I, Alfred F. Jones, don't get it, I really don't. Despite being bullied all the time for her good grades and coke bottle glasses, ____ was always so pleasent, so upbeat.
She's the last person I would have expected to commit suicide.
Through their tears, her parents said that, in her suicide letter, the reason why she killed herself is because of the bullying she had to put up with every day she went to school. Those words made my blood run cold, because I was one of the bullies who pushed her to do that, the ring leader actually. From name calling to groping, she certainly got it all, though you could never tell it hurt her by that sappy smile she always had plastered to her face when she told people she was fine.
That fact probably makes it even more disrespectful to stand before her grave as I do now. Rain started to fall, the drops sliding down my blond locks and hitting the grass below, but I hardly cared; the rain mixed quite well with my tears.
Why didn't I tell her how beautiful she was, instead of calling her four eyes and ugly?
Why did I make fun of the way she laughed, when I only wanted to hear it more and more?
Why did I tell her to die, when I want nothing more than for her to live?
Why didn't I tell ____ I loved her?
God, I'm so stupid. To think I had the chance to hold her in my arms, and instead to chose to bring her down, to look cool in front of my so called friends. I glanced up at the sky, the rain continuing its steady fall, though it looked crimson red to me. Red with ____'s blood that stained my hands.
It's all my fault, but it's too late to say I'm sorry. It's too late to realize how much I need her. "I'm sorry." I whispered, my voice cracking with emotion. "I'm so sorry, ___."
The rain fell for a while that day, and my tears fell even longer.