A hornets nest hung above me and he held the stick.

I cowered, too afraid to move, too afraid to scream, too afraid to do anything but plead with my eyes for him to let me go.

My eyes darted around and my wrists were rubbed raw by the rope securing them to the sycamore tree.

He took a threatening step forward with a smirk and reached up on his tip toes, stretching the stick high up... and tapped the nest thrice.

The minute he did, he bolted. Leaving me to the pain, the fear of the welts that would come, the shock of betrayal and the feeling of aloneness.

And this was just a taste of what I did to him. So I cried.

But I didn't cry much.