A Vignette

One.
Joseph, who was destined to die of pesticide poisoning, wasn’t afraid of anything and made a living on that fact. The mud pies were a delicacy and his pockets bulged with silver coins for this dirty deed. The tree stump served as a platter, laced with the green from the trees, and littered with micro red berry beads. We chanted in unison, egging him on as he stuffed the earth into his already plump face. I tiptoed to look over the shoulders of the other children. I only saw a glimpse of khaki britches. He bolted up in the glory of our cheers, laughter and the stomping of our feet on the cold hard ground, its blue blades crunching under our Velcro strapped sneakers. The shrilling sound of the headmaster's weapon of order frightened us, making us snap back to the brutality of reality. Our hero held his stomach almost as if someone had hit him, and we scattered like marbles thrown from a hand, gradually clumped into groups of size.
All but us.
Two.
Her, a perfect, pseudo porcelain doll held high on a shelf displayed for the world to see. Me, A broken oak chair hidden from it. The jaws of this dragon opened to reveal the truth. Its jagged teeth positioned oh-so carefully to assume the role of normality, for those who did not pay attention or didn’t care. Unlike me. Her words were few, chosen from a select vocabulary that no doubt her father had taught her to use to tear the flesh off of her victims, revealing them to be in her crude language, black. Those words were resounding, echoing into the wind of the empty playground. Ricocheting off the monkeys bars, the swing sets, the see-saw and finally penetrating me. Neither word nor breath escaped from the lips of my still body. My feet rooted in the cold hard ground, crushing nothing, but perhaps me. With the nod of her head and a little of her mystical power, the sky turned dark as my knees gave out and I hit the cold, hard ground.
Three?