I wrote this for a friend of mine, and like everything else that I have written, I actually haven’t read this one yet. So please forgive me for any grammatical lapses.
I killed her. That’s what you have wanted to hear, right? A confession; for me to admit what I did… So I am giving you what you want. I killed her.
You’ll look straight at her picture, hold her mother’s hand and tell her how pretty her smile had always been. You will stand there with everyone else, by her coffin, shedding a tear or two, cursing me for what I have done to her. And no, you wouldn’t hear a word from me.
I’ll never tell her grieving father how you used to push her around, how you would always ridicule her just because she wasn’t like you. She wasn’t pretty, or skinny, or beautiful.
I’m sure you’d even bring some flowers, come up with some carefully chosen words to ease her mother’s grief, and she would smile at you, and thank you for being such a good friend. Of course, none of you will tell her that you haven’t even spoken to her for weeks. Some of you don’t even really remember her name.
You’d come to the day of her burial, you and your friends, and would stand there, looking broken as you watch her coffin being lowered into the grounds. You’d probably shed another tear as you watch the flower fall, whispering your goodbye for everyone to hear.
Her name is Anne, by the way, that girl who just died, that girl you’d write the most heartfelt farewell in your Facebook and Twitter account, the one you’d tell everyone you will miss, not even realizing that she’s the same fat stupid girl with the ugly dress you wrote about a few weeks back. And of course, you’d blame me for killing her, for taking a precious part of your life away, that I should have been the one who died. Hypocrites!
You would be lonely alright, lonely enough to not be able to sleep for a day or two, lonely enough to actually wonder who she really was and why you haven’t even bothered to give her a second glance. Lonely enough to put all the blame on me, and I couldn’t even blame you for that. I did kill her. She is gone because of me.
Every single time you look at her with smirk, I tell her how ugly she is to her face. Every single time you make whispered remarks about her clothes or her figure, I shout it out to the world. Every single time you see her and laugh at how ugly she was, I tell her directly that she is horrendous. I killed her because she was ugly, just like the way each of you have killed me.
Again, you’d tell everyone that I should have been the one who died, not her, me. And you’d get your wish once again.
My name is Anne and I killed me. Thank you for coming to my funeral.