Write from the point of view of a day of the week. 

I think she thinks I’m the enemy. She’s looked at me with the same amount of hatred a dog has headed to the vet…to get his balls chopped off. It’s like she thinks I set out to hurt her. As if I enjoyed it. But, here’s the thing: I never meant to. It was simply fate. It was maybe even written in the stars alongside the great, Greek gods.

I was the one who delivered her to her father’s.

I was the bell that tolled at midnight and the sun that rose over the horizon, peaking through the windows and falling gently onto her closed eyelids. I was the ticking clock pulling her into her school clothes and pushing her towards the structured building where kids were cruel and teachers looked away. I was the one who pushed her away from her home of solace into her home of torment once the final bell rang.

I spoke with the others. I asked if she was as resentful towards them as she was to me, but their answers did not comfort me. Instead, it made me wonder how she must feel to carry so much distaste in her heart. The dread that must have settled into her stomach on these mornings as she set off to be picked apart by a cowering vulture that never seemed to let up. No matter how much she bled.










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