The Girl in the Beanie

I looked up from where I was sitting to Drea, during the last period of the day, who was sitting diagonally to my left. She was wearing her typical baggy sweatshirt and beanie, and seemed unusually engrossed with a dirt spot on her shoe.

I watched as the boy behind her tapped her shoulder and handed her a note. She unfolded it warily as if she was afraid of what she might find inside. I watched her expression sink as her beautiful blue eyes welled up with tears. She set her head down on her desk and curled up into a ball, pulling her beanie tight over her face, which I assume was an act of protection. To block out the world. To protect herself from the relentless cruelty she faced every day. I wished so badly to reach out to her, to comfort her, but I didn't know how. What could I possibly say to ease her conscience?

When the bell rang, dismissing class, she looked up and a solitary tear rolled down her face. She tried to hold them back, but they didn't stop coming. 

She choked and gasped as she ran out of the room, tears now streaming down her face.

I didn't know what else to do. As hard as I tried to ignore it, I couldn't. She was hurting. So, being who I am, I felt inclined to talk to her. I acted on impulse. I caught her outside.

"Drea!" I called as I grabbed her arm.

She whipped around, her hair flying from its resting place on her shoulders. "What." she responded coldly.

"Are-are you okay?"

She opened her mouth to speak, but I spoke before she could, "Of course you're not okay, what am I saying? What I meant to say is, what's wrong?"

"Nothing. Now leave me alone, you piss-off."

"Drea," I lifted by eyebrows and lowered my voice. I sounded like a father.

"Fine! I'm not okay! I just..." She could no longer speak, for the tears were streaming down her face at an uncontrollable rate.

"Hey hey hey, it's okay. Let's just sit down and talk about it."

She obliged without further question.

She began to choke out these words: "They c-called me fat, so I starved myself. They... they called me ugly... so I wasted all of my money on makeup and clothes. They... they said I was dumb... so I-I went night after night studying with no sleep. And after everything... EVERYTHING I do for them... they still call me dumb, pitiful, depressing... here, just see for yourself." She thrust the crumpled note into my hands.

Unfolding the paper one edge at a time, I peaked inside.

It wasn't okay at all. I could understand why she was grief stricken.

The note read, You should have never been born, you piece of crap.

"I never have had a father figure. My parents divorced at a young age. My mom... she-she was never there for me. She was so sad. I never got to talk to her. I've never had someone who saw the real me. Everyone I've met has hated it. They've made me change who I am. They... they made me do this to myself!" she yelled and she lifted up her sleeve to reveal a string of scars running along her forearm.

I gasped. This was so much worse than I thought.

"I just don't understand," she sobbed. "After all that I do for them, they still can't accept me. They can't see who I am. When I'm brave enough to show it, they all hate it. They ignore what's happening inside of me. They think I can take it just because I've been shoving my grief down for so long, trying to be strong." Here she stopped, for sobs racked her body too hard for her to speak. Her head sagged and her shoulders shook. "I'm done being strong!" she cried.