she didn’t live. But, not because she was sick.
Once, I cried. Twice, I tried. The third time, I lied.
I’m almost certain that I’m broken beyond repair. I’m numb now, but earlier today, I remembered how pain was supposed to feel. It wasn’t even physical pain; purely emotional. The emotions overwhelmed me and I thought, perhaps I had returned to a time I could feel. The physical struggle didn’t bother me nearly as much as the hate that was emanating from his eyes and the venomous words that spewed from his mouth.
The attempts he made to hurt me failed, while when he threatened the others, I broke. The tears came because he was hurting and through that pain, he was striking out at everyone else. It was the same as when I was struggling with another to keep him from hurting others. I was blamed then too; strangely, I still don’t mind. I’ll take the blame and hate. They can’t hurt me. I’ve been conditioned for this.
They just can’t hurt each other. They haven’t realized it yet, but they’re supposed to be there for the other. They need to find a balance so they can fix what’s broken between them. One strikes out to feel powerful, and in turn, the other strikes out to overcome his sense of powerlessness. It’s a vicious cycle in time, with only one blamed. Me.
He threatened the others and me; I told him, “Go ahead. You can’t hurt me; just leave the others alone. I’ll do as I’ve done before and take your anger. Don’t ruin the Third. You won’t lay a hand on the others when I’m around. I’ve done the same thing to keep him from hurting you and the Third; I’ll keep you from hurting the First and Third. Go ahead; you can’t hurt me.”
He tried. He really did. The lack of momentum was probably the only thing that kept the pen from breaking my skin. I came away with trivial marks; he left with the intent not to return. He tried to flee, to escape the cycle. I wouldn’t let him go. I couldn’t. When he can take care of himself, I’ll let him leave; until then, I’ll keep following behind him until he turns around. I’ll lose more shoes if I have to, but I won’t let him go. Not yet.
His folly would have ended in disaster had I allowed him to leave. When he has what he needs to survive in this world, he can go with my blessing. For now, I won’t let go; I’ll be the reason he wants to stay. If only because I promised him that, I’d leave him alone as long as he was on this land.
So, I followed him. I trailed behind his angry form and he walked the fence, searching for a place to climb through or over the wire. I followed him on the neighbor’s land, and I followed him when he went on the other neighbor’s land. I let him walk for a bit, and then told him, “I’ll let you go to that electrical pole, but no further. If you try to go any further, I’ll pick you up and carry you back.”
One of his pocketknives was in his right hand. He opened it when I stepped in front of him because he reached the pole. He flipped it closed and played with it for a moment before telling me to move out of his way and to let him leave. I couldn’t. I stood there and when he moved to brush past me; I picked him up. I had the upper half of his body over my shoulder. When I turned my head, I could barely see his knife out.
It was open again. And pointed towards my torso. His voice was quiet and full of anger when he spoke again, “Put me down; I’ll stab you. Leave me alone. Everyone bullies me and everyone lies.”
“Go ahead. I don’t care. -I have never lied to you, and I’m not planning on starting now. I’m not letting you go, and I’ll leave you alone when you’re back on her land.”
“You’re lying. You won’t leave me alone; no one does.” The knife point was against my back- a slight pressure, and then it was gone.
He closed it again. I set him down briefly to readjust my grip, and he stepped back. I was calm. No anger was left; just an empty ache because I was the trigger of this episode. The First was the fuel, but I lit the match. “I promise you; after you are back on her land, and you stay there, no going onto the other neighbor’s land, I will leave you alone. I won’t bother you anymore.”
His rage was back. The calm anger was gone; the knife was open yet again, when I reached for him, he swung his arm back. Once again, the words crossed my lips, I didn’t stop to think because I’ve said them so often, “Go ahead. Do it.”
The Second’s arm swung forward; his intent to strike was in his eyes. He would have landed the blow had I not caught his arm. He smirked, “Afraid?”
I smiled, “Nope.” – My unspoken words resonated through my head. I’m not afraid for my well-being; I’m afraid of what it would do to you if you cut me. You’d regret it, and you would never be the same. I couldn’t let you hurt yourself that way.
After that, he put the knife up, and he didn’t open it again. I picked him up, and lost a shoe when I began walking towards the fence. The other shoe was being sucked down into the water, so I kicked it off. “You lost your shoes. You should get them.”
“I’m not worried about them right now. They can be replaced; they’re cheap. You aren’t. I’ll either find them or I’ll get new ones later.” I again set him down to readjust my grip. Picked him back up, and began shuffling again. He was heavier than the last time I needed to carry him.
The third time I set him down, he started walking towards our fence. “You’ll leave me alone once I get back on her land?”
“Promise.” – That he still doubted me hurt. It really did. After all, I had been protecting them all for a while.
I followed him until he was back on the correct side of the fence, and then I turned to try to find my flip-flops. I looked for about five minutes before I gave them up as a lost cause. The tall, waving grass kept them hidden, and I couldn’t find the bent grass that was the proof of our passing.
The Second, once he was across the fence, looked back once to make sure I wasn’t following him any longer. Other than that, I wasn’t worth his time, I guess. I was keeping my word, so therefore, no longer a concern.
I picked my way across the pasture, crying. I wasn’t crying because the Second almost stabbed me. I was crying because I could still feel the anger in him as he held the knife, threatening me. He had been shaking with rage.
~~~
It’s a day later, and I’m reviewing my journal. I can see I did leave out part of the fight before the Second attempted to run away, but it was just him over-reacting to something I asked of him. The First stepped in, trying to be the bully or maybe the hero for a change. I’m not sure, but he blew up the fire I set. Anyways, the First didn’t help; he made it worse, and that caused the wrestling match between the Second and myself.
I’m bruised, but the Second isn’t. Most of my bruises aren’t visible, those that are, well, a couple resemble fingerprints, while a few others resemble welts. My joints are bothering me, but I reckon that’s because I was carrying the Second. I think I pulled something in my back, too. But, it’s okay since the Second seems to have gotten most of his anger out.
I’ll continue writing the events that happened after I returned to the orphanage. – Not much did happen, but it was good for the Second, I think. --
I found him on his bed, playing on his gaming system. I left him alone; I had promised after all. I picked back up cleaning as I had been before the incident, but a few minutes later, the Second came in the room, looking for the First because his charger was missing.
The First denied having it (as he normally does), which caused the Second to blow up. He returned to his room, where I found him. He was sobbing, (he was ticked off), but there wasn’t anything I could really do.
He kept saying he wanted to leave and not return, which led to him saying he wanted to die because all he knew was that the First and Third always bullied him and were never nice. Then he went back to wishing he would die.
The knife was back out, but I convinced him to put it up after he opened it and lay on it (blade, flat on the bed). For a few more moments, he cried and kept saying the same things, and then he left the room. I remained crouched where I was, and within a couple of minutes he was back; he laid back down, and then started playing with a lighter. He mentioned hiding it from the First, and that he’d had it for a couple of years.
I asked him to give it to me, but he dropped it in the crack between his bed and the wall instead. He continued to cry and repeat that all he wanted to do was leave or die. Eventually, he told me I could go because he wasn’t worth my time. I disagreed with him and stayed.
“I bet you feel sorry for me now.” – His voice, thick with tears, rose from his balled up form.
“No, I’m sorry that I feel useless; I don’t think I’m helping you any.” I lowered my head to my knees, and just watched him for a moment. “If you want, after I finish my chores, we can go out in the woods, and you can talk to me.”
“No. You’ll just laugh at me. That’s what she does.”
“I wouldn’t laugh, but okay. I’m going to finish my chores, but let me know if I can do anything.” – I think that since they came here, he’s changed. The Second is no longer the carefree boy he was; now, he’s bitter, and full of anger, just like the First. If the anger and disregard to others continues to spread, I’m afraid of what the Third will turn into. As of today, he’s a happy, little boy—a bit on the strange side, but happy nonetheless. That’s basically what I believed of the Second though.
That anger the Second has bottled inside needs to be dragged out of him. I’m not sure how, and simply making him angry at me will only cause more issues since I’m not the initial cause. I think I’ll just wait and see. I’m used to waiting and watching from the sidelines, but this time, it’s not affecting me. It’s the Second. It’s his life that could be screwed up if I wait too long or act rashly. When it was my game, I didn’t care, but the three need to be treasured. They need to care; being like me isn’t normal. It isn’t what’s best for them. They won’t survive the loneliness that resides in me.
“I will always be there for you. If the First starts to mess with you, come find me. I’ll take care of it.” Those words, once a promise, now a lie.
August 3, 2009
I prayed last night; I cried some too, but that was after the relief of telling someone the truth. After the relief, I felt guilt. I shouldn’t tell anyone, not even Him. I know he sees it, but telling Him makes me feel like I’m betraying her. Even if I’m not really since he sees and knows everything, I still shouldn’t.
Prayer is slowly becoming harder and harder to do. If He sees everything, why is He allowing this to continue? This was the second time she left bruises. No one else can see them under my clothes, but I can feel them. They’re like brands, burning every time my shoulders brush against the cotton fabric of my t-shirt. In a few days, they’ll be yellow and green, and in a week, they’ll be gone. But they hurt now.
The first time she left marks was when I took the blame for the Three. They were new to the orphanage, and didn’t deserve her anger; it wasn’t their fault that they didn’t know the rules yet. I took the blame for the missing lighter and the broken scissors. The mud on the carpet from the foray into the woods, I cleaned up; if she knew we had left, we’d all be punished, even if it had only been the Second and myself that actually left.
-- I had welts crossing my lower back; some of the deeper ones seeped fluid. I prayed the night that happened too. Nothing changed.
The second time, she didn’t have an excuse to hit me. They were gone, after three years of protecting them from themselves and her, I was once again alone. I knew the rules, and rarely messed up. She bided her time, waiting for me to make any small error. She beat me with a wooden paddle for tripping over an umbrella that fell away from the wall and rocking the china cabinet. I stood there, shoulders slumped, waiting for her rage to be spent and her to leave the room before I crumpled into a ball. My shoulders ached.
I stayed there for half an hour, making sure she wouldn’t come back, and then I locked myself in my room. And I prayed. I prayed that someone would come and rescue me. Yelling and stomping around the house had turned into slapping. Slapping had now changed into beating me with whatever ‘disciplinary’ objects lay close to hand. I wanted to leave, but was too young to survive on my own. But I was too old to be wanted by a family. So I prayed. I wanted it to end, but I couldn’t tell anyone because she didn’t deserve to be betrayed.
I prayed because He already knew, so it wasn’t tattling. I hoped He would do something like He did in the bible. I prayed someone would hear the screaming and the resounding smacks that seemed to fill the house when she was raging. Time passed, and no one came. No one commented when I went to school with bruises lining my arms, no longer hidden beneath my clothes.
Eventually, my prayers became fewer and fewer. A few weeks later when the beatings increased in severity again, I missed a week of school. I couldn’t walk; my legs were covered in welts and bruises, and a few cuts from the switch got infected.
After the latest time, I stopped praying. If He really existed, he wouldn’t have let me get beaten over and over. Someone would have seen and stepped up. I couldn’t say anything to anyone; I tried once and nothing came of it. - No one believed me. – I quit believing. My faith had slowly been beaten out of me, and had she found out, I probably would have had broken bones.
Regular attendance at church was a must while I lived there. She took me every Wednesday and Sunday, and expected me to confess to the preacher every other week. I made up sins, sins that normal teenagers committed, but never mentioned the beatings. After all, He should know about them already. And the preacher couldn’t do anything, even if I did mention it.
When I stopped praying, I began planning. I made plans and discarded them. None would work towards breaking free of her reign. I didn’t stop; all I needed was one that I could pull off. Just one functioning plan, and I’d be free. Just like the Three. All I needed to do was plan and bide my time.
October 3, 2009
I’m not sure when exactly she stopped breathing. However, I am sure I caused her to draw her last breath. It might have been after a few seconds, or it might have been minutes. I know it was in the afternoon during summer break. But I don’t remember the exact time.
Once, I watched as another was dragged to his end. Twice, I stood and watched, helpless, as yet another disappeared. The third time, I made a decision. As a result; she ended.
Obviously, I’m writing this after the fact, I think it’s been two weeks since I walked away. I didn’t cry because she ceased to exist. I don’t think I cried because she reminded me of an earlier time in my life when I quit feeling my emotions consistently. I cried because I was afraid.
I was afraid. I was alone, and I didn’t want to watch another to be punished. So I made a decision, and now, I can’t remember where I buried her. I’m straining my mind to remember, but I can’t. All that comes to mind, is the pasture. I know she’s in the pasture somewhere, but where specifically, I don’t know.
No one misses her; no one noticed that there was one fewer. No one noticed the fresh soil on the shovel, and no one paid my tear streaked face any heed. She just disappeared. One moment she was there, and the next, gone.
She was fading slowly, fighting to continue living. Green eyes blinked wearily, and tiny noises would escape occasionally, but they stopped. They had too. I made them.
Once, I tried. Twice, I failed. The third time, I succeeded.
Worms feasted on her flesh, I’m sure. Did she attempt to claw her way out of her grave? I don’t know. And frankly, I can’t say that I care. No one else does, so why should I? I walked away. That made caring obsolete.
After walking away from her, away from her last moments, how I felt didn’t matter. Now, I don’t feel anything; not sorrow, not regret. Absolutely nothing. I do remember, as I walked away, tears streaming down my face, I did one last thing. I laughed. I laughed because if anyone asked, I could tell them she didn’t make it.
Sure, she didn’t live. But, not because she was sick.
Once, I cried. Twice, I tried. The third time, I lied.
