She was always the last to be chosen. The last to be seen, to be heard. Her voice was a slight breeze to a ferocious gust of wind, lost, overrunned. She was never considered, practically never alive.
Her own family hated her. The only one that "cared" for her was her brother, blood and all, that used to her to fulfill his...fleshly desires. The nights she would cry herself to sleep, her ripped, bloody clothes tossed to the floor. No one knew it. No one cared.
The torture never ended. At school, she was the victim of bullying. Even the former prey, the previous innocent of the chaotic battlefield, had a taste of power. They were relentless. They were unmerciful. They. Were. Her. Demons.
She was one to look at the bright side of life, even when there seemed like there was none. She was... different. She tried to be friendly. She tried to be helpful, to be the one being seen and heard. She was attempting to become a person.
I met her in highschool, my freshman year, new and clean. She was my first friend, my first and best friend. We hung out, and for awhile no one bothered her. She told me what happened, she told me about those nights. The nights her brother forced himself on her, the nights of abuse. She trusted me.
Then, one day, the boy I had a crush on invited me to a party, his 17th birthday was coming up, and his family wanted to celebrate. "What about her? Can she come too?" I asked, gesturing to my best friend. He shrugged. "Sure. Whatever." I took it as a sign. A good omen.
The night of the party, my best friend and I showed up, fluffy party dresses and heels with a half inch lift. I wore light make-up, blush and whatnot. But she didn't, she said she didnt want to hide true self. "I want to be accepted for who I am." she said. So we went, walking up those steps, like we were being offered, like it was just a dream.
If only it was.