The black and blue bruises cover the little girl’s body, but are hidden with long sleeve shirts and faded jeans. She walks home everyday; doing whatever it takes to stay away from home for as long as she could. So bad I want to take her fragile body into my arms. I want to kiss her bruises away. But I stay hidden.

Late at night, the girl slowly walks up to the house. The grass grows dry, dead before it even got the chance to live. She looks at that house every night and sighs. Tears roll down her cheeks. She quickly wipes them away and goes inside. Every night, cries escape the rusted house. And every night, the houses around grow dark as the neighbors turn out their lights. I want to call the police. I want to hold her in my arms and tell her it is going to be okay. But I stay silent.

Darkness seems to stay forever. No trace of light until the sun slowly emerges through the night. The little girl runs out of the house, running past her neighbors that have all turned away from her. New bruises circle around her neck, but she quickly hides them with a scarf. Her dried up tears from previous nights lay on her cheeks for her to remember. Every step she takes makes her flinch in pain. She tries to cover her limping with skipping. Her lips tremble into a smile. As she skips along the sidewalk to go to school, she begins to laugh, for it was the only thing she can do to keep from crying. I want that small laughter to be pure. So bad I want to hold her close to my heart and tell her she wasn’t alone. But I don’t move.

Bottles of beer cover the inside of the house. Expired bills lay across the beds and tables. And in the corner it lays. A thin blanket with holes is perfectly folded by small wounded hands. And taped on the wall is a piece of paper. Scribbled on the paper was a picture of a mom. It was a mom with a smile too big for her face, but eyes that seem to twinkle into the girl’s eyes every night. It was hope. A dream that would probably never come true. I want to take her away from here. So bad I want to be that mom she always needed. But I didn’t. I just didn’t.

She keeps her head down as she drags her feet up the steps to the house. Each board squeaks in protest, but she continues up each one. Her head hangs as she stops in front of the door. She rests her head against the door and whispers something in the wind. She turns the doorknob slowly. I want to run in front of her and stop her. So bad I want to never let her go. But I stay there. I stay there and let her words ring inside my head over and over. “I wish I was never born.”

Her eyes grow colder and colder. Her lips are dried and always pull into a frown. Her health plummets. Dark circles form under her eyes; her eyes blood shot from the endless nights. Her blonde hair is unbrushed, and her heart, untouched. So bad I want to be the one to touch her heart. I want to be able to sew her heart back up and heal her wounds. But I leave her. Untouched.

The wind blows loudly this night. The girl sits alone on the bench. Her eyes are fixed on the ground. And on the ground there is a butterfly. The wings are bent and rugged from an afternoon rain. She holds out her hand. Scrapes and bruises cover her arm as her sleeve rolls up. She gasps and begins covering it up. But the butterfly lands softly on her arm. She brings the butterfly close to her as the butterfly explores her wounded arm. She stood still for hours, watching the butterfly bat its wings slowly. I want to stand by her and tell her the beauty of butterflies. So bad I want her to keep that butterfly. But the butterfly flutters away, and her smile disappears. And I stay where I am.

The little girl looks out the window one night. Her fingers brush under her swollen eye and flinches in pain. She puts her tiny forehead on the cold window and sighs. She places her hands on the window, tightening her fingers slowly until her fists clenches onto nothing. She closes her eyes tightly and turns her head away from the outside. Her little body begins to shake. Tears stream out of her eyes. She pounds on the window. She wants to run away, but she has nowhere to go. I want to leave this place with her. So bad I want to take her hand and leave this behind. But I sit there with tears coming down my face as the dark figure peels her back into the shadows.

She stumbles through the door as day broke. She clenches a piece of paper tightly in her hands. She walks along the sidewalk, tripping over her own feet every couple steps. But every time she falls, she catches herself and keeps going. There is no end to her suffer. But there she stands. Walking, head held slightly. She makes it to a bridge just outside of the town. She stops in the middle and looks down. The waters below roll calmly. The little girl closes her eyes and lets the wind blow through her hair. She shivers slightly and unfolds the piece of paper in her hands. And in the girl’s trembling fingers was the picture of her hope. The big smile of the crayon drawn mom stares up at her. Her hands slowly cave into the paper. Her fingers peel back. She lets the paper drop. She watches it as the paper touches the water and pulls her hope under. Her fingers hold the side of the ledge. Her fingers slide down as she sinks to the ground. She holds her back to the bridge and holds her tiny body in her arms. She rocks slowly as her shoulders shake up and down. Her head hunches over as her tears stain the ground. She has no hope. I want to dive into those waters. So bad I want to catch her dreams. But I watch as the paper disappears into the dark waters.

There is a crash from the house. The door rattles loudly. The little girl bursts through the door and runs. She limps quickly as the streetlights flicker in the dark. Tears stream out from her eyes. Her breathing quickens. She yells for somebody. She yells for anybody to save her, but the neighborhood is silent. The dark figure runs after her. Her breathing stops as she looks over her shoulder. The shadow was slowly closing the distance between them. Her head swerves back around. Her eyes scan around the darkness and she locks eyes with me. She slows her pace as the dark figure grabs her. Her eyes burn into mine as the figure pulls her down the street. The little girl shakes her head and blinks a few times to process what was happening. She screams for me. She yells and shrieks for me. I want to run down and save her from the darkness that awaits her. So bad I want to be her angel. But, I don’t. I watch as the shadow drags the screaming girl back into the house. I cover my ears to block out the screaming. The screams turn into cries. The cries turn into pleads. The pleads turn into whispers. And the whispers turn into nothing. I watch as the light of the house flickers off.

The stone sticks out in the fields of the lost. Weeds already grow along the edges of it. I look at the writing on it until it burns into my soul. She needed someone to stand up for her. She needed a hero in her life. She needed something to fight for. She needed a mom. She needed a friend. She needed to know that I cared. But I didn’t show it. I didn’t do it. I sit by this stone every day, not moving a single inch. If I did, everything would be different. But I stayed were I was, just like I am right now. I never acted. I never had the courage, and now, I’m too late. And I can’t change that writing engraved in the stone. I just can’t.