I wish I knew why they chose me. They weren't jealous of me, they didn't even know me, yet they were determined to make my life a living hell.

In middle school, it was all okay; I was the shy girl that sat in the very front row the class. I had glasses, but I knew I had the looks, the way the boys watched me said it all. I never paid interest to those silly boys, my mother told me they were no good, but she never said a word about the girls...
Cindy was my first female crush, well actually my first crush, ever. She was tall with curves in all the right places. Her long chestnut hair fell below her shoulders accentuating her large, hazel eyes. To better explain her, she was gorgeous. There was only one problem, she was my best friend. I didn't know I was different. I didn't know I liked girls, until the summer of 7th grade when I kissed the neighbor girl. Anyways, I loved Cindy, but I couldn't tell her because it would ruin our friendship. What I didn't know was that it would ruin my life.
When 8th grade started, I began watching Cindy like a hawk and I was always jealous of boys that talked to her. Questions like "Who are you texting?","Who did you hang out with last night?", "Why didn't you call me back?" and "Why do you like him?" accompanied by statements such as "Eww he's gross", and "I wouldn't talk to him if I were you" aroused suspicions. Soon she noticed my behavior and questioned me about it by squawking, "What's wrong with you? Do you have a lesbian crush on me?! Are you some sort of freakish dyke?” one day while we were walking through the crowded hallway. I was so embarrassed, I ran to the bathroom crying. I sat in that stall for what seemed like an eternity, salty tears streaming down my face, my heart racing and bile rushing up my throat. Yes, I had been discovered. Yes, I was a freak and a dyke. What I didn't know was that everyone else knew. While I was breaking down in the bathroom, Cindy thought she’d do me the favor of informing our fellow classmates that I was a “filthy lesbian”.

I finally mustered up the courage to go back to class, everyone stood still and turned to me, it was as if I had stopped time and space, as I walked in. I heard crickets chirp as 32 pairs of eyes fell on me, even the teachers. People snickered and whispered "Dyke", "Freak", "Eww it’s her", "She better keep her dirty ass away from me", while I walked to my seat. And that is how it all began.
No one talked to me, I had no friends; I was a duck in a flock of geese, an outcast. Boys were afraid of me and girls thought I was disgusting. As I walked through the musky, cramped hallways, all of the students stared at me, like animals waiting to catch their prey. Then they attacked, pushing me into walls, tripping me as I walked by, and yelling vulgar insults; these animals played with their food. Bloody noses and black eyes became the usual for me, followed by gum in my hair and harassing notes.

High School came around and I had cut off all my hair into a boyish pixie-cut. I decided that I was different, but I hadn’t told everyone.

Honestly, I can say I walked down that hall, on the first day of school, confidently. My hair was slightly tousled, my eyeliner winged at the tips, and my brand new khakis were ironed to a crisp. I had my head high and no worries in the world, until my face hit the cement. With my body flat on the floor and my papers flying in a cyclone around me, I raised my head to see her. There stood Ashley Kenner, she had tripped me and stayed around just to terrorize me even more.

“Stay away from me carpet muncher!" she said, as she sashayed away. Everyone bullied me. Girls laughed and pointed at me, while the boys pushed and shoved me, saying things like “Man up”, “You can’t be a girl if you like them” or “stop being a little b****”. I didn’t feel any different than them, the only thing distinguishing me from the other girls was my short hair and perhaps my attire, I always wore jeans and baggy t-shirts. I avoided going to the bathroom at school at all costs; the girls were rude and insulting. The girls would shove me out of their way and tell me I didn’t belong there, they also would knock my books out of my hands and pretend as if it were an accident. I was harassed everywhere I went, especially in the locker room. They'd yell things like "Ugh why is SHE here?" Or "I'm not changing in front of her!!”. One late October day, every single girl in my PE class refused to go into the locker room until I had left. Our teacher, having no choice, made me enter and get dressed before allowing all the other girls to proceed.

Soon I began cutting class and myself. Self-mutilation was the only thing that made me feel whole again. I cut on a regular basis, in the morning before school, in between classes, whenever I was alone at lunch, and every night. I felt like I deserved to be hurt, like I was a disgrace and didn't deserve to live.

My teachers questioned the bags under my eyes and the slits on my wrists; I always had an excuse about falling out of a tree or my cat scratching me. My parents never noticed nor questioned me, they told everyone I was going through a ‘difficult stage’, but they had no idea what it really was. No one knew the truth, they didn't know I had sleepless nights crying and slicing my wrists. Music was my only outlet; I played blaring music to drown out my screams. The things they said hurt, but not as bad as the cuts. I got a rush from it, I would laugh, and I don't know if it was in agony or joy, but I laughed. I laughed as the bright red streams of blood poured from my veins. Pushing the blade deeper only made it feel better. Reopening old scars only made it worse, but the pain was worth it. Cutting myself made me feel whole, when nothing else in the world could. I was alone in that cold, dark world and no one could save me. No one knew and no one cared.

One day I laughed too hard, or perhaps too much, the blood pooled around me, in a deep crimson puddle dancing around me, surrounding my body, but it was too late.

If only they knew what they were doing to me. I wish they knew it was wrong. If someone were to have intervened, another student, a teacher, my parents, maybe I wouldn’t have done what I did that night. Sometimes I wished that they hadn’t noticed I was different. Sometimes I wished I wasn’t different at all. However, my wishes never came true and they did know I was different. They didn't know it was wrong to make me feel worthless every single day... They didn't know it hurt me to the point of cutting myself. They didn't think I would do that. They didn't know what they were doing to me. They didn't know, until I was dead.
I had been a normal 15 year old girl to myself, but to them I was a freak. Janice Parker was my name, the name reads on my tombstone now. I could have grown old, had a family and lived a happy life, but I didn’t deserve that. I didn’t deserve anything, because they knew I was different.