Written In Stone

Even though seeing him makes me shake, I still consider him my peer. No, peer isn’t the right word. It implies some sort of similarity between the two of us. Then, maybe it is the right word.

It’s all because of that dreary Saturday morning. I was in black, like everyone else gathered in the small funeral home. Everyone was shuffling by the casket; closed of course. They almost never have open caskets for people who have committed suicide.
I’d never met them before, but I recognized the immediate family instantly. They stood in the corner behind the casket, grief painted across their faces. It wasn’t normal lose-a-loved one grief, though. It was a cold-hearted mourning, like they blamed someone for it… maybe themselves.

No one really knew what to do. There were a couple of people from school, mainly because the visiting hours had been in the announcements, and they wanted to look good. I’d read the obituary, that’s how I knew about it.

They room was dead silent. No “Oh remember the time when-“ or “I still can’t believe we did—such and such.” No one had been willing to do anything with her. That was what pushed her over the edge, or at least, that was my theory.

She was that kid that sat alone at lunch, and never said anything, because they knew someone would just laugh at them if they did. Everyone pretty much ignored her. Everyone except him. He, he was so much worse. I can’t remember a time when he didn’t take a chance to poke fun at her. I can’t deny the fact that she wasn’t the most skilled socially, and he took advantage of that. It was enough.

He’d turn around in Math class and push her books off her desk, than point out everything she did wrong on her homework. She get flustered, and he’d just laugh some more because there was nothing she could do. He’d say impolite things—to put it nicely—as he passed her one-person-occupied lunch table, just to embarrass her. She was no match to his swagger.

I can blame him all I want, but there’s some part of me that says it wasn’t only his fault; that I share the blame. That everyone shares the blame. No, I didn’t initiate the savagery, but I didn’t stop it either. Nobody did. He’d make the snide comments, and we’d just turn the other way. It wasn’t our battle, right? Not our business? I’m beginning to think it was.

I once heard a saying that a community is like a bracelet full of lustrous jewels. Each of them represents a person, and when one gets scratched, it takes away from the value of the whole piece. I’m beginning to understand that.

I stood at a funeral for a girl I didn’t really know, because at the age of fourteen she slit her wrists and bled to death in her parents’ Jacuzzi. And I felt responsible. It’s in the news all the time, “Did bullying drive this young man to suicide?” Did the scratches drive her to remove herself from the bracelet? Did I help?

That dreary Saturday morning is the past. It’s gone, and however hard I try, I can’t rewrite it. I can’t bring her back to life. I can’t undo the pain, I can’t reverse the effects. I can’t do anything in the world that can change how she ended up. But, I can do something, I can change the future. That’s what I plan to do.

“Hey, can I sit here?” I asked, as I approached another one-person-occupied table, staring into eyes as cold as a guard-dog’s. I was going to make a difference.