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Annabelle

I saw it everyday, and so did everyone else. Her name was simple, sweet even, yet, I believe even she forgot her name. I didn't participate in harassing her, I didn't call her names or push her around. But now that I think about it, in the back of my mind, I never thought of her as "annabelle". Instead the name would range, from what others would say. That 'one freak' was among them.
The topic of bullying and harassment came up in my friends and I's conversations constantly, but that didn't mean we did anything about it. I don't recall a time where I stood up or told a teacher. Perhaps I didn't want to be considered a snitch. Maybe even scared that it'd happen to me. But, No, all we did was Watch. We watched her get beat, and shrug off the bruises.
We watched her get taunted, and smile at the chorus of “Loser” or eye rolls as she skipped, rolls of chunky smiles attatched to her persona.

We’d turn our heads away, when a tear would cross her face.
I didn’t join in, but I surely didn’t help, no one ever did. The fre- I mean, Annabelle was always alone, and now 6 feet under, she’d be forever alone.
I regret standing there, and I hate how I cried, I hate how tears spilled from my eyes, and I had no right to cry. She wasn’t my friend, not even an acquaintance, yet I cried. And so did everyone else, others with selfish reasons.
The cliche popular group sobbed obnoxiously, took the headset and told the ‘story’ of Annabelle, how she was so perfect and sweet.
No one bothered to mention the fact that she had been overweight and awkard. Instad blinding tears ran down nearly everyone's face.
But only few people had the right to greive. Her mother, her father and her best friend. Who secretly glared at all Annabelle's 'bet friends'. The guidance councillors were called in, shrinks filled he halls. Speaking to 'traumatized students.' Who dearly missed Annabelle.
I find it funny, a little sad too, how it took so long for the teachers, the staff to put a stop to it. All over the school there are posters against bullying. Hotlines and annonymous numbers to call. But do you really think that anyone thinks twice of such a thing?
It took the life of a girl, the life of a young girl with such promise of a high end job, a carrer of amazement, for the school to understand. And still no one does. No one will ever be able to undertand.

It's kinda weird, crying over a girl I barely knew, but now staring at the hundreds of paintings and sketches hung on the walls, draw by yours truly Annabelle. I can't help but let it slip. The colors fasing, and wings of different shades. Poems and writings on all the shame.
And right in the middle is a big mosaic. Left unfinished.
At least now everyone will see the true beauty of Annabelle




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