The term bully never applied to a sibling when I was young. My brother had the ideal qualifications for the role. He took pride in his ability to bring me to tears, using his words, fists if necessary.
It was a balmy afternoon when I found myself pulling the screen door open, wishing my mother had called in sick that day. I needed to vent and I had no avenue of release. It wasn't until I spied the pellet gun propped up against the wall that a short term solution came to me.
Laughing and joking, my brother and his friends came into sight. Instantly, I felt the sickening blow of embarrassment punch me in the stomach. Memories of wedgies, insults, and years of torment collided. Unconsciously causing me to steady my position and raise my arms until they came into focus.
Chatter and giggles were soon replaced by the painful wails of my brother and his friends as I picked them off, one by one. With the steal cold stare of a professional sniper, I carefully took aim. Shot after shot, I was a relentless assassin who bore no guilt for inflicting welt after welt.
Perched in the maple we built our first tree-fort in, I took no mercy on my brother and his friends as they darted between trees and cars. Fully aware of the beating that would ensue when they pulled me from the tree, I had planned to enjoy every moment while I had the advantage.