She drew everything and anything. Her arms were her canvas. Her pen was her utensil.
The black ink was stark against her skin.
People noticed and thought nothing of it. It had started as small little doodles.

Flowers, butterflies, a dragonfly or two.
People noticed, but thought it was because she was bored.

The small doodles soon became masterpieces of art. Intricate vines spiraling up her arm, the ink smudged in a way to make them seem like that popped out.

People noticed. They thought it was a pastime.
Except for one friend.

"Why do you draw on your arm" he had asked.

She looked at him. Her full eyes overpowered by her forced smile.

"I could tell you. But I won't"
She giggled before walking away.

What no one saw was how her smile shattered immediately after and how she desperately dug in her pockets for her pen.

Another day. Her arm was clear, having been washed the night before, but it was tinted dark with ink that had been absorbed by her skin.

As she sat in math, she started drawing.
People noticed. Thought she was bored.
The teacher called her out. Pink jumped to her cheeks out of embarrassment and a feeling of shame.

What no one saw was how immediately after leaving class, she spotted a red pen on the floor. She picked it up and held it in front of her. The ghost of a smile tugged at her lips as she pocketed the new pen.

By the afternoon she had drawn the vines again. But this times it was different. It wasn't just black on her pal skin. There was red, too.
Not blood, but pen drawn to look like so.
Pen drawn to look as if the vines were piercing her skin.

People noticed, and thought she had simply decided to add some color.

The friend from before asked again-
"Why do you draw on your arm?"

Her smile faltered this time. Yet she pushed through.
"It helps me."

With what, she didn't specify as she got up and left for the bathroom.

What no one saw was how she burst into tears and pulled out both pens, drawing vigorously on her arm, once intricate designs becoming black and red messes.

The next day she went back to school, but her canvas was not clear this time. Her skin already was bearing images. The impressions of ropes drawn as if they were too tight on her arm.

People noticed and questioned it. Usually she drew vines or plants.

Two friends this time noticed a change.
"Why do you draw on your arm"

"Why are your drawings so bloody now"

She didn't answer either. She simply gaped for words before standing and walking off.

The next day her canvas was half full by when school started. Words were added this time. Vines, ropes, and insults.

'Not good enough'
'Stupid'
'Bitch'
'Depressed'
'Insane'
'Untalented'
'Insignificant'

People noticed.

Oh they noticed all right.

Those exact words were repeated in her ears, hurled at her like tennis balls, echoing in her head as if it was an deserted canyon.

And one could suppose it was. And it was slowly filling with her thoughts.
Her friends swamped her with questions.

"Why"
Because I'm trying to cope

"What happened"
My existence happened.
Depression happened

"Are you okay"
No I'm not

Though all the noise- her friends constant interrogating, the insults thrown left right and center, one thing stuck out to her.

It was a comment made by a kid in her math class.

"If you're so depressed why don't you go kill yourself"

She didn't show up to school one day.
People noticed and poked fun.
Until they were informed that the girl had taken her life.

Friends devastated.
Kids regretting.
Teachers mourning.
A day of silence in her memory.

Not.

There was no honoring of her death. Her friends cried out for someone to show some compassion for their lost friend, but people laughed in their faces.

"She was weak"

"She was a freak"

"She deserves to die"

"Why were you ever friends with her"

Teachers continued as if no difference was made. No ceremony was held.

                                  ~•~

So in the end? What did this amount to?
A story? Sure. A meaningful one? Debatable.
A true one? Could be.

One that represents this life? Definitely.

No one cares if you die. No one cares to get to know your secrets. It's too much work for them to care.
The girls doodles?
Her coping mechanism to keep her from cutting herself like before- the scars she hid underneath her pants, where she had secretively taken a razor to her legs.

No one knew. No one cared. No one does care.
And now no one remembered her.
What is one person worth if they're not strong enough to withstand the tournament of life?

In reality they are important, but it takes someone important dying for a difference to be noticed.