| Biographical Non-Fiction posted March 18, 2024 |
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Not MY cub
Blurred Lines
by Jessica Wheeler
The author has placed a warning on this post for language.
Fury stretched tall on the wall behind me, casting the hovering shadow of a bear in the dim light.
I stood in our kitchen, contemplating the propriety of my next steps, as rage bubbled red- like a Sunday sauce overcooking.
In agony, I listened as my daughter described what had taken place. Her face, a delicate portrait of sweet suffering, attempted to mask the extent of her pain. I focused hard on her words, endeavoring to conceal the growl within me, threatening to escape from the depths.
I would give anything to pull the torn veil back over her emerald eyes, to restore her shattered naivety.
My daughter had become the latest victim of the evil prowling the halls of her junior high- a pack of girls searching for another backpack to mark with their bullseye.
They set their sights on the quiet, introverted, beautiful little girl, lost in the words of J.D. Salinger, blind to the envy that fueled this torment. My daughter unwittingly held the attention of a boy desired by her tormentor.
She couldn't understand, nor did she care about such trivial things. But the jealousy drove a bitter, unwarranted, wicked retaliation that was even further beyond her comprehension.
The hint of shame in her voice all but blew the roof off my composure. I felt my adult self reverting to a time of youth. A time when I'd defend my little sister from similar monsters with a less measured approach. A time when I would have been halfway there at this point, removing my hoops and running my mouth as if I were far more powerful than my stature suggested.
Jealousy is...
a vile, petty, malicious little bitch.
Taking on the form of a young girl, dressed head to toe in envy, with wickedness worn like an unflattering crop top.
I pity these preteens, engulfed in their narcissistic needs. They thrive on fleeting moments of significance, only attained by tearing another down. How awful it must be, constantly searching for nonexistent importance.
Yet, my sympathy is quickly overshadowed by a genuine concern for them; as the line between bullies and beasts begins to blur- making it difficult to differentiate.
And I... am a much bigger bitch than jealousy.
Nonfiction Writing Contest contest entry
Fury stretched tall on the wall behind me, casting the hovering shadow of a bear in the dim light.
I stood in our kitchen, contemplating the propriety of my next steps, as rage bubbled red- like a Sunday sauce overcooking.
In agony, I listened as my daughter described what had taken place. Her face, a delicate portrait of sweet suffering, attempted to mask the extent of her pain. I focused hard on her words, endeavoring to conceal the growl within me, threatening to escape from the depths.
I would give anything to pull the torn veil back over her emerald eyes, to restore her shattered naivety.
My daughter had become the latest victim of the evil prowling the halls of her junior high- a pack of girls searching for another backpack to mark with their bullseye.
They set their sights on the quiet, introverted, beautiful little girl, lost in the words of J.D. Salinger, blind to the envy that fueled this torment. My daughter unwittingly held the attention of a boy desired by her tormentor.
She couldn't understand, nor did she care about such trivial things. But the jealousy drove a bitter, unwarranted, wicked retaliation that was even further beyond her comprehension.
The hint of shame in her voice all but blew the roof off my composure. I felt my adult self reverting to a time of youth. A time when I'd defend my little sister from similar monsters with a less measured approach. A time when I would have been halfway there at this point, removing my hoops and running my mouth as if I were far more powerful than my stature suggested.
Jealousy is...
a vile, petty, malicious little bitch.
Taking on the form of a young girl, dressed head to toe in envy, with wickedness worn like an unflattering crop top.
I pity these preteens, engulfed in their narcissistic needs. They thrive on fleeting moments of significance, only attained by tearing another down. How awful it must be, constantly searching for nonexistent importance.
Yet, my sympathy is quickly overshadowed by a genuine concern for them; as the line between bullies and beasts begins to blur- making it difficult to differentiate.
And I... am a much bigger bitch than jealousy.
I stood in our kitchen, contemplating the propriety of my next steps, as rage bubbled red- like a Sunday sauce overcooking.
In agony, I listened as my daughter described what had taken place. Her face, a delicate portrait of sweet suffering, attempted to mask the extent of her pain. I focused hard on her words, endeavoring to conceal the growl within me, threatening to escape from the depths.
I would give anything to pull the torn veil back over her emerald eyes, to restore her shattered naivety.
My daughter had become the latest victim of the evil prowling the halls of her junior high- a pack of girls searching for another backpack to mark with their bullseye.
They set their sights on the quiet, introverted, beautiful little girl, lost in the words of J.D. Salinger, blind to the envy that fueled this torment. My daughter unwittingly held the attention of a boy desired by her tormentor.
She couldn't understand, nor did she care about such trivial things. But the jealousy drove a bitter, unwarranted, wicked retaliation that was even further beyond her comprehension.
The hint of shame in her voice all but blew the roof off my composure. I felt my adult self reverting to a time of youth. A time when I'd defend my little sister from similar monsters with a less measured approach. A time when I would have been halfway there at this point, removing my hoops and running my mouth as if I were far more powerful than my stature suggested.
Jealousy is...
a vile, petty, malicious little bitch.
Taking on the form of a young girl, dressed head to toe in envy, with wickedness worn like an unflattering crop top.
I pity these preteens, engulfed in their narcissistic needs. They thrive on fleeting moments of significance, only attained by tearing another down. How awful it must be, constantly searching for nonexistent importance.
Yet, my sympathy is quickly overshadowed by a genuine concern for them; as the line between bullies and beasts begins to blur- making it difficult to differentiate.
And I... am a much bigger bitch than jealousy.
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© Copyright 2024. Jessica Wheeler All rights reserved.
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