The marks. Wide, protruding. So obviously there, so obviously evident. Yet no one says anything to her. Not a word.
Maybe she’s finally invisible, unseen by the world that so clearly judges her at first glance. Now that she seems to have gotten what she’s wished for, she feels even more neglected. Maybe no one cares about her, the girl that has clearly gone completely insane.
At least that's what they say.
The truth is, they don't know the first thing about her. They don't understand. That blood, those tears, those wounds, they aren't for attention. She’s not faking this. What she feels is real.
It's all an effect of his wrongdoing. He killed him. And she thinks she’s beginning to be the only one that believes he will serve time for that action we all have hated so much.
Well, he might as well have killed me too.
She’s not the same girl everyone knew and loved. She never will be. These scars and the erasers that caused these marks, they stare up at her, begging to be run up & down her wrist once again.
She stops it, sometimes. As much & as often as she’s able, at least. But only because she doesn't want others to see her new mistakes.
She feels like everyone has given up on this trial to convict this man of his unthinkable sin. She’s the only one who still cares. She’s the only one that wants to see justice served anymore.
At least that's what it seems.
She’s the only one living her life differently. Everyone else has moved on, back to their old lives. Not her. She’s shaken, hurt, and all alone. This has consumed her, and there's nothing she can do about it. There's nothing anyone can do; nothing at all can be done to save her from myself.
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