Dear bully, I Hate You

Chapter 9.

Dear bully,

Sometimes I wonder if you have a heart.

I used to think everyone does but I'm not so sure now.

Sometimes I come across people like you.

The heartless ones.

The ones who think they're superior to everyone else around them.

When we were ten, I watched you and your friends stoned a pup to death.

Not any pup.

My pup.

I was walking her one afternoon when you and your friends came out of no where.

That pup was my only friend.

And you took her from me.

You said I would have been bad.

I didn't do anything.

You stoned my dog for no reason.

I remember crying on my knees, begging you to stop, as my poor pup whimpered in pain, covered in blood with broken bones.

I remember holding my pup in my hands after you left laughing at my dispair.

It was breathing ever so slowly as it's life slipped away without haste. I remember staring at the blood on my hands long after my pup died. The blood stained my hands and the pale blue dress I was wearing. Dark was coming but I was still kneeling in that same spot where you left me, staring at my pup's blood on my hand. Staring at my pup's stiff lifeless body. I think that was when the darkness in me first started because I remember laughing. I don't know why but I began to laugh. It felt like the right thing to do.

My mother found me. It was already dark. She had been looking for me. She was horrified at the sight she found. My mother took me and my dead pup home. She visited your father. She told him what you did. But he just sat there behind his desk, smoking his big fat brown cigar and listening with disinterest. After my mom finished talking, he gave a wad of cash and told her to get out his office.

Your father can buy anyone's silence.

But he couldn't buy back the life of my pup.

My mom came back and offered to help me buried my pup.

I shook my head. I didn't want her help. I was angry.

I was angry at you and your friends for killing my pup.

I was angry your father for not caring about the five-month old pup that was stoned to death, for giving my mother his 'blood' money.

I was angry at my mother for taking that money.

So she took a flashlight and I placed my pup in an old shoe box and picked up the spade.

In the dark of the night I buried my pup.

But I wasn't just burying my pup.

I was burying you.

As I covered my old shoe box containing my pup's body.

I saw myself covering a blood-covered ten-year-old version of you.

And I was smiling as I buried you.

That was the first time I knew something was wrong with me.

The very first time.

My pup's name was Rosebud.

It was a girl.

She was a beagle.

Do you remember now?

Don't you think you deserve to be hated?