The Hidden Rage

 

“Hit him!”

I didn’t want to do it, but what could I do? I was only a little child. Even the adults were yelling it, so I picked up the stick.

I gave him a gentle poke.

“Hit him!” yelled my father, a note of exasperation in his voice. I’d always been a failure as a son, never good at sports.

Gripping the stick firmly, I lashed out.

It felt good to let out all the anger I had hidden inside. Again and again I struck him until he lay broken and dead on the ground.

Me One, Pinata Nil.

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