I know you were too afraid to help me. Unfortunately, that fixes nothing. Knowing that you were scared won't heal the crisscrosses on my wrists and thighs. It won't help me conquer bulimia. Your empty words won't wipe the tears from my cheeks. I still see your face. You just looked on. My tears and pleas for mercy fell upon your unreceptive ears. You did nothing. I have the scars to show for it. You are a coward. You are no better than the monster that struts through the halls and lives to make me miserable. Do I forgive you? Maybe. Perhaps one day when I see your face among the crowd I will think not of a person who could have been my hero, but of a good person. Maybe not. Ask my wrists.