Hidden Scars

“You never paid attention in class; you were too busy. I can’t blame you, I didn’t pay attention either. I was always watching you with care, trying to figure out why you were always staring at your arms. I never knew why, until a frigid, cold night. I was out with some friends, when I heard a muffled cry; it was coming from a creamy white house with a row of pink fire lilies coming up to the porch.

When we heard the cry of pain again, I walked up to the front door and jiggled the handle to find it open. That was the day that will be pressed into the back of my eyelids forever. Now, ten years later, I still see it.

You were pressed up against a light brown wall, letting silent tears flow down your face. You were holding a bloody knife, the silver blade slowly dragging across your pale white flesh, making a crossed cut. The entire time, you didn’t notice me there, so when I asked you“ why” in a pained voice; you got startled. The blade cut too deep into your wrist.Two thick dark red lines started to drip faster onto the white marble floor tiles creating a dark, sticky pool of crimson red blood.

I instantly grabbed out my cell phone and dialed 9-1-1. I knew that we had to put pressure on the cuts with bandages, but when I tried to get past you, you grabbed my arm and wouldn’t let go. When the ambulance came, I left, not wanting to see them work on you and trying fix your problems. The doctors said that you cut too deep that time. That day in December was the day you died.

You were in the paper the next day; I remember clearly what they said about you. It was sort of like this:

Young Sam Wilkinson tried to save a young girl in his grade, but was too late.

It went on and on about why you thought it was the only way out.

When I saw you at your funeral in your oakwood casket, I could see the pinkish-white cuts peeking out from your starlight blue, mid-thigh dress. The way you would always hide in baggy sweatpants and long sleeve shirts wasn’t because you were fat like everyone thought. It was because you wanted to keep your body hidden like your hidden scars. When I got to say goodbye, I looked at your unbandaged arm to see scars running up and down it, each one with a memory, like the time Brittany called you fat, or when your ex cheated on you with your old best friend Camille. When that happened you made two long criss-crossing cuts right beneath your elbow. Your brown wavy hair was sprawled out in a fan like shape around your pale, ghostly white face. In your hair were pink and red roses. They reminded me of a poem about Autumn you wrote, about the leaves being the prettiest when they were about to die. You thought that you were alone in this life, but the thing is, you weren’t. I was there for you, my dearly beloved Rosella.


Ten years ago today was that bitter, cold December day. You are, and will always be, my red rose. I loved you for you, not what others saw you as, but how I saw you as. With bright blue eyes, that even though by the first time I saw you, they had gone dull and lifeless. Even then, your eyes still captured me, pulling me towards you. Not to forget your light freckles, framed by slightly wavy brown hair, that if you looked close enough, had golden streaks in it. But, most of all, I loved your beautiful crooked smile, even if that smile was fake and forced,” I finished my speech before looking at the gravestone, laying a rose down in the process:

Here Lies
Rosella Margaret Kristina Whitley
May 19 - December 18, 1996-2012
May all who remember her show love and remembrance because she loved all, knowing everyone made mistakes, even if those mistakes killed