To My First Best Friend

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It's funny how young I started to ponder the concepts of nature and nurture, but when you come in contact with a human such as yourself, it becomes increasingly more difficult to ignore the concept of true malicious intent woven into the very threads that makes one human. We were five years old, the sun bright, wood chips in our shoes and shirts untucked from our blue uniform pants. Scared and uncomfortable in my new setting, I clung to you, my first friend in this strange place. We were playing on the jungle gym; you asked me to help you. I told you to wait. You didn't. Quicker than I could climb under the bars to help you, you hung upside down from the bars on the top, knees securing your position. Before I could make it to you, you fell, face first. Your teeth fell into the wood chips, shins clanging against the bars. I yelled to a teacher to come help, tears already streaming down my cheeks and as I went to help you up, because I made it inside too late, you screamed as though my hands were poison, and pointed at me. Even now, I remember that very moment in slow motion, maybe because it set the tone for the rest of my time at that school. The teacher looked at me in the same way an angry parent communicates with their child silently in public, and my heart dropped to the pit of my stomach. I hadn't done it. I told the teacher. She didn't listen. Even before I could explain my innocence, I was guilty. What had prompted such an accusation? What made you point to me? You'd point later too.

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