Here she comes again. I shove my face in my locker, trying to hide, but it doesn't help. She sees me. Her freshly manicured fingers curl around the edge of my locker door. She slams it against the locker adjacent to mine, making a big clang. She leans in real close to my ear and whispers the names...
She stands there, a smile slowly creeping across her face, letting it all sink in. Straightening up swiftly, she grabs my locker door once again. It swings around, metal hitting me square in the face. A waterfall of salty tears trickle down my cheeks. I hide behind my books in embarrassment and bolt to the bathroom.
Everyday. Everyday, she tells me how worthless I am; how much I don't belong here; and I'm beginning to believe it myself. All this stuff on bullying we hear, how to stand up to it- it's bogus. Telling makes it worse. They can only help so much. And sometimes 'so much' isn't enough.
I pull myself together and wipe my blotchy red face with my sweater. Picking my books up again, I walk into class just as the tardy bell sounds.
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The bus comes to a halt and I begin to push my way through the crowded, narrow aisle. I watch the feet carefully as I walk to make sure one doesn't reach out to trip me as they usually do.
I drag my feet up the cracked sidewalk, making my way to the doorway. I turn the knob and push my weight into the door. It swings open and I fall forward onto the cold, hard tile of our breezeway. Rage sends a sensation throughout my body. I pick myself up off the floor and slam the front door shut.
I throw my bookbag to the side and flop onto my bed. Breathing heavily, I listen to the slight trickle of the pipes and the clocks ticking. I just sit there. Thinking. Listening. I look over to the corner of the room- my collections. I see the pictures, the rocks... the guns. The same ones that used to belong to my brother- before the accident. My eyes start to water. I squeeze my eyes shut; refusing to let any more tears persevere.
No no no. You're stronger than this.
I look back over to my dresser. I see the video camera I got for my birthday last year. I remember how mom always complained that I didn't use it. She gets so worked up over everything lately. Everyone began to change after it happened - the accident. I begin to cry again.
I squeeze my eyes shut and pull at my hair. I scream, "IT'S NOT FAIR!" I'm shaking, palms moist with sweat. It's time. I make my way over to my bookbag. Rummaging through it, I finally heeve my history and math textbooks out. I take them over to my dresser, stacking them on top of each other. Grabbing my video camera, I position it up on the books. I turn back to the guns, studying them carefully. Too loud. Someone may hear. I glance around my room. My eyes suddenly lock, focused on their target. I see them; my christmas lights. I quickly start ripping them from the hot pink walls we painted just a few weeks before.
I drag over my velvet blue chair from behind my computer desk. I climb up onto it's wobbly surface, carefully trying to keep my balance. Doubling the string up, I tie one end to the ceiling fan into a sturdy knot. Reaching back over to my dresser, I push the button of the camera and the red light turns on.
"I couldn't take the struggle. I couldn't take all the pain. The bullies, the names, the laughter. I can't help living with my mistakes. The accident. I didn't mean to hurt him. I was caught up in the heat of the night. I was driving too fast, I... I got distracted, I... I'm sorry. If you're seeing this, I'm sorry. I'm sorry mom, dad; everyone. I'm sorry I can't be strong anymore. I love you guys. Remember that, okay?" I wiped a tear as I began to tie the lights around my neck. I took a deep breath and kicked the chair out from underneath my feet.
I claw at my neck frantically as I gasp, trying to breathe. I choke as I feel the lights get tighter the more I struggle. As I battle to take my last few breaths, I feel the lights begin to break against my fragile skin; the wires forcing my windpipe closed, refusing to let anymore air pass through. My body grows limp and I stop struggling. I'm gone.
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Dad steps into the house after a long day of work to find nothing but quiet. Assuming I'm sleeping, he strides up the stairs to check on me. Casually, he taps a soft rhythm on my bedroom door before entering. When he doesn't hear a reply he cracks the door open just enough to peek inside. Pure shock races throughout his body; seeing his baby girl hanging from the ceiling. Tears pour down his face as he drops to the floor, automatically blaming himself. Only if he could've been there sooner.
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Ever since that day, mom has been locked in darkness, almost shutting herself away from the world completely. Dad hasn't gone back to work yet. His eyes are all puffy and blue. He often sits on the couch staring at the wall. He just can't shake the image of his little girl hanging from the ceiling so lifelessly. The question had been floating around in their minds for the past few weeks now. Why? Mom finally found the courage to step into my room. She looked around, browsing my set-up, just how I had left it. She walks up to my dresser. Chills race down her spine as she picks up the camera into her shaky hands. She flips open the little window and the red light flickers on.
