The Girl Who Didn’t Know

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The Girl Who Didn’t Know

I knew a girl once who never really paid much attention. She never spoke up; she never spoke out. To be honest, I don’t think I ever even heard her voice. She never looked up from her hands, which she kept clenched in her lap, her left thumb rubbing her right palm vigorously enough to take skin off. She never noticed that I looked at her.

I knew a girl who never seemed to smile. She walked down the halls with her ebony hair draped carefully over her face. She thought she could hide her tears as easily as that. Her earbuds hung from her ears, but not for the sake of music. They were for the whispers that were heard each time she glided down the hallway. Her textbooks were kept close to her chest, as if to protect herself from the inconspicuous points and giggles of other students. She never noticed when I told them to stop.

I knew a girl a long time ago and, despite her long sleeves, I always saw the cuts. Sometimes she would even pick at them until they bled again. The worst part of it is when she actually seemed satisfied with the blood, with the pain. It was the only time she seemed happy. And she never noticed how much it hurt me.

When the girl I knew finally died, no one seemed to miss her. There were even whispers saying she was just some filthy whore who deserved what she got. They never knew her like I did. They never knew her like I did. They never knew how alive she felt as I wrapped my fingers around her neck. I remember gently brushing her hair out of her face as I held her in my arms. Her eyes stared up at me blankly, the brilliance of her sky blue irises shining in the moonlight.

I remember how frightened she looked, how much she struggled. I knew she was uncomfortable but that was alright. This was happening for a reason. In my heart, I understood that I was helping her. If only she had known how much I loved her.

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