5) Death Sentence: Emma

It was happening again.

Emma looked down at the text message flashing on the screen of her phone. It's derogatory, discriminative, cruel words burned her skin like caustic acid. The cruelty of that single sentence, that death sentence. Her death sentence.

She looked down at her phone that she was cradling so gently in her small, scarred hands. Small pools of glistening salt water magnified single words.

"Useless"

"Burden"

"Unloved"

She was all of those things in this society. She was stupid, so stupid that she was of no benefit to anyone. She burdened others with her never ending problems, draining their energy, because all hers had been used up already.

Who could love a person like that? Who could love someone who required constant attention and reassurance because the voices spoke louder that her own?

Who could love her?

She was the girl who cried over nothing. Who over-apologized. Who did not know how to smile or hug anyone. Who asked everyone if she was annoying them and despite their reassurances, still felt as if they were reluctantly talking to her. She was the girl with no friends, the one that stood in the grounds away from others typing ferociously into her phone so that she looked busy. Really, she was typing out the same thing every time.

"I need help"

No sooner than the message was complete, she would delete it and start all over again because she did not want to be a burden to anyone. She could not let anyone know that she needed help. She had to stay strong for her family. She had to be strong for Mom.

Her cellphone hid her isolation, made it look as if she was busy, but it was not like anybody cared anyway, but it helped her to camouflage in a world that cared nothing for people who were not perfect moulds of themselves.

Emma was so sick of being the outcast. She was a source of amusement to the school, someone who they could gossip about, spread stories about. A mystery that nobody understood, nor cared to understand. She was that girl.

Again, she looked at the text message. It's words like burning spears cutting through her scarred body. Everyone in the grade had seen it, it was obvious. Everyone would be talking about that text message, the message that revealed the raw and broken person that she was.

She was just another form of entertainment. She had no value anyway, so what difference did it make. She could not see her own worth, and doubted that she even had one.

"You're a mistake and nobody wants you." The voices hissed threateningly into her ear.

She could almost see the figure of evil with is cruel face laughing at her despair. It's long claw like fingers slashing at her throat.

The figure stood before her, snarling and grinning. It's evil eyes glaring into her soul. She was afraid, she knew it was only her mind, but she was still afraid.

If she ceased to exist tonight, would anybody notice? Would anybody care?

Emma looked down at her wrists. The scared lines implicated her. They held the memories from two years ago. Two years ago when she had allowed the blade to run smoothly through her flesh and watched the crimson blood drip monotonously into the basin and run down the drain with the swirling water chasing behind it.

The blade. It was so powerful, so mighty. It could take her life in a single slash. But she could not die. She could not force someone else to deal with the same poisoning guilt that she felt.

She could not die and leave her mother wondering if she could have done something to save her eldest daughter from the gruesome Grim Reaper's scythe.

Why had she cut though? Why had she chosen to create permanent artwork across her pale skin, instead of the welcome death that remained a perfect escape?

Emma had spent many days wondering what had compelled her to mutilate her body instead of just dying and leaving the pain behind.

There was something about the crimson blood that ran down the drain that was, well calming… and the pain from the slit that dissolved all other emotional pain. She did not know how, but it stopped her from thinking about the pain that she could not heal with plasters and Dettol.

The cuts were friends. They distracted her from the pain that burned her on the inside. She could nurture them, care for them, protect them, like she so desired somebody to do for her. And they were true friends. Their influence never left entirely, it only faded as time healed her symmetrical scars.

They stayed on her wrist as symbols. A reminder that she had overcome that period of depression, that she had succeeded. She was still alive, to breathe and live another day.

She had never told Mom. She could not bear to give Mom something else to worry about, besides she was supposed to be the strong one in the family now that Dad was gone. The protector could not be weak. The shoulder Mom cried on could not quiver. She did not have the right to be the victim, to be the helpless. At least not to Mom.

So, Emma had told Mrs Arense.

Mrs Arense had helped her. Mrs Arense had been the shoulder she could cry on when she was weak. It felt like Mrs Arense was the only one who had ever understood her.

That was why Emma was so confused. Mrs Arense gave her the love and maternal support that Mom could not give, so did that not make her a maternal figure? Mrs Arense acted as a mentor, an emotional mentor. She was the only one who knew all of Emma's secrets, the secrets that she strived to keep from society, were the same secrets that she spoke freely about to Mrs Arense.

But, then there were those dreams, those desires, that Emma had to kiss Mrs Arense. For Mrs Arense to kiss her, so perhaps it was just a casual teacher crush, not a maternal love, perhaps Mrs Arense did not even care for her, perhaps it was all imagined.

But there was also the desire that Emma had to be friends with Mrs Arense. She was such a kind and considerate woman, who seemed to be the perfect description of a friend. How Emma hated being a school child, all the nice people were far older than her, which would make it inappropriate to be friends.

People Emma's age were childish and stupid. Why did they think that posting half naked pictures of themselves onto their Whatsapp status was going to attract boys? The only people that those pictures would attract were perverts or boys who wanted a girlfriend for sexual gratification, not friendship and a loving relationship.

Although, Emma also believed that it was not possible for someone of her age to understand or know what love was. Their perception of love was false, it was a feeling of desire or friendship spurred on by hormones. They were nothing but teenagers trying to act like adults in a way that social media and society expressed to them.

It was false. Very Few hormonal teenage romance ever lasted more than a few months, because people did not understand that before love, friendship must exist. They rushed to what they believed was love and ended with a relationship built on nothing but air, but it was friendship that was the strongest foundation.

Without real friendship, love had no chance. All attempts would be in vain, and until this fundamental idea was learned, they would never have a successful relationship.

Teenagers should focus on school and education, friendship at the most, but now was a time that would be the foundation for a successful- or unsuccessful future.

Emma looked down at the text again. What was she supposed to do about it? What had she done wrong to make everybody hate her so much? People always said to be yourself, but when Emma was herself, nobody liked her, so she was forced to be different, if she ever hoped to be accepted by the cruel society that teenagers live in.

Without a second thought to the voices that had begun singing their cruel insults into her ears, her feet carried her down to passage to Mrs Arense's classroom door.

That's what she could do. Ask Mrs Arense for help.