The Fear Inside

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

This story is marked 'Fiction' however, it is true - there just wasn't any better categories to select. The story involves the author's account of a female junior high bully and how she terrorized
her victims.

Submitted: July 22, 2018

A A A | A A A

Submitted: July 22, 2018



 We were in junior High at the time.

She wasn’t unusually tall, but with her power to reign terror over her peers, she might just as well have been Goliath the giant, but without a ‘David’ in the making.  She was thin, but muscular for a girl.  With a houseful of rowdy older brothers to wrestle daily, us school girls knew that we were no match for her.  She had a loud raspy voice that rang out like that crash of thunder that interrupts the tranquility of a peaceful summer day, and she laughed the cackle of a victorious witch. Her glare was cold and diabolical, and it twisted my intestines like a bout with lactose intolerance.

I was terrified of her. I prayed. I begged God not to make my presence known to her, but like the rest of the meek junior high girls, I would have my day every so often.  She once forced me to empty the entire contents of my purse out onto my desk for her to inspect, and then she demanded that I give an explanation for each of the common everyday items that were in my purse. I guess I should have felt grateful because she usually punched her victims in the face and head, but instead of feeling grateful, I felt resentful. I was angry at myself for being such a coward. I thought that she was better off than me just because she had the power to make me feel a fear inside that, on up until junior high, I never would have imagined existed. 

After I was promoted from junior high, I didn’t see this girl anymore for about a decade, and when I did, the sight of her confirmed the rumors that I had been hearing over the years.  She had been addicted to crack cocaine and subsequently suffered a stroke as a side effect. Her gross-motor skills were erratic, her speech was slurred, and she looked and moved like someone almost three times her age.  I was taught to look a person in the eye – or at least the face - when talking to them, but somehow that virtue seemed inappropriate when taking into consideration the condition that she was in.  She was now the weak one, and I was the one endowed with the prevailing end of physical strength. But for some reason, I felt empathy for her and wished that I could help her.

I often ask myself what was worse - the fear I felt from the things this girl did to me in junior high, or the empathy I felt from the things she had done to herself in life.



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