Hi There!

Hi! Rayne Rivers here! For those of you that don't know, but that is not my real name, but my other blog is anonymous and yada yada yada... SO, basically, I'm gonna post stories and stuff. Clearly, I am one of the most amazing writers ever! I'm kidding(ish). Now, going into serious professional mode. This short story is about a guy (i thought that was obvious, but somepeople asked me when I posted it on figment. Speaking of that, you should give it the heart it deserves here) and he is remembering the most phenomenal girl he had ever met. By the way, this charity is real. I'll let the story speak for itself now.



 Emo was probably the best of them. The best of the signs put up on our lockers. But, there were bad ones. Real bad. It hurt. Those words. Probably more than the punches. But, fortunately, they wouldn't touch her. I guess they had some kind of morals in that tiny Connecticut town. Enough morals to not punch a girl, but that was it. She was hurt other ways. It hurt just to watch it go on and not do anything, but it had to have hurt more for her. So much that she almost committed suicide. Almost. It didn't work. Thank god, it did not work.

But, that's when I knew it was partly my fault. Me, a bystander, supporting her, but doing nothing. I changed that. I held her hand in the halls. I peeled the signs off of her locker before she saw them, even though she knew they were there. I walked her to school, and then walked her back home. The bullying never stopped, and instead got worse. But, somehow it was getting better for the both of us because finally, I gave her my promise, to love her always.

Then she went missing. Wrote me a note and left it in my locker along with a wristband. To Write Love On Her Arms. The note told me not to be scared or worried. She made a promise to me, that I would be the first to see her alive and healthy when she was done with whatever it was. But, I was still worried. Still worried that she hadn't quite gotten over her suicide attempt. So I looked for her around town, frantic. I was just about to give up and tell myself she never truly made me any promises and I couldn't hold her to the one she supposedly made. But, then I looked up what was on the wristband. To Write Love On Her Arms. "To Write Love on Her Arms is a non-profit movement dedicated to presenting hope and finding help for people struggling with depression, addiction, self-injury and suicide. TWLOHA exists to encourage, inform, inspire, and also to invest directly into treatment and recovery." I was no longer scared, but I still looked for her. And this time, I looked for her to be with her, and help her jump whatever leap she was taking. 

I hopped on a train, a spark of an idea flashing through me. To Write Love on Her Arms. I ignored the familiar group of football players that were clearly drunk and trying to stalk me as a joke. I never noticed the gun when I stopped at the nearest town with a tattoo parlor. She was just walking out with a newly inked message on her arm, when she got shot.

In a way she kept her promise. I was the first, but sadly the last, to see her alive and healthy, and she saw me keep mine before her burden was truly lifted.

Now, I remember her, and write love on my arms, like she did with hers.