A Bite Will Change All

I remember being barefoot on the playground, pushing children down. It was satisfying, like the Sunday morning my grandma called me baby. Those were good days, especially when she left me in Sunday school with the other children I’d stare into submission. I could say sorry for every child I punched, but it wouldn’t be genuine. And I’d rather not say sorry at all because I take pride in what I did. I’m proud of the lacerations I’ve caused to the annoying crying children. I pinched. It was pure amazement to feel my hand slap across my playmates’ faces. It sent a momentous joy through my bones to see kids cower in corners as I walked into the school halls. And there was an authentic ecstasy in shoving children off plastic slopes so they would grab their wrists in pain. They did not know pain, so I would show them.
It started one Tuesday morning, when everyone was cranky and their mouths were tired. My grandma dropped me off at 321 Nursing Center where none of the working adults truly paid attention to the kids. Sure they’d hold and hug children when parents were coming and going, but they couldn’t wait to drop the children when their parents were gone. So I saw it as an opportunity to make friends. All my attempts were in vain; some children would with me, but they wouldn’t be my best friend. Sometimes this girl, Trina, let me play with her dolls, and Jamal, who always cooked with the plastic oven, let me cook him dinner, and Isaiah, who was two years older than me, let me play with his Yu-Gi-Oh cards whenever he was in the mood. They always smiled their gap-toothed smile as they walked away from me.
So one day, I pushed Trina. She was sitting on the swing set, playing with her dolls, not even using the swing, so I pushed her and she fell on her ankles.
“Own!” She grabbed her ankle, and rubbed it.
I stared her down.
“Hey, why’d you push me?” Trina’s eyes were so sincere it sickened me.
“Shut-up.” I slapped her, and snatched her doll away. I pointed to her, “You and this doll, are sluts.”
“My mommy won’t like that!”
“Your momma’s one too!” I tore off the doll’s head, and threw it at her face. Her lips puckered and she began to cry. It took me a minute to realize that everything was quiet, except for the creaking chains of the swing set and poor Trina’s sobs. I looked up and around me to see every child incredulously staring at me, their mouths hung wide catching disbelief like soccer nets. They all knew I was a sour child, but I suppose they didn’t expect this from me. It was getting a bit too hot outside, so I strolled through the small number of children and onto the cement steps to go inside. But before I left, I turned around to revel in the disturbance I caused. Everyone continued focusing on the swing set, as if I hadn’t even left. It was as if me slapping her stupid kept replaying in their head, and it was comedic to me.
Of course, later on that day, someone reported me. I acted as If I didn’t understand what she accused me of. Ms. Mackliene continually confronted me until I convinced her all she was informed of was false. Then she left me to play with the kitchen set Jamal graciously “loaned” to me. While I was cooking, I felt a stabbing pain in my back, I thought it was from slaving over a hot stove all day but I realized it was something more. I turned around to see what the cause was, but nothing was there, only a few boys turned around playing with their blocks. I commenced my cooking again, until I felt that stabbing pain again. I twisted my body quicker this time to see the group of boys, staring at me. They gave me a dirty, vicious stare only a four year old could give. I commanded them to stop looking at me and only one of them did with a look of shame. I felt such a swell of vigor from his look; his eyes watching the floor in fright, the edges of his lips that hung down in anger, and his cheeks that aged with disappointment. I spat on all of them, just so they could remember their place.
My rampage grew exponentially after that. I’d rip buttons off of new jackets, I’d pin kids down to the ground so their tears could shrivel in the sun, and I laughed. I always laughed whenever I finished demeaning a child; a literal insult to injury. I yanked hair, stomped toes, and threw toys. I called plenty of children out of their names, and I’m sure plenty of the adults observed me in my chaos. They were afraid of me like the children. The only one to oppose me was Ms. Mackliene, which wasn’t much of a fight. She was old and brittle, with her saggy boobs hanging in front of me to chastise my vision. I kicked her in her shins once, and she never tested my patience again. I scratched and bit the arms of my peers, because I had to have my poison coursing through their veins. When that happened, it only took two days for their revolting attitudes to die. People started to avoid me on the slides, making a complete circle around me in the hallways. I noticed the parents cursing me whenever they came to rescue their battered child, and I cursed them back. Sometimes, I did feel lonely in the sweltering heat. I realized that I couldn’t have the best of both worlds; being feared and being socially satisfied. I held power in my hand though, and that made up for my loneliness. But one day it all changed.
It was a month before kindergarten started when we had a new child come to our center. His name was Taylor and he was three years older than me. He was huge and handsome too; this exceptionally statuesque Goliath had graced the playground with his presence, and it was a goal of mine to break him. I went up to him and kicked his back. He faltered a bit, but stacked himself. He looked down at me, with his shadowed eyes. He had struck me with this tangible fear, and I liked it. He called me a wussie, and pushed me into the ground. I screamed for help, but no one heard me.
They just watched in awe at their tyrant being overtaken. He rubbed my face into the dirt, and made me eat grass. He drooled on my neck.
Which felt nice. And I began to cry. Which felt so nice.
Taylor pinned his knee to my side, then rose from my back. He kicked me to my side, and wiped his drool on my shirt.
He mumbled, “That was nice.” And we stared at one another for a minute.
He spit on my forehead, and walked away. Everyone else was still. I felt the wet grass on my back, and felt the sun bake my face. It felt weird, because I had this euphoric taste in my mouth while I was pushed into the ground. I think it was because we both knew that I agreed with him. No one reported that I was abused, including me; I wanted it that way.
After that, people followed to Taylor’s lead, and they berated me on a daily basis. I was now the wimp. Jamal cooked more often. Trina and her dolls and the swing set were safe. But I wasn’t anymore. But I liked it.