colourmejaded

When I was a five year old, I hated this boy named Billy in my kindergarten class. He was short, had measly amount of hair, and whenever we were made to hold hands, he would pinch me. Again and again. I went home crying one day to my father because I was being bullied by a minion tinier than I was. Then one day, Billy didn't come to school. It was strange because I got so used to bracing myself to a little fight with that boy. Our teacher, Miss Grace, sat us down in class and then broke the news.

Billy had a hole in his heart and was going to China for his surgery because surgery in Singapore was too expensive. I don't know how I digested this at five, but I know I stopped hating him then. I thought maybe him pinching my palm was a way for him to vent the excruciating pain on me. And then we prayed to Mary to keep him safe, since it was a Catholic kindergarten.

I don't know if he's alright today, and I haven't seen him since. But ever since then, I realised judging people by what they seem isn't the best thing to do.