Magazine, website & books written by teens since 1989

Helping the helpless

Custom User Avatar
More by this author
I looked into her eyes. Her smile was deceiving, but those eyes told a hundred secrets, well at the very least that there were a hundred secrets. I wanted to know all of them, I wanted her to open up like a bud blossoming into a rose, and I as the rain. I wanted her to know that in my arms she was safe. But I knew that she would never open up, she’d learnt to never share, thought that no one cared. How wrong she was, to think that no one cared. She dug down into the ground so far that she couldn't see all the people on the surface trying to drag her up. |Put the spade was not hers. It was the property of depression. I saw it, from when it was a tiny shadow to a smothering cloud. I saw it slowly then suddenly drag its dark branch like arms around her. I saw her struggle against them at first, but they quickly had the upper hand. They clawed their way in until they had her fooled, she believed that they were her, they became her.

I watched as she left us, powerless to bring her back. I watched as the girl we loved change into the person we worried about. I watched as she shot out of class to enter the bathroom with a blade in her hand. I watched but never followed. In my head I saw the blood as she dragged it across her skin. I watched as she came back, spotting the unmistakable red spot on her sleeve, never doing or saying anything just watching.

I listened to her silent cries though the “I'm fine” and the “I’m just tired.” I listened as she broke down in my arms when her mother found those hidden scars. I listened as she finally cried. I listened; never spoke, never did anything, just listened.

I waited for her to tell me. I waited for her to use her own words as she told me about this illness. I acted suitable surprised, I pretended that I was oblivious; I wondered if it angered her like it angered me. I already knew, a fool could have seen. Here she stands before me telling me I've been the best friend she could have hoped for, but in my mind I count the cuts I could have prevented. I count the times I could have stopped the madness, but didn't. Here she sits telling me I've helped, when all I did was be there. There were so many things I could have done, some many things I should have done, but in her eyes I've helped. If I've helped the helpless then why do I feel so powerless?




Post a Comment

Be the first to comment on this article!




Site Feedback