Her face was a mixture of blues, blacks,
violets, yellows, and greens on cream. The
same holds true for her arms. She wears
a shirt that doesn't cover the bruises; she is
not ashamed of them. Nor is she proud. The
ripped and faded jeans that she wears are held
up by a belt that does little good and her eyes....
her eyes look right through your soul.
When you hear her speak, never will you guess
that just hours, or maybe even minutes, before
that same voice was crying out for help. It is
quiet, timid, as though she is afraid to be heard.
A boy moves past her, nearly shoving her into a
locker, no sound escapes her lips. Instead, she
wears a small smile as she responds to the one
asking if she is all right with a simple "fine."
You walk by her in the hallway, frowning at the
stench of copper that hits your nose. She always
smells of copper, but no one will ever do anything
about it; no one cares. Some days the smell is
stronger than others. Some days it is mixed with
the smell of salt; she did have tearstains on her
cheeks this morning... didn't she? You do not
You sit next to her in Math. She never sits up
straight and she tends to hide her face. One day
you found out why she does that. She claimed
that she walked into a door, there was a cut that
ran all the way across the left side of her face.
Today the bruises seem fresh and you wonder how
she can move around with the ache that bruises
leave behind. You touch her arm, pretend to have
a question about the work, and barely notice the
wince that flashes across her face.
She came back to school today with a split lip. No
one asks her what happened. A boy goes up and
talks to her, you know he is just doing it to be cruel,
you know she likes him and that his presence will
hurt her somehow. She bites her bottom lip and you
see that you are right. He laughed and left as her lip
bled. The blood stains her mouth and those salty
tears run down her face again. She disappears and you
do not follow. She will survive today, just like she
does every other day.
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