I'd never flown so high in my life. Gravity seemed to have abandoned me as a lost cause—I soared above the pavement, the July heat pulsing off of the concrete and seeming to lift me higher into the air.
I'd never fallen so hard in my life either. Three seconds and five feet after forcefully exiting my bicycle seat, the street and I collided, face to face.
My fists had been clenched just before going sailing, so my knuckles were now dripping blood after scraping across the road so roughly. I stared at the blood and shredded skin. I didn't cry. I was just confused.
I hadn't lost my balance. I hadn't ridden over anything bumpy. I hadn't done anything to cause the violent tumble from my bike.
Above me, someone was laughing.
I cannot remember her face. I was six when it happened, a long time ago. I don't remember her name either.
I do remember that she yanked my handlebars and sent me soaring off my bike.
I don't know why she did it. If I recall correctly, I hadn't done anything to her; she was just several years older than me and a bully. She didn't like me. That's why my knuckles bleed all over the street and scabbed over for weeks and I have rough scars on each of them. She didn't like me.
That girl got married last week.
I didn't attend the wedding; I wasn't invited. The girl probably doesn't even remember my name. I don't think she even knew my name when I was six and she ripped me off my bike for no reason.
I wouldn't recall her at all if it weren't for the scars marring my hands. But I wonder if she's changed any. She's in her mid-twenties now, with a job and a husband. I saw some of the wedding photos online; she's smiling in everyone of them, your typical radiant bride. You'd never guess she used to deliberately hurt kids much younger than her.
People change, I guess. Though my face hasn't shifted its structure in the last decade, I'm certainly not the same person I was when I was six. Back then, I just picked myself off the ground and walked my bike home. Nowadays, I'd probably curse out anyone who did that to me—and maybe beat them up too. I'm sure that girl wouldn't pick on children like she used to anymore either.
And yet, I can't help but hope that her cruise ship sinks on her honeymoon.