Listen.

Part 3: Listen.

I come to on my bed. Eyes swollen and my fist wrapped in a bandage. I try to open my fingers but fire like pain shoots down my arm and I scrunch my face in pain. 

I check the clock and its 2am in the morning. Wow, I knocked out for almost 8 hours. I lie back down and release a sigh. I close my eyes and think.

I recall, the few times I see Isabel flinch when she smiles. As if she was not used to the feeling. Or as if her smile wasn’t genuine. But I had always shrugged it off assuming I was just over thinking.

Here I know, I regret. Not asking her alone, if she were really alright. If there were anything she needed to talk about. Perhaps, if she had been able to talk to someone, anyone about her struggles, she would not have taken her life. She would not have jumped off that building.  

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20 years later. 

She smiles, as she receives an award from the prime minister. “most influential woman”. As she holds the ribbon in her hand, she looks up to the heavens and speaks in a barely audible tone: “this is for you Isabel.”

Apparently, it is the 10^th anniversary of the organization this lady started up. It is an organization created for “children without voices.”

“Masters degree in Psychology and Psychiatry.

Dr. Julia Sormes.”

It said on the big poster. I nod, impressed.

I walk up to a table, covered in a velvet black cloth. I smile at the blonde lady behind the desk.

“hi!” she says brightly.

“would you like to sign up to be a sponsor for this organization?”

I smile at her and nod.

She passes me a form and asks me to fill it in.

I shake my head and push the form back into her hands. I take out my cheque book and fill it in.

I pass it to her along with a note and walk away, hearing the gasp directed to my back.

“miss! Miss!” she calls for me. But I walk away and exit the convention centre. I get in 

my car and drive away.

------------------------------------------

I stare dumbfounded at the cheque in my hands. Someone had written a 1 million dollar cheque to be banked in for my organization.

“But who??” I ask my secretary, Natasha.

“I don’t know ma’am. She just came and left.” She said a little ashen.

“look at the note attached to the back.” She asks me.

I read the first two words.

Hey Juju.

I stop, feeling my blood drain from my face.

“chair.” I say.

“what?” my secretary asks questionably.

“chair. I need a chair. I’m going to pass out.” I say, my throat dry as sand.

I hear a chair being hurriedly placed behind me and I collapse into it, taking deep breaths.

I close my eyes and recall. Yes. Yes I’m not wrong. But, but how could it be? Only. Only Isabel ever called me Juju. No one else. No one. Not even today.

I open my eyes and hungrily read the rest of what the note said.

“Take care of this organization; you’re doing a great job. I’m very very proud of you. Maybe I’ll see you soon. By the way, I love the name. It fits the reason for the organization perfectly.

Listen.

Xo.”

end.

Listen.

part 2: Listen. 

I cry as I read the last words of my friend. She had sent it to my mailbox. I suppose as an explanation to me for the seemingly ridiculous action of taking her life just a week ago. 

I crumple the paper in my hand and throw it hard at a nearby tree. Falling to my knees I scream in frustration: “why?! Why? Why? Why?!!”

Her name was Isabel. Sweet Isabel with the dark hair and gentle eyes. She was a gentle girl. She was only 17.

I met her in 4^th grade. We became friends instantly. She was quiet. But she had a wild imagination.

But people. People are cruel. People have the ability to care for a soul, or tear a life apart.

And Isabel, Isabel was just in the wrong place, at the wrong time.

Two years ago, Isabel was walking home from school; just her usual routine. When out of nowhere she was grabbed and pulled into a van.

Four men. Four cruel and disgustingly horrible men. Raped her. Cut her. Kicked her. Tortured her. Then left her. On the side of the road to die.

By some miracle she survived. But the scars on her body were always there to remind her. Haunt her.

At school, she got mocked; for the scars on her body and the reputation of her rape.

She was called a slut. She was called ugly. She was called unspeakable names that would break a soul further from its tear.

She moved, from school to school, even city to city. But I never knew how much pain she was in. She always had me and close circle of 5 friends; Samantha, Cassie, Yaven, Tanya and of course me, Julie. With us, she was always happy and full of laughter and never cared to talk about the details of her pain. She merely shrugged it off not wanting us to worry about her.

On my knees I start pounding the cement pavement which I stood on; barely noticing the blood that was starting to spatter from my fist.

I subconsciously notice my mother running out screaming at me to stop. She drags me to my feet and I crumble in her arms. I whisper one last: “why” before I knock unconscious. 

end part 2. 

Listen

this was a very impromptu story i wrote just a few minutes ago. (: its purely fictional. but hopefully it will make you think. 

enjoy. 

Listen. 

“As a child, I never understood why people stood on top of the tallest building in the city and jumped to their deaths. 

I never comprehended what they felt, what they thought.

But as i stand here, summer air clinging to my skin, I understand. Wind that breathed against my skin and not against those at the bottom of the 40 story building raised goose bumps to the surface of my sticky skin. I close my eyes and a tear escapes. I open the windows to my eyes and watch the single drop of water fall from my face down to the pavement below, hardly noticeable below in the hustle bustle of the street. 

I shook my head at the irony. That single tear, unnoticed and small. I felt just like that.  Simply passed by and overlooked.

My fists clench as I stare at the black sky. Tears clouded my vision of the beautiful stars splattered against the big black canvas of unknown. Flashbacks hit me like a double edged sword to the gut.

The times I was pushed around.

The times I was overlooked.

The times my efforts turn to dust.

The times I was misunderstood and mocked.

The times I tried so hard but was never..

I was just never good enough.

I fisted my hair threatening to pull them out from the roots in frustration. I looked down to the busy street below in anger. Maybe this will show them. Maybe this will finally open their blinded eyes and unblock their stubborn ears to my screams of help and cries of desperation.”

end part 1.