All Nonfiction Bullying Books Academic Author Interviews Celebrity interviews College Articles College Essays Educator of the Year Heroes Interviews Memoir Personal Experience Sports Travel & CultureAll Opinions Bullying Current Events / Politics Discrimination Drugs / Alcohol / Smoking Entertainment / Celebrities Environment Love / Relationships Movies / Music / TV Pop Culture / Trends School / College Social Issues / Civics Spirituality / Religion Sports / Hobbies
- Summer Guide
- College Guide
- Author Interviews
- Celebrity interviews
- College Articles
- College Essays
- Educator of the Year
- Personal Experience
- Travel & Culture
- Current Events / Politics
- Drugs / Alcohol / Smoking
- Entertainment / Celebrities
- Love / Relationships
- Movies / Music / TV
- Pop Culture / Trends
- School / College
- Social Issues / Civics
- Spirituality / Religion
- Sports / Hobbies
- Community Service
- Letters to the Editor
- Pride & Prejudice
- What Matters
The room is dark, save the slight radiance from the flashlight beam pointing straight up at the ceiling. It is midnight outside, but inside the dawn is just about ready to break. He lies on his bed, his head at the foot and vice versa. She sits calmly at his desk, staring at him. He can’t look at her so he looks at the illumination on the ceiling and the patterns crawling around inside it.
What are you thinking about?
“You,” he replies.
What about me?
“I can’t really remember what you look like,” he mumbles, “I miss you.”
Hasn’t it been too long for that? You know I’ve moved on. Why can’t you do the same? Aren’t there any other girls?
He sits up and grabs his pillow from beneath his feet and lies back down, holding the pillow close and comfortingly, the way a child might hold a teddy bear or a man hold a lover.
“They’re not like you.”
I’m sure there are other pretty girls.
“They’re not as mature as you,” he whispers, “They don’t have your thoughts, your words, your personality.”
There’s a pause. She doesn’t look away from him and he can feel her gaze burrowing its way into his mind. She gestures to the pillow.
Are you pretending that’s me?
“No,” he lies. She sees through it and he knows it. He throws the pillow on the ground. There’s a pause and then she slowly walks over and kneels next to him, beside the bed. She takes his hand.
I can’t stand to see you like this.
He doesn’t look at her but his heart races. He’s glad he never forgot the way her hand felt when it was clasped in his.
So you understand why I have to do this.
He turns to her and he sees a rope dangling from the ceiling behind her. It’s tied in a noose at the bottom. He can’t remember if it has been there the whole time or not. He almost laughs. The rope is pink, her favorite color.
She gently pulls her hand away, a slow, lingering, painful disentanglement. She walks back to the desk chair, climbs it, and grabs the rope, running the coarse material between her fingers for a moment. She looks at him one more time.
I love you, she lies.
He doesn’t reply but he closes his eyes and smiles, if only slightly. He listens as she secures the rope around her neck. He makes no move when he hears the sickening snap. Tears trickle onto his cheeks and dry there, leaving a sticky and uncomfortable residue. He falls asleep without looking at her. When he awakes the next afternoon, there is no rope, no body, no her. There is no her.