Writing Club

Benevolence

        I used to think about this world, and how big it is— and that would make me think about myself, and how small I am. I could convince myself that I did not matter. I could convince myself that I was nothing. Because, after all, the world did not revolve around me. Not even 1/10 of the world knows about my existence. I didn’t like myself, I didn’t like who I had become, and I didn’t know how to change. I didn’t know how to escape. I didn’t know where to go. To be frank, I pondered death on a regular basis. I wanted to escape, I wanted to be free, but I didn’t know how.
        One day I found myself in the bathroom- the one bathroom in my school that nobody uses because it’s in the far corner of the building where nobody has any classes. I was skipping my worst period again— I’d be getting my 3rd detention of the week. All it took was looking at the bruises on my arms for me to start crying and I had only just closed the door behind me. It’s not like I was worried about anyone finding me- most people claimed the bathroom was haunted. And if it wasn’t before, I certainly made it that way. After all, everyone was terrified of me.
        I had been sobbing for maybe 5 minutes when I made my way to the sink counter and I looked up. I would have looked up, no matter what. I was in front of the mirror, and I couldn’t pass up a chance to tell myself how ugly I was. But I looked up, and I saw that pencil. It was just sitting there, on the counter. It was just there, as if it always had been, but I knew better. I had come to this bathroom the day before yesterday. And in spite of myself, I stopped crying. Someone had put this pencil here yesterday. Someone. I shrugged, ignoring the words carved into its wood and shoved it into my pocket. It was merely a free pencil.
        It is hard to think that a pencil convinced me to not skip my worst period. It is hard to think a pencil changed everything. But I know that if I had not picked up that pencil, I would not have gone to that period. If I had not picked up that pencil, nothing would have changed. And I wasn’t stupid enough to think someone had left it there on accident.
        That day I went home with the pencil in my pocket. He eats at 6:30, like most people do. But he was home early. I apologized, I said I’d start right away. I said I’d make his favorite. He didn’t forgive me. He added two more bruises to my collection. He left. I didn’t know where he had went, I didn’t know when he was coming back. I sat down on the couch to cry like I always did, but this time, I felt something stab me from my pocket. It was the pencil.
        Safe Voices 1-800-559-2927, and by some miracle, I called.