( Okay, so I wrote this a while back and posted it on one of the Gaia writing forums. It's part of a series of short stories I'm working on called One Way Conversations. So... Yep. I hope you like it! Critique, comment, complain, edit, do whatever. Thank you for your time! )
You sit there, in the corner, crying your eyes out. That jerk, Emily Wilson, has hurt you once again, created a knife with her words and stabbed you in the chest. All the times before, her weapon has missed; pierced a shoulder, a lung, an arm. But today it pierced the heart. That’s a blow you won’t easily heal from.
She told you that you weren’t beautiful. She told you that you had no friends. She told you that you were stupid, nothing more than a pest waiting to be flicked off the face of the Earth. You should know she’s wrong, because she is. Her words describe herself much more than they describe you. But you believe her. How? Have you not looked in a mirror? Have you not looked around you? People love you.
Please, don’t cry.
Oh, how I wish I could go to you and tell you everything will be okay! I stand across the room, watching you with concerned eyes. I know I can approach you. But what good would that do? I’m invisible. And not in the sense that a kid would feel invisible to his peers because he isn’t noticed. I’m literally invisible. I’ve been beside you your entire life, all sixteen years of it. Not once have you seen me; not once have you acknowledged my presence. During the hard times, I comforted you. During the happy times, I laughed with you. Yet still, to you I don’t exist. And it kills me—if one can kill an angel.
I said people love you. But I love you, too.
My heart stings with pain as I continue to be a witness, only a witness, of no help to you. I wonder why God was so cruel, to let me see but not to act. I know He has a sense of humor—a fantastic sense of humor. But this isn’t funny, and I’m not laughing.
I can hear your thoughts as though they’re being screamed into my ear: “There’s no point in living. I should just die.” “Everyone hates me. No one cares about me.” “Emily’s right. I should end it here and now.” You’re contemplating suicide, wondering whether or not anyone cares that you’re still breathing. I know you aren’t stupid, but you’re acting silly now. Of course people care. Your presence means the world to someone, and without you there would be a gap. You are needed to keep that gap closed.
I know you. You won’t move from that spot until the end of this period, when the school bell pierces the air once again. And perhaps, if you’re really upset, you’ll go so far as to skip all your classes to wallow in your misery. I wish you would see—I wish you would understand! Every person on this planet has someone who loves them. Yes, even Emily Wilson is cared for, though I certainly can’t see why. So I promise you now, without a single doubt in my mind, that you will be missed should you end your life. People will cry for you, much harder than you are doing at this moment, or have ever done.
Class is over. I walk over to the dark corner, to your huddled form; you haven't moved an inch in the last hour. Then I kneel down beside you and pull you into my arms. Can you feel my warmth? I would give anything to see you smile again. So would you for me? Please? Pretty please with a cherry on top?
I know I can’t say any of this to you, or write it down and send it to you in the mail. I can only think it, and wish that somehow you feel the love I give you. Because I really, truly love you.
You sit there, in the corner, crying your eyes out. That jerk, Emily Wilson, has hurt you once again, created a knife with her words and stabbed you in the chest. All the times before, her weapon has missed; pierced a shoulder, a lung, an arm. But today it pierced the heart. That’s a blow you won’t easily heal from.
She told you that you weren’t beautiful. She told you that you had no friends. She told you that you were stupid, nothing more than a pest waiting to be flicked off the face of the Earth. You should know she’s wrong, because she is. Her words describe herself much more than they describe you. But you believe her. How? Have you not looked in a mirror? Have you not looked around you? People love you.
Please, don’t cry.
Oh, how I wish I could go to you and tell you everything will be okay! I stand across the room, watching you with concerned eyes. I know I can approach you. But what good would that do? I’m invisible. And not in the sense that a kid would feel invisible to his peers because he isn’t noticed. I’m literally invisible. I’ve been beside you your entire life, all sixteen years of it. Not once have you seen me; not once have you acknowledged my presence. During the hard times, I comforted you. During the happy times, I laughed with you. Yet still, to you I don’t exist. And it kills me—if one can kill an angel.
I said people love you. But I love you, too.
My heart stings with pain as I continue to be a witness, only a witness, of no help to you. I wonder why God was so cruel, to let me see but not to act. I know He has a sense of humor—a fantastic sense of humor. But this isn’t funny, and I’m not laughing.
I can hear your thoughts as though they’re being screamed into my ear: “There’s no point in living. I should just die.” “Everyone hates me. No one cares about me.” “Emily’s right. I should end it here and now.” You’re contemplating suicide, wondering whether or not anyone cares that you’re still breathing. I know you aren’t stupid, but you’re acting silly now. Of course people care. Your presence means the world to someone, and without you there would be a gap. You are needed to keep that gap closed.
I know you. You won’t move from that spot until the end of this period, when the school bell pierces the air once again. And perhaps, if you’re really upset, you’ll go so far as to skip all your classes to wallow in your misery. I wish you would see—I wish you would understand! Every person on this planet has someone who loves them. Yes, even Emily Wilson is cared for, though I certainly can’t see why. So I promise you now, without a single doubt in my mind, that you will be missed should you end your life. People will cry for you, much harder than you are doing at this moment, or have ever done.
Class is over. I walk over to the dark corner, to your huddled form; you haven't moved an inch in the last hour. Then I kneel down beside you and pull you into my arms. Can you feel my warmth? I would give anything to see you smile again. So would you for me? Please? Pretty please with a cherry on top?
I know I can’t say any of this to you, or write it down and send it to you in the mail. I can only think it, and wish that somehow you feel the love I give you. Because I really, truly love you.
