I often sit and watch the girl with the radiant red-violet hair. She sits there with eyes so shadowed and glassy it’s hard to tell their color. I watch her and I wonder what happened to the girl with the pretty blond hair and soft blue eyes that sparkled when she laughed. With a sad heart, I wonder if she remembers those days when we were younger. Does she remember the times we spent together, or has she already burned those times away?

As I watch her float through her classes, I wonder where her mind is. Again she makes an excuse for her drifty behavior, and silently I ask her if she likes coming down as much as she enjoys getting high. Does she like that desperate feeling? Does she like feeling afraid and lonely? I watch as she sticks a piece of gum in her mouth. Does she think it will help? Does she think the eye make-up is capable of disguising what she has done? Does she really believe bathing in that perfume is going to hide the smell? She smells like an ashtray. There’s no hiding that.

I wonder if she even realizes what she is doing. Does she remember what she did last night? What happens when she forgets to be careful? The next time she and her drunk friends pile into the car, will it be the last time? What happens when she takes the wrong pills with too much alcohol? Who will be there to help her? Surely she doesn’t expect her stoned friends to save her life.

I wish I could grab this girl by the shoulders and shake some sense into her. If only I had a mirror that could make her see what she’s doing to herself. I wish it was possible to make her understand that the sweet, blond-haired girl I once knew has been ruthlessly slain.