Monologue About Death

I loved her you know. I loved her, before, before she changed. Before everything went wrong. Before she killed herself. I’m pretty sure it was my fault too. If only I had been brave enough, like she was, but I guess that’s why people humiliated her. I guess that’s why she died; because I was a coward. I wish I hadn’t of been, she wouldn’t be in a grave if I had just had the courage. I loved her too. She didn’t know it, but I tried to hint at it. I guess she thought I was leading her on or something. I tried to tell her but every time I did attempt to, she would look up at me with those big brown eyes and I would melt and nothing would come out. Did I mention I was the one that found her body? She posted a video on her page online, it

I slid her sleeve up to check her pulse. I stopped. She had thin slices all up and down her arms. I remember when she told me she would never harm herself, she swore she would never cause herself to bleed, she told me she was afraid of knives and blades. Obviously she had overcome that fear. I placed my first two fingers on her wrist and checked for something, anything, but there was nothing. I remember picking her up in my arms, she was limp, and holding her crying “No, no, no. This is all my fault. I love you.” The next thing I remember is seeing a paramedic show up and pry me off of her lifeless body and haling her

I loved all of her little quirks and weird habits. Like how she used to always tell people if they smelt good after she hugged them, or how she would joke about her life ending if she couldn’t find something, or how when she was nervous or shy she would pull her sleeves down so they went over the tips of her fingers. I loved them all. But one day in maybe March, or April, in ninety degree weather, she came to school in an oversized sweatshirt, jeans, and sneakers; she couldn’t have covered more of her skin if she tried. Emma had big dark rings under her eyes, she didn’t make eye contact with anyone when she walked in and went straight to her locker. Something had changed. Something had hurt her, badly. She went from the always cheery easily excitable big eyed weirdo she was, to this tired strung out almost scared girl. I remember walking up to her and making eye contact, she looked ready to burst into tears. I asked if everything was okay and she replied as honest as I have ever seen her with a simple “No,” and walked away, hugging her books to her