Her Name

There was only one way to keep her quiet. She needed to think it was her idea. She wasn’t like most twelve-year-old girls. She was dark, cynical to the point of self-destruction. Her outlandish sense of humor made it impossible for her to connect with anyone. This being what it was, she never viewed it as much of a problem. She was rather small for her age, the runt of the litter — a description that rang true on more levels than one. In fact, she always felt like an outcast in a society she never had a desire to be a part of to begin with. Her jet-black hair, the coffee-colored irises of her eyes, her swarthy complexion, and her overall disheveled appearance were all very true reflections of shadows lurking beneath the fleshly level — the secret looming, longing to be discovered, revealed. Her name was Simone Coletun and there was one way to keep her quiet; it was simply this: ask her to talk.

It didn’t matter what about — her favorite color, what she wanted to eat, her opinion on global warming. It all turned her into a mute, a child who hasn’t learned the value of their tongue. However, it was when her home life was mentioned, her family, that she truly tuned out. That’s when the darks of her eyes threatened to take over her entire body; it was like talking to a brick wall. And one had to wonder, why? Now, it’s public knowledge that she would never disclose this information to anyone but herself. Despite this, the information seemed to surface all on its own. "Three-week-old” bruises lingering on her cheekbones, green clouds of heartache screaming louder than any words she could proclaim. Her dainty bones protruding in emaciated agony, begging for someone, anyone, to notice. The smile she wore that was plainly only skin-deep, the smile that distracted from her puffy, tear-stricken eyes. Grudgingly, she walked through life with blinders on, always seeming like she was just trying to get from one place to the next. Regardless of all this, she was the most enchanting creature you’d ever seen. So beautifully broken, she made it look easy to continue living despite the horrible nature of this world, so admirable in her determination to not let anything to get her, stop her. Except herself. After all, there was only one way to stop her; she needed to think it was of her own accord, her idea, her plan. And so it seems, it was.

And as I sit here today, this tombstone in front of me, I’m faced with the understanding that I failed her completely. I watched her every day, stupefied by the way she carried herself — so confident and strong — all the while, she was wasting away before my eyes. All this to say, I did have my doubts; I saw the signs, the pain behind the “joy.” However, I held my tongue in fear of being wrong, while she cried out for help in a cacophony of silence. The heartbreaking realization, dreadful and agonizing, hits me like a ton of bricks. All the questions in health class centering around fatal wounds and toxic chemicals, were merely tools driving her closer to her endgame, clues leading her out of the labyrinth of suffering she knew as life. Why didn’t I know? Why didn’t I see? And if by some twisted joke of subconscious thought, I did know, I did see, so why didn’t I speak? Repeatedly, daily, carelessly, I gazed at the beauty that was Simone, absolutely in awe of her presence. But as I look back I discover that, sadly, this is not who she was; beauty was not her name, and the will to carry on was not her tale. Her name was Fear. Her name was Victim. Her name was Suppressed Anger. Her name was Angst. Her name was Suicide.

And now, that is the only name she will bear to the world. But not to me. No, to me, her name was Simone Coletun; indeed her name was — and always will be — the love of my life.