I knew a girl. She cut her wrists and all up her arm. She was covered in scars and bruises. Her father abused her, and her mother called her a failure. Her family was more like a punishment rather than a blessing, and she didn’t have any friends. I watched as she walked down the hall with her head hanging low and kids making fun of her as she walked by. I knew this girl, but I didn’t want anyone to know. I stopped talking to her, when all she needed was a friend who was willing to listen to her cry.

Eventually, she stopped coming to school. I began to feel nauseous thinking about what might have happened to her. Did she hurt herself,or did her parents get to her before she could do anything? The next week I had a deep pit in my stomach that no amount of food or laughter could fill. I couldn’t eat, I got no sleep, and every morning I had bags under my eyes so big they could carry groceries. I simply thought I was so distressed because of school, but I soon realized it was because this girl I knew had killed herself, and I was the reason why.