Her name was Kimmi.
Her skin was fair against the few strands left that she called hair. She looked so out of place with that cherry-red hair that hung in her face, but I still loved her, which is very much odd, considering the names they called her—like those that belonged to a female dog.
I looked past all that and found deep down inside, a little child that did nothing but shit and cry. I brushed that aside and did my best to ignore the name calling and put a relationship to the test.
It started out pleasant, but it slowly spiraled downwards when she sent me some pictures that were certainly worth a thousand explicit words.
Those pictures got passed around, and not much later, she wished she was six feet underground.
So, I helped her the best I could, but there's not much to do when I wanted her to live, like she truly should. She was beautiful in each and every way until that very day she rubbed me the wrong way.
I don't recall exactly what happened, except there was some hitting, but anyone could've agreed that she needed something that fitting.
Her slaps stung me, right on the cheek, and I smacked her right back, a type of humor that was tongue-in-cheek.
She fell to the ground, and I turned around and kicked her in the face just to show her to her rightful place.
She started to cry, and I started to laugh at how she was pathetic and probably wanted to die.
The blood on her face matched the color of her hair, and it stained the skin that was just so fair.
She stayed there, and I left, 'cause I didn't care that she may go home and throw herself down some stairs.
The next day at school, she wore bandages and scrapes and thought she was cool. When I passed her, I called her a fool, pushed her into a wall, and walked out of that school.
I heard she left, too, and I'm happy she did, because then she might go home and turn her face a shade of blue.
We broke up, needless to say, but she still loves me, still to this very day. I think it's sad, but I didn't do anything, because it'd just make her mad.
So, the days flew by, and finally on her birthday, she told me she wanted to die.
I just nodded and smiled, wished her good luck. My tongue, I lightly clicked, as I went off and thought I was such a stupid dick.
And, strangely, I was happy, because the next day at school, I heard something that made my hot head cool. She had killed herself, stepped off that chair, and I began to imagine how blue would clash with her hair. Blue against red just wouldn't match, but she's not my problem now. I wonder if the Devil will think she's a catch.
They said she was found in a little black dress. "That whore," others said, but I secretly wished she'd enjoy her final rest.
I sat down that night and began to daydream about the moon's light. However, my mind went back to that dark dress, so tight.
I didn't care anymore, so I didn't cry, although I did contemplate on how that was such a beautiful way to die.
Soon, my fingers found their way to my laptop's keyboard, and I slowly laid them down to start writing about the bitch in that black gown.
I didn't know how to start with the story concerning the girl that meant so much to me, so I decided to start with—
"Her name was Kimmi."