Introduction
Silent Sadie never talked, hence the name. She had borne this name since 7th grade when Lukas Presley had tried asking her out, and she had written a simple “no” in her notebook. Lukas Presley was a certified prick, but also the best baseball player in school. As high school started he evolved to the captain of the baseball team. His jaw got sharper, his abs bigger and his ego grew sky high. To this day he still makes sure Silent Sadie keeps her beloved pet name. Lukas picks on her daily. I know he does it because he’s still in love with her. I know she lets him because it gives her bad feelings validation. I know this because I do the same thing. I let my boyfriend use me as a punching bag because it gives me a reason to cry. To use the old razors in the box between my headboard and wall. My excuse used to be my mom, but it had already been 3 years since her death. It just did not feel validating enough anymore. My other reason was my dad, just in case one wasn’t enough. He doesn’t hit me, he would never. He just yells. A lot. He is pretty much always drunk when he does it. Or high. Or sober. He calls me a slut and a whore. A useless waste of space. A murderer. It doesn’t hurt as much anymore. I know Silent Sadie wants to die. I know she has a bottle of pills she stole from her brothers medical table stuffed in her underwear drawer just in case. Just in case it gets too harsh. Just in case her dad hits too hard. Or her brother gets too sick. Or her mom cries too loudly. She wouldn’t actually do it. Its just in case. I’ve never talked to Silent Sadie in person before. No one has. She’s Silent Sadie. She sits in at the back of class with her tangled blonde hair peeking out of the hood she’s pulled far enough over her head so no one will see the dead expression in her eyes. She sits alone in the cafeteria without eating so people won’t find her disgusting. Instead she eats it during the next break in the stall furthest away from the door in the girls bathroom. Its never occupied, due to the “out of order” sign on the stall door. Its not actually broken, the janitor simply doesn’t bother taking it down. Silent Sadie likes this. She has scribbled little things on the walls. Doodles of mushrooms and crystals. Short poems and long stories. The three white tile walls, the mustard colored stall door and the porcelain toilet with a crack on the seat is her own world. Her resting place. She wrote to me about it. Silent Sadie doesn’t know this tough. Silent Sadie doesn’t know that the one she’s sending those E-mails to is me. Silent Sadie thinks I’m dead. Which I am.
