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Hello, I wrote you two personal stories. I hope your readers will find them touching and meaningful as they have been to me. Have a wonderful day!
I had a middle school friend who gradually stopped talking to me. We'd hang out together, but she wouldn't say nearly as much. I thought it was just a personality shift until I asked for something. She then hands it to me, and as she does so, I notice her sleeve pull back and an ugly old long scare stand out on her arm. I inquired as to how she got it, but she quickly covered it up and moved away.
I was about nine at the time and didn't give it much thought. I did most of the talking, so, it pretty much was fine with me. But as time went on, she adopted a more resigned, empty demeanor. I began to worry about her mental health and encouraged her to talk to the school counselor, but she refused to do so, and said,
We were walking home one day when we came to a stop sign. The red man lights up (crosswalk lights), we come to a halt, and the cars begin to move again, but one massive truck was catching up to the rest of the cars from a short distance away. My friend turned to me at this precise moment and said,
"Don't blame yourself. You were a wonderful friend."
And then she stepped out in front of the truck. Thank God her bag was still within reach, and I was able to pull her off the road. Alarmed, I shock her, as much as I could and inquired to know what was wrong. In tears she told me everything. Turns out, her father (her father had divorced and remarried, she was living them at the time) had been mentally abusing her, calling her worthless, beating her up, and so on. Feeling nobody wanted her, she wanted to end her life. She now lives happily with her mother, who still thanks me for speaking out whenever I visit.
I walked into my eighth-grade art class one day and noticed we had a substitute teacher; nothing unusual, I had a regular class and went about my day.
Teach returned the next day, and we wondered what happened because she certainly doesn't sound sick or anything, and because we were a handful of curious eleven to thirteen year old brats.
She tells us a man tried to rob someone near her apartment with a knife. The victim overpowered and struck the perp, the perp fled with deep injuries, and the victim managed to flee to report the crime. The assailant dashed into her apartment complex and tried to open her door with his knife. The lock was severely damaged but never opened, further securing the door.
She tried to open her door in the morning to leave for school but was unable to do so. After calling the maintenance office, a building employee went to her apartment floor but screamed when she discovered the body right at the hall way. The cops arrived, declared the area a crime scene, and forced her to stay-in until they had all the evidence they needed. Her door was finally opened a day later, and as the workman replaced the damaged locks, she asked questions about the mugger.
"Chris Larouch," he said, continuing to replace the lock.
She could vaguely recall hearing that name before, but where she did was beyond her reach. According to the technician, the dead man used to live on my floor with his Grandmother, but he mistook my door for hers and died trying to get in. The elderly lady's apartment was five doors down, with the same doormat and doorbell as mine.
Her mind immediately returned to her days as a substitute teacher. Chris (the assailant who died) was a student in a class she taught. He was a class clown: a mischievous, impudent student who frequently disrupts class with jokes, pranks, or witty remarks. What stood out to her was his constant desire to be the center of attention at the expense of learning his schoolwork. Every week, she complained to the principal, sent him to detention, and did everything she could, but nothing changed. When his pranks got too far, she had had enough and held him back, intending to call his parents and vent.
My teacher then dialed his home number while sitting in an empty classroom, but no one answered. Then he dialed his mother's personal cellphone number (which was on the parent contact list), and an assistant answered, saying his mother couldn't get to the phone at that moment but that she would place teach on the call back list. Teach explained that it was an emergency and that she needed to speak with Chris's mother about his behavior in class right away, but the assistant refused, stating that the next available date for a call back was two months away. Irate, she hung up and dialed his father's number. After several attempts, the assistant answered and said he was in Milan for an important meeting and would call back later, then the phone went dead.
She put down the receiver, stunned, and turned her attention to Chris. Tears streamed down the poor boy's cheeks. She moved to comfort. The poor lad's parents were too busy to care. He changed after she had a heart to heart with him. She no longer judged him harshly and she even laughed at his jokes. This made it easier for him to concentrate on his schoolwork. She did everything she could to be there for him until he and his family moved to a different middle school. They lost contact after he moved out of state to different country.
Surprisingly, after week later, no one cared. I only recalled the story, seventeen years later, and realized that none of us had even acknowledged the gravity of her situation. He could have killed her if he had been able to open her door.
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