I was nine, she was my princess at eight.
Pretty, kind, and clever.
She would tease me for playing on the slide a lot. I would tease her for her silly dress.
I teased her, not bullied her.
That was Spencer’s job.
Mean, unkind, cruel.
When I caught him biting, hitting and kicking her, I punched him in the face. He ran off crying.
My princess was still on the ground. Still, as in dead.
She was bleeding from her chest.
I was powerless to help her.
To this day, I blame myself for being too slow.
Hopeless, depressed, useless.
Written by Rodney Goodall
Owner of NibbleReads and
building an online income via www.rodneygoodall.com