Grounding
Time crawled. My legs grew stiff. Lily's cries gradually subsided. Finally, Mom's cold voice cut through the silence: "Turn around." I pivoted stiffly. Lily nestled in Mom's arms, eyes red and swollen like a rabbit's, a bump surely rising on her head. Mom's gaze held no softening. "I'm so disappointed! Shoving your sister? With such force? For the next week: straight home after school, no going out! No TV! Your game console—confiscated!" The sentence hit like a hammer. A whole week grounded felt like the world ending to a seven-year-old boy.
The Pink Bunny
I shot a resentful glare at Lily, buried in Mom's embrace. Her fault! She ruined my painting! She got me punished! Lily treasured one thing above all – a worn, half-eared, faded pink bunny named "Bunny." It went everywhere: meals, bedtime, sometimes dragged by one ear outdoors. Ugly and grubby. That night, confined to my bed, I listened to Mom reading Lily bedtime stories in the living room, punctuated by Lily's contented giggles. Tossing and turning, my resentment swelled. Why was she comforted while I was imprisoned?
Stealing Bunny
A venomous idea slithered into my mind. I slipped out of bed. The living room was quiet, only a sliver of light under Mom's door. Holding my breath, I crept to the sofa like a thief. There it was. Bunny lay slumped against a cushion, one button eye staring vacantly. I snatched it. The floppy toy held the faint scent of childhood—milk and dust. My burning anger intensified. Clutching it tightly, I sneaked outside. The night was pitch black, the alley lit only by dim streetlamps.
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