i find his body, broken, pieces shoved in a hole. one glassy eye stares, filled with questions, ready to spill down his cheek. a disjointed arm reaches stiffly. my heart turns violently in my chest, my mind wondering what kind of man would...
anger boils the bile in my stomach, its steam filling my mouth. exhaling, i breath him and need to escape.
much later in life, a medical examiner will push my gloved hand into the chest of a body laid out on a sterile silver table, so I can feel the crushed sternum and ribs. but now i am only eight.
much later it will be easier. it won't be as personal.
my second cousin did it, though he would deny it straight to your face, yet out the corner of your eye you can see the shadow hanging over him.
the body was found in his room as well, but at age eight there is no court to lay the evidence before and who really cares about a broken G.I. Joe figure, except the little boy it belongs to.
to him, his world turns upside down.
i forgive him eventually, but we never play G.I Joe again.
forgiveness doesn't mean i let you hurt me again...and again...and again...