I’m not a bad person. I try to understand people. All I want is to be understood as well. I just can’t help being right about somethings. Like how I was right about that girl liking other girls. Or how I was right about her cutting herself. They were just instincts, I shouldn’t have announced these things I guess. Too late now.

One night, she decided that her life wasn’t worth it. She decided that she wanted to be put out of her own misery. So she took her life in her hands, and threw it off the very top of the library. When people found her splatered body the next day, nobody could identify her for hours, until a girl in her physics class looked up her name in a yearbook.

I went to her funeral. And I listened to the priest talk about this girl. He talked about her family, and how they loved her so much, and how she had a dream of going to Sarah Lawrence, and he went on for hours and hours. I didn’t even know her. I’ve been in the same school and the same classes with her since kindergarten. But I knew nothing. We grew up in separate directions. I liked volleyball. She liked the color black. Two completely different worlds we were in, yet we were often in the seat next to each other in class. We never talked. Ever. So we definitely weren’t friends, but now I wish we were. She had a good heart and soul. Me? I’m all black. I’m as deep as the make up on my face is thick.

I visited her grave the other day. It’s been a few years since she died. I thought about how she could have changed society in so many ways if only she was alive right now. She loved animals, she loved giving and she loved the earth. What she hated was her life. She hated how nobody cared. Not even her parents. She was the definition of outsider. Even the outcasted kids left her in exile. I guess it was a mental thing, like socially challenged, I bet.

Listen to me. She’s dead, and five years later and I’m still trying to spread gossip about her. Nobody cared really any ways, when we talked about her it was like we were talking about a stock character on a TV show. Someone who wasn’t real. Someone who didn’t have real feelings. An illusion.

When she killed herself you wouldn’t believe how our school reacted. Every one acted like they were her best friend. That’s how it always is though, right? People never open their eyes until someone dies. That's one thing she did for us, open our eyes. But it’s not right. And I’m as guilty as the rest of them. Probably more.

Sometimes I feel like she was just an illusion. Just soul orbiting around. Always just there, nobody ever noticing. I feel really bad now. I feel like I’m going to hell and it makes me sick. It doesn’t make a difference though, I make myself sicker than anything.

She would never make her self the victim all the time, thats the big difference between her and myself. She never wanted to be the center of attention, that was clear. But if only one person cared. If only one person asked how her day was, just once. If only one person remember her name without being introduced more than three times. If only one person knew.