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The Girl with the Flowers in Her Hair
She was a girl that, supposedly, not many knew of, which I found quite hard to believe. It had always been a challenge for me not to know of her. How could anybody else be any different? I mean, sure, she stayed to herself. She remained more quiet than most. Was 'quiet' the correct word? No. She was more gentle, more soft, more innocent. She was pure compared to the rest of the world.
Now, I can't say I ever knew her all that well. At least, not like I wanted to. In fact, I am not sure anybody truly did. I knew of her. I knew of what I'd heard, of what I'd seen; that's not all that much to go off of, though, is it? That's all that any of us went off of.
Perhaps that was our first mistake - going off of a bunch of sounds and sights, sights and sounds. It was all a bunch of hearsay - seesay, in some cases.
Not funny? Didn't think so. That's alright, though. There is nothing funny about a dead girl, after all.
It has been confirmed that she commit suicide. She killed herself. How she did it? That's the thing no one can be sure of. Of course, there's been rumours going around about it - some say she overdosed, others say she slit her wrists; some even believe that she faked it. What did I say? It’s all a bunch of hearsay.
Another thing that no one knows? Why. Why she did it. We still don't know why - if she even did, of course.
Again, there were rumours. She did it because she was bullied. She did it because a boy broke her heart. She did it because all of her friends were abandoning her. She did it because of this. She did it because of that. She did it. She did it. She's dead.
She's dead! Of course, she's dead! No matter the rumours. No matter the hearsay. She's dead.
Still, I remember her fondly.
She always walked with her head held high, making herself look as tall as possible. Still, though, at her small stature of 5'1", she was tiny. Her brown eyes turned golden in the sunlight, and her hair did the exact same thing, shining with gold and red undertones. Her skin practically glowed, despite her pale - though a bit red - complexion. Her lips were always a soft, bubblegum pink against her off-white teeth - because, no, she wasn't perfect. She wasn't perfect at all.
I just remember her fondly.
She always wore soft colors, plenty of pastels; they looked nice on her. She would always have her makeup done a certain way, a way that really made her eyes stand out, and I know she thought she wasn't pretty without it. She dressed for someone, though. She dressed for him. That was what turned it off for me. She was still beautiful, of course, no matter how much she tried to appeal to him. She wasn't perfect, no; he didn't see her that way.
I will always remember her fondly.
In my eyes, she wasn't perfect, but that was the best part of her. Her teeth were an off-white. She had bags under her eyes. Her hair was a tangled mess. She didn't let any of those things bother her, though. No.
Instead, she continued to smile, all happiness and joy. The smile always reached her eyes, no matter how tired they looked. She pinned colourful flowers in her hair, no matter the extent of the day’s tangles.
At the end of the day, always during the last class period of the school day, I would sit and watch her pluck the flowers from her hair. They would be shriveled up, almost dead, but she would still tuck them into the bag she carried and take them home with her. And the next day, she would come to school with brand new, alive, and beautiful flowers pinned into her wavy, messy hair.
I loved her. I loved her even though I never truly knew her. I loved her even though she was such a mess. I loved her. Perhaps I still do, even if I can't.
You can't love a dead girl. You can love the girl with the flowers in her hair, but you can't love the dead girl.