I'm a Watcher.

(trigger warning, mentions suicide)

I don’t have a name. Not anymore. Who would give me a new one? I’m a watcher, so I don’t have a name. No one even knows I’m here. I just sit here, watching the room. That’s all, I’m a watcher. One good thing about being a watcher is that I am full of stories. Wanna hear a story? I guess if you didn’t want to hear a story you wouldn’t be here. Why else? Not because of my personality, not because I’m exciting, not because you have heard of me, no. Because I can tell you amusing stories. That is the reason you are still here, is it not? And really, what is a story? Just a rant about the past. Or the future, or the present, really a story is a rant about everything. Just a rant. Well if you want me to sit and talk for you for a while I can. Let’s see. I’ve been in here for so long, I guess I can tell you a whole heap of stories. So many different people have come in and out of this room. Il tells you that one about the kid, I remember that her name was Emma. It doesn’t much matter though, I’m pretty sure shes dead anyways. I sound cool towards her. I’m not. I loved Emma, but it was a long, long time ago, and how can one possibly be sad for every dead kid? No, there are too many. Honestly, this old room has seen enough death that if I was still mourning for Emma, I would be being cold to the last few tenants. Well, I think I’m getting off-topic. Here’s a story from a watcher;    

It started a few years ago when she moved into my room. This was her room. She seemed happy enough, to begin with. Boxes and paper, pizza, rom-com’s, sleeping bags, and small desklamps took up the first month, as is to be expected after a move. I liked the kid a lot. She was around sixteen, and used to lye around on a pile of blankets and draw or write. Her face used to always have a default smile. One of those ones that look like they are holding in a secret, and want to tell you. She really did act like a kid an awful lot. She would pop in some earbuds and hum along while she painted her nails or some other small thing. After a while, the room started to look like her. There where fairy lights, her original paintings on the walls, blue curtains, and you know, just a lot of blue and yellow. She started having friends over, which I personally never liked. She seemed so much happier when she was alone. Besides, her friends were loud and reminded me of my friends when I was like Emma. But that is a different story and one that I will not give you. They always talked about things like boys, music, art, "hot" celebrities, drama class, and school, which I had nothing to do with. I wasn’t jealous. I can tell you think I was jealous. Think what you want. 

Things were like that for a while, a couple of months I think. Then Emma started going to school. I hated not seeing her, not knowing where she was and when she would be back, not seeing how her face looked at any moment. Ok, so maybe at that time I was a little jealous. And worried. She would come home and cry into her pillow half the time. I hated whoever made those tears fall, but what could I do? I’m just a watcher. That’s all. I couldn’t stand her crying. It lasted five months. But then it just got worse. The two grown people in the other room, her parents, were always yelling at her, and she would always yell back. From what I could tell she was in the wrong, and they were just worried about her, but it still made me angry when they yelled at her. No one should ever yell at her, she was just scared. And so young. No one should ever yell at someone when they are worried. Now, I know that that is unreasonable]ble, but I felt responsible for Emma. 

  I’m a watcher, and I’m not supposed to care, but how was I supposed to watch and not care? Emma was so innocent and young. She seemed so happy and I couldn’t tell what was happening in her head. She would come home late, and she changed. I hated it, but she changed. She wasn’t innocent anymore, she seemed jaded, and I knew that the pills in her desk wouldn’t help. She kept taking them out, looking at them and then hiding them back in her drawer. 

  Then, shortly nine months after she moved in, she stopped crying. She stopped everything. Her hair was always a mess, her face was grey, and she started coming home from school early again, she stopped drawing, stopped writing, stopped crying, stopped yelling and stopped talking. She looked the same to outsiders, but she was gone. It was too late to get Emma back from where she was now. She would sit on the corner and look over at the wall, not moving unless necessary. She positively lost all colour. I wished she would come back late again, I hated seeing her like this. 

Then it happened. Are you sure you want to see this story through? I never said the ending was happy. Those pills. They were the end. They end the story, as they ended the heroin. Emma ended along with this rant, and I could say it a hundred different ways, but if you are ready to hear the end, you already know the end. Not an exciting story, not inspiring, and not happy. But it is full of hard truth. And the truth is either a rival or relative to fear. So decide and be afraid.