The Bully

“Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha.” All the girls were laughing at the short, skinny, scrawny boy standing in the corner, alone. And the head of these girls, none other than Emma Harris. She would take Josh’s lunch money, trip him, steal his things. She would tell him he had no friends, no purpose in this world. And he would sit there and take it. Never a tear shed, never a frown, because he knew it was true. He knew he was an outsider. The girl would pick on him constantly, just because he was an easy target. He walked home alone every day. It didn’t bother him much, he was used to being alone. He didn’t care for school, or parties, or the girl certainly. That was just his place in the world and he knew it. Now the girl and boy were quite alike. The girl didn’t have many friends either, but picking on the boy gave her a sense of empowerment, like she had a purpose. This went on every day, the girl pointing and laughing, not giving much thought to the boy or how he was affected.

Emma walked into her high school, alone. Head down, hair covering her face, watching other people’s feet as she trudged along. Even though she was wearing her dad’s sweatshirt, you could see her bones through it, a walking skeleton, with a lifeless face. As she grabbed the door, her sweater came up, exposing her torn up, blood red, scarred wrists where the knife had entered the night before. She grabbed the sweater and tugged it down, looking around, checking to make sure nobody saw. Nobody ever saw anything she did or knew she existed.

“One night I stayed up, crying as usual. I watched the stars dance through the black sky, and the fireflies hum their familiar tune. But that night was different, sadder, lonelier.”
Emma sat, numb, unable to move. All she needed was a friend, someone willing to listen. She finally picked up her phone and scrolled through her contacts, realizing all the meaningless names before her eyes. Then all movement stopped as she saw one name. Josh Buckner. The girl hadn’t thought about him in ages. Her trembling thumb finally hit the “call” button after concluding he was the closest thing to a friend. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. 
“Hello?”
“I was taken aback by the voice on the other end. It was more mature, deeper, fuller. It was one of those voices that gave you a sense of security and made you feel at home.”
Silent. The girl remained silent. But the boy on the other end didn’t say anything either. It was as if they both knew what to do. And they sat. Sat in silence for hours, both looking at the same stars twinkle above their broken souls. Occasionally, they would hear the other breathe, or make the slightest noise, being reminded there was someone on the other end.
11:37 p.m. 
“What’s the reason?” The soft voice tickled her eardrum. She was filled with a rush of warm air, like dancing on a bed of daisy’s in the sweet, summer sun. She was awaken from the nightmare from which she was living and felt renewed. Like a tree in early spring, when it grows its fresh green leaves after a cold, hard winter. Reborn and alive again.
After a moment, all she could make come out of her mouth was “What?”
The voice on the other end gently repeated the question. “What’s the reason?” Pause. “I mean for calling me everyday. Why?”
“Oh. Um. Well.....” Her voice drifted off.
“It’s ok, you don’t have to tell me.” But little by little, she did start to tell him, until the entire story had come out.
“I told him every secret I had living inside of me. And when I was done, I felt lighter, floating above the air on a cloud of calla lilies. But nothing could prepare me for his side of the story.”
He took a deep breath in before starting his tale. “ All those things you told me in elementary school, well I started to believe they were true. That I was worthless and would never amount to anything. My parents would constantly ignore me. Invisible. I was actually invisible. I had exactly one friend. He was going through something similar, only a few years older. When I was in fifth grade, he committed suicide. And that’s when it started to become bad. I stopped eating and sleeping and all I wanted to do was punch something. So I did. Anyone or anything near me. I was living in a closed tunnel of darkness surrounded by open wounds and empty cries.” Then all at once, the voice stopped. 4 breaths later, he softly said “But I’m better now. I go to therapy a couple times a week and can be around my classmates without hitting them. I know I will never have friends or be happy again. But that’s alright with me. Drawing is my method of coping with it all. It gives my hands and mind something to do.”
“And that’s when I realized. Me. It was all me. All my fault. I’m the one who started the bullying. I’m the one who turned him down this dark path. Me.”
Through muffled breaths, the girl whispered “I’m so sorry. You must hate me.”
“Oh, it’s not your fault. It’s nobody’s fault actually. It’s just the way things are.”
“But I started it. I’m the reason this all happened.”
“You didn’t start it. It started the moment I was born. You see, I was born to be forgotten. Like most people in the world, my name and accomplishments will be buried with my body. Forgotten by future generations. The difference is, everybody else thinks they will be remembered. I, however, have accepted the fact that I am just a stranger in this world, passing through, leaving not so much as a footprint behind.” The girl just listened to the beautiful string of words pass through her body, coloring her soul a slightly lighter shade of black.
“You sound like a poet.”
“Not a poet, a thinker. I have a lot of time on my hands.”
Snapped out of her fantasy, the girl said, “I caused this. I did. If I was nicer to you ... If I didn’t make fun of you ... If I was your friend ... things might be different. I’m sorry.” The girl quickly hung up the phone, letting the nights events sink in.
“I saw him in everything I did. I saw him when I was peeling oranges. I saw him while I was washing my hands. I saw him in the raindrops, falling soft and innocent. Why couldn’t he be like that? Why did I have to ruin him? Oh God. Why? I could never forgive myself for this. I had to make this right.”
Suddenly, the crying, the cuts, the depression, it all seemed pointless to her. She had taken the life, the innocence, the smile off some poor boys face and ripped his chance at happiness from him. One day, when the sky was bluer than the deepest ocean and the sun shined brighter than the biggest spotlight, the girl walked out to her favorite tree, pen and notebook in hand, rope trailing behind her. She sat down in the soft grass and wrote.
“I guess I was born to be forgotten. But I did leave behind something. A tidal wave of destruction. I hope someday I will be able to forgive myself for this horrible tragedy. Josh, I want you to know I am sorry. I am so sorry. I hope you find a light in this horrible world, a chance to smile and laugh as loud as you can. But for now, goodbye. I love you. -Emma.”
She then stood up, tied the rope around a high branch, slipped into its warm embrace, and greeted death with open arms.

Josh, the same short, skinny, scrawny boy, dressed in all black, looked into the ground. He whispered the quietest goodbye, but knew Emma had heard it. As he turned around and walked away, the sky was painted with pink butterflies, dancing in the cool spring air, not a care in the world. Free.