The End Of It All

It began when I was 6 years old. The merciless mockery. The teasing taunts. The wielding of words as a weapon. The lonely quiet that begs for the barest spark of friendship.
It seemed that it would never stop.
In second grade, the bully would call me names. She called a few of us names but she seemed to exact a greater measure of satisfaction when I was the subject of her torment.
Time passed and she grew twistedly fonder of me as I became the primary target of her ruthless words. She would make jokes at my expense, leaving 6 year old me sad and confused. What had I done?
She told me I was ugly and unintelligent, abandoning 6 year old me in the throes of self-doubt. Was there something wrong with me?
Her words thwarted the children who tried to help, and 6 year old me had a pressing question. Why was she so powerful? She was the queen, the playground was her kingdom and her reign of terror seemed never-ending.
One day, the bully entered the imposing building we called “the office” and suddenly, she was gone. Her reign was over. I thought that was the end of it all.
Four years later, I saw her again. We locked eyes in a crowd and she ran. It shocked me. This could not possibly be the girl responsible for my torn leggings, mud-caked clothing and tear-streaked face.
It did not make any sense.
Time had passed and naturally, we had both grown. We were both taller and certainly older but those were not the differences I noticed.
This girl’s eyes were kinder. Her mouth was softer, as if she smiled often. She didn’t look particularly powerful to me. Surely this was not the queen of the playground? Guilt and sorrow had flitted wildly about the girl’s face before she fled, attempting to outrun her past.
The girl’s friend ran after her.
A short while later, the girl’s friend returned. The girl was nowhere to be seen. As though she had read my mind, the friend spoke.
“She’s not coming.”
The slight tilt of my neck voiced my next question.
“Why?” my eyes asked.
“She’s scared. But she wants you to know that she’s sorry,” the friend continued empathetically.
I nodded wordlessly. An onslaught of words screamed in my mind but I remained silent.
The friend turned to leave.
“Why?” I asked hoarsely, the word ripping itself from the hollows of my throat. Emboldened, I found my voice. “Why’d she do it?”
The friend’s eyes dawned with understanding.
“You don’t know, do you? She was bullied before you. What she did was wrong but it was done to her too.”
I finally understood. I nodded my head again, this time in acceptance of the girl’s apology. I forgave her because it was clear that she had changed. Now we could both move on.
I smiled.
It was finally the end of it all.

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