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05 March 2008 @ 11:03 pm
You know one day I was just sitting there in my usual spot after school crying on the playground. I must have been about eight years old. So anyways here I was just sitting there, just sitting there crying and I started to think as usual. Why does everyone look at me like this? Why don’t I have any friends? Why don’t they like me? Why do they call me fatty? Why do they call me miss piggy? Why do they point? Why do they stare and laugh?

Of course this made it worst. The more I thought about how they hated me the more I thought why and why me? I was a good kid back then. I never got in trouble. The folks did not have to worry about me all that much. I knew better. One time I talked back to my pa and he grabbed me pulled me into the next room and took of his belt. I remember the whipping. Lash after lash on me, and I was only six at the time. Each strike stung so bad that I felt like I could not take it anymore, but I did. By the time he was done I was a limp thing. I just laid on the floor in a ball and he left the room. All he said was “that shows you who is boss around here missy.” I guess that day I learned to respect pa. Who cares if it was out of fear? He never heard anything disrespectful out of me. I knew who was boss. I knew who was in control.

Even ma cowered under pa’s authority. She had problems with her tongue too. She would speak up and pa would just give her the look and she would immediately regain her modesty again. She would behave herself. Of course sometimes it took more than a look, but most the time she was able to keep herself under control. Everyone knew who was boss. Everyone knew their place. And everyone respected pa.

I was in my little dress that ma had sewed for me. We were so poor that there was no way that I could have store clothes. Ma did her best making me dresses from her old ones. The patterns were faded and out of date, but she tried. She stayed up all night sewing them for me sometimes. She wanted the best for me. She wanted me to be popular to have tons of friends and to eventually marry out of this poor state.

But here I was crying thinking poor me despite all the well wishes of my mother, despite the countless hours she spent sewing my dresses. I had tried everything I thought. I was always humble. I was always kind. I always knew my place and said my “yes sirs” and “yes mams.” I would sit in my chair in class perfectly straight paying attention to every word. Whenever I would talk to the other kids I felt awkward. I would always try to talk to them but they would shun me. They would see my tattered clothes. They would see how poor I was. They would see how I was a bit chubby and they would make me an easy target.

I guess that one day I decided that this was not working. That crying and saying poor me would not work. This was not how one gained respect. This is not how one got friends. Who would want to be friends with someone who only cried and said poor me?

I wiped off my tears with my sleeve. I decided that I was going to take a proactive view. I smiled as I thought about what I was about to do. Who cared what would happen nothing could be worst than this emotional lashing I took every day. I stood up. I dusted the dirt off my knees and went up to the most popular girl in my class. She looked at me and turned up her nose. She said “what are you doing here you poor pig?” Then I jumped on her. I grabbed her by the hair. And pulled her down to the ground. I shoved her face in the dirt. I wanted to make that little nose as dirty as possible maybe bleed a little. She deserved it. She had over stepped her bounds and I was going to show her who was boss.

Her friends just stood there starring at me. I gave that bitch a whooping like she deserved. Pulled her hair. And she was just crying. I kept on going at her until she was a limp little thing. Then I gave all her friends a look. And said that if I hear that anyone told any teacher or parent about what happened here today I would find them and do the exact same thing to them.

That is when I gained my respect. I guess that is how I learned my own philosophy that respect is respect whether it be by fear or love it is the same thing. From that day forward I was no longer a weakling. I was a bully, but I was damn good at it. In fact I gained some friends and we kept everyone in check. Everyone would have to show me respect from now on.

And they do. The only difference is that instead of me getting my little dress all dirty from teaching them a lesson. I have girls that will do it for me. I have girls that would do anything for me. They will do anything for me because they fear what would happen if I had to take care of things myself.
penseur_nevrose on March 6th, 2008 07:25 pm (UTC)
Did this fulfill the prompt? Explain how so, or why not:

Standout parts:
the ending

Needing improvement:
I think you're starting to develop a routine "character format," the last three feel like different forms of the same identity... abused to abuser.

General comments:
You're very good with integrating wee details I know I'd never think of into your characters and stories.
aloofcreaturealoofcreature on March 6th, 2008 07:48 pm (UTC)
I am just wondering how was my first character abused or was an abuser? Enlightenment would be much appreciated :).
penseur_nevrose on March 7th, 2008 01:42 am (UTC)
not your first one... the one who lived with his grandma. I wasn't sure if it was two or three, I must be picturing more than there are.