Colorless

Before my death day:

I was named many things: freak, creep, and weirdo, to name a few. But out of all of these my favorite was what he called me: sugar.

It was fitting- what with my white hair and pale, pale blue eyes.

He was my best friend, the only one who cared. It sucked that he didn't live where I lived.

All the teachers at school wanted me to go to counseling. Session after session I sat, mindlessly nodding until I could talk to him again. The sessions did help- a bit. They got me out of class and out of my peers' sight.

Oh, how I envied them with their lovely black curls and mocha skin. They never knew what it was like to be colorless. But whenever I talked him all of the pain would go away, the mirror's cruelty eased by his loving texts.

You're beautiful he said

Unique

Sweet- like sugar

I loved spending time with him, staying up until early 3 a.m. some nights. We would text about everything from politics to teachers to memes.

The group home I stayed in had WiFi and I would steal money to keep talking to him. He was better than any drug, any therapist.

He told me he lived in Colorado -only a state away from my California- and would send me pictures of the slopes. He told me he loved my coloring, that it reminded him of snowy peaks and cloud dusted skies. He told me to laugh at my bullies and smile at my teachers

So one day I told him:

I loved you.

Then I found out. He was them.

They hated me.

The girls who I so shamelessly admired hated me for my looks, telling me I was a disgrace to my heritage, to go kill myself, that no one could ever love me. They lead me on, letting me believe that someone could want someone like me.

They turned sugar into a curse, a vulgar laugh. All at my expense. They printed out screenshots of our conversations and shamelessly distributed them, all while those teachers and counselors did nothing.

After I died:

They mourned. I was surprised. Did they not tell me to die?

I saw them crying crocodile tears, being confronted by police and teachers. I laughed at them. After all, I had given them what they so desperately wanted.

But one in particular, a girl, one of them that had been dragged into the ground by the rest, she cried alone for me. She prayed to me for repentance, not teachers, begged forgiveness from me, not counselors.

As I watched she was shunned for feeling, for not moving on.

She cried her smile away.

And as I watched, she became me. Colorless, on the inside.

I kept watching her, trying to revel in her pain.

What would I choose?

Being right or being kind?

Before she held the gun to her head,

I whispered my choice:

I forgive you.