In the rodeo world tipping a barrel is a term used when a rider, or their horse, knocks a barrel over. It cost them a five-second penalty from the judges. That’s how it was for Freya and me in our everyday lives, always being penalized, like toy soldiers lost in a deadly game.
I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry… These words painfully rattled inside my head as my sweaty arm squeezed around her neck, blocking air from entering her exasperated lungs. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry…
Sitting on the ground with her between my thighs, her back to my panting chest, I stared over her shoulder, horrified at the view, yet livid we had been forced to this point.
I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry… My legs tightened around her struggling body while her trim nails scratched at my strangling forearm. Then her precious little hands grabbed at my wrist, demanding I set her free. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry… Deep in the struggle, the heels of her worn brown boots dug into the dirt and fallen leaves as she fought me, desperate to be out of my cruel grasp. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry…
I was gritting my teeth so hard I was sure they would shatter along with my heart. The bonfire beyond the tree line that hid us, blazed as hot as the regret burning my soul.
Not wanting to survive this impossible decision—death being my only option, I peered up to the glimpses of the moon between the tree branches we were under. I begged for the strength to finish what I had started. Shamefully, I took a deep breath, wishing I could allow her to do the same.
Deprived of oxygen, her body finally slowed. Knowing I only had seconds left, I whispered in her ear…
(This work is not edited)
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