I’m not crazy. I’m just protective. Maybe sometimes I go a bit too far, but I have good intentions. I just wanted her to be happy, and he hurt her. He hurt her in a way that was unforgivable. He deserved it.
I knew from the minute I met her that I had to protect her. She was just so… small and helpless, and completely adorable. But I could see the cuts on her arm. They must have brought out this part of me. At least, they were the start of it. The more I got to know her and the closer I got to her, the more I wanted to protect her, the more fierce that desire became.
She needed me. She had no one, and everyone who had come before me had just abandon her and left her to deal with her own thoughts by herself. That’s a dangerous place to be when your mind works the way her’s did. And so I was there to listen to those thoughts. I was the only person she let in, the only person she should have ever let in. I’m the only one who’s willing to do anything for her. Anything.
But then he came along… I knew from the start that he was trouble. He had somehow convinced her that his love for her was real, something she’d long given up on. Being the protective and caring best friend that I was, I made it known that she shouldn’t get too close to him.
She didn’t listen.
She was like my younger sister, and I was her loving big brother. She meant so much to me, she gave my life meaning. She wasn’t perfect by any means; in fact, she might have had more flaws than the average human. But it was one of my favourite things about her. I loved her crooked smile, her poofy hair that was always in her face, the way she sighed when she was thinking about something… I even grew to love the way her nostrils twitched whenever she was trying really hard not to cry.
He took that away from me.
Suddenly, she began leaning on me less and less. I was so used to being her only support that I felt rejected, and that made me hate him even more. I saw less of her in those months, and I always chalked it down to school, but deep down I knew it was because I didn’t want to see him, and she did.
Six months into their relationship, she tells me she has something important to tell me. When I called her, I jokingly asked her if she’s pregnant. To be honest, that was probably the worst thing that she could tell me. No one was going to take away the innocence that I loved so much about her. She said no, but then went on to tell me that three months earlier, they had had sex for the first time. “I couldn’t continue not telling you,” she told me.
I pretended that I was okay with it, that it didn’t bother me, but truth be told, it was killing me. He had taken her innocence from her. I couldn’t stand it. It made me wonder about what else had happened in those few months that I didn’t know about. I was so mad at her, and within a few days, I made her aware. When I realized how much that hurt her, I told her that just because I didn’t approve of her having underage sex, that it didn’t mean I didn’t approve of her.
I loved her. I love her.
It was only a month after that that I got a call from her, sobbing. He left her. Like everyone else. And he had known how fragile she was, but he did it anyways. As much as I hate to admit it, he was what had kept her smiling for those six months.
Upon keeping in touch with her almost all day, every day, I knew that he was leading her on. After leaving, he told her things like how much he missed her and that he still loved her, that he just needed to think things over. He kissed her one of those mornings, and she was happy all throughout the rest of the day. This hurt.
Somehow, during all of this, he had talked her into being friends with benefits. He gave her false hope that things would work out and that he was coming back. She hadn’t even consulted me about whether or not it was a good idea.
I didn’t know what was happening until she called me one day, bawling so hard that I couldn’t understand a thing she said. By the time I got to her house, she was sitting in the middle of her bedroom floor wearing nothing but a bra and panties and gripping a knife so tightly that her knuckles were white. But there was no blood, so she hadn’t cut herself. She was rocking, and her sobs were miserable. I couldn’t stand listening to them.
She explained to me that he had played her. Come to give her some pity sex and then told her that it was over, really, truly over. He wasn’t coming back. Then she told me in a sad whisper that she felt dirty, and no amount of scrubbing could make her feel clean again. She told me he’d talked her into sending him pictures of her… doing stuff.
I’d never wanted to hurt someone so bad in my entire life.
It seemed as though things couldn’t get worse for her. I was wrong. He spread around the pictures, thereby ruining her reputation, and had already moved on to someone new. Someone she had considered her friend.
By the time I got to her house that afternoon, her heart had stopped beating and she was laying in a puddle of her own blood. She had cut so deeply, that the paramedics said that even if they had gotten there on time, they would’ve lost her trying to keep her alive. There was no way they could’ve stopped the bleeding enough to save her.
He was the reason behind this. He was the reason that she was dead.
And I would be the one to get justice for her.
I hated him. He took what I cared for most in the world. And so I would take from him what he cares for most: himself. I knew that he walked home every day, and I knew the route he took home. So I waited in my car halfway between the school and his house, and when he got close, I got out of my car and told him to get in. He did as I told him.
When I started driving, I told him what happened the night before, he started apologizing without truly understanding that he was at fault. So I made it known to him what he’d done. To my surprise, he started to cry.
I told him that I didn’t care how sorry he was, or that he regretted what he’d done. All I cared about was giving him what he deserved. He was scum. Lowly, unworthy scum. He knew what I had in mind before I even put the gun to his head. I started to cry right along with him, but only out of frustration. He had no idea how amazing she was, how perfect she was, despite her faults. He had no idea that he should’ve considered just being in the same room as her a privilege, and the fact that someone as wretched as him could have captured the heart of an angel like her so completely was even more of an amazement. That he didn’t see that was beyond me.
By that point, I’d already driven the car out to the middle of nowhere. Nobody could hear the shots out there.
I left his body about half a mile into the woods under a large pile of leaves, and it was never discovered. Afterwards, I went back to her house and just sat in her room. By that point in our friendship, her parents were pretty used to me coming and going, even when she wasn’t there, so me being there didn’t surprise them. They accepted it somberly, knowing the pain I was in.
She had kept a little journal filled with poetry, and though she’d never let me read from it, she would read her poems out loud to me. It was sitting on her bed, innocent as can be, with the ribbon marker halfway through the book. It was almost as innocent as she used to be until he ruined her.
Even knowing that had she been alive, she would’ve killed me for looking in it, I felt the need to open up the pages and read into the dark secrets even I did not know of. I started where the marker was and I was surprised to find that inside was a letter written to me.
I want you to know that there was nothing you could’ve done to stop this. I want you to know that this is not his fault. Even before all this happened, I was planning this. And I’m ashamed to say that even after what he did to me, I still love him. I didn’t do this because of what he did, but because of the fact that I couldn’t bear to even look at myself anymore.
I am a pathetic person. I’ve been disgusted with myself for some time. But now, it’s not just me who feels that way about me. Even if I were to transfer schools, I’d still know what I did, what I let him do.
I’m sorry. I love you, just remember that.
All I ask of you is that you don’t hurt him. He’s not a good person, but I still love him.
Suddenly, I couldn’t breathe. I was no better than he was. She’d had one dying wish for me, and I couldn’t even give it to her. I felt as disgusted with myself as she must’ve been with herself. How could I live with myself knowing what I did?
I felt the exact same way she did when she sliced herself open.
She would hate me if she knew what I did.
I hated me.
I saw two choices: turn myself in, or pick up the razor left on the floor from the night before, surrounded by a now-dried pool of blood, and go the way she did. With hatred of myself and love for another. While the previous was the responsible action, the latter did appeal to me more…
I reached down and picked up the shining piece of metal, taking in a deep breath before wiping it off and making my decision.