Scrawled in a Bathroom Stall

WAR KILLS -RT 1

She had always been something of a writer, drawing inspiration from her own life as well as the lives of those around her. Her notebooks were filled with scribbled, scratched out copies of poems and stories based on the world as she experienced it. If nothing else mattered to her, her writing did. She would saunter into class, sometimes up to forty minutes late, and take her seat (usually at the back), and within seconds, her hand would be flying, pencil in place, across lined and limited pages, pouring her soul out in prose or poetry (whatever struck her fancy) for anyone who cared to take a glimpse. 2

WAR KILLS -RT 3

Her life was, too often, a complicated mess, like the rough drafts she scrawled on loose bits of scrap and pressed between the pages of her notebook. Comfort being scarce in her broken household, she sought her solace elsewhere, providing her writing as a window for whomsoever showed remote interest in her well-being. Though most could not fathom her and quickly drew back, genuine friends somehow emerged. As she opened up to them, feeling as if she could at last, perhaps, find peace with her past, the virago at home grew and grew, like some untamable flame, forcing her to retreat ever further. Her home became her prison. 4

WAR KILLS -RT 5

In her notebook, she wrote of starting grade nine as entering another hell on earth, and doing so alone. Talk of cliques and labels possessed her journal entries. She cried her tears onto the page, letting her angst weave itself into strong, insightful stories. It was the excess emotional baggage that was starting to weigh her down. Being in the same school as her brother renewed the day-mares of her overwhelming past. She was haunted again by the sudden flashes of disturbing memory, visions of hands under her shirt, peeling her layer of ten-year-old innocence off her undeveloped body, exposing the raw and vulnerable flesh underneath. She was surviving the little battles of adolescence, but the war inside was slowly tearing her apart. That’s when she took her writing off the page. 6

The graffiti began turning up everywhere, both in the school and out, like some sort of unspeakable chant, signed with her initials. 7

WAR KILLS -RT 8

smeared on the bathroom mirror with dark, red lipstick, but the primpers fixed their hair and scrambled to their next classes, and by the next morning, the message had been wiped away. 9

WAR KILLS -RT10

scribbled in Sharpie across park benches, but the couples sat down and lost themselves in youthful lust, paying little concideration to anything else, and a few weeks later, the bench had been repainted.11

WAR KILLS -RT12

written with colourful chalks on the pavement just outside the school, but the other students spared the message little attention, stepping on it as they rushed through the masses of preps and punks, obsessively attaching themselves to their own, respective groups. And the rain came crashing down, to wash the prayer away. 13

WAR KILLS -RT14

Gradually, to the relief of the custodians, the vandalism lessened and, eventually, disappeared altogether. The next time anyone saw the message again was in the news, a black and white photo of a bedroom wall, dark with permanent-marker messages, and in the very centre, those words: WAR KILLS . A girl had committed suicide the prior night. According to the papers, “the young graffiti artist had taken the graffiti to her own throat,” slashing it so that the blood had gotten into her trachea, killing her within minutes. The school arranged a quick memorial in her name, full of poetry and tears, but by the start of the next year, most had forgotten her or had tucked her memory away somewhere in the back of their minds, where it could slowly collect dust and decompose, forgotten. 15

WAR KILLS -RT16

A tall, tenth-grade girl runs into the last bathroom stall, trying to calm herself as she sobs uncontrollably over her own miserable life. Though her tears, she notices the big, bold message, written in hopes, it seemed, that someone would read and respond soon. ‘War Kills’. Taking out a pen, the tenth-grader scribbles a quick reply, ‘sure does’ just below the first statement, understanding well what the words mean. Sniffing, she makes her way back into hell’s halls, wondering if her reply would evoke a reaction anytime soon. Keeping her grimace of a smile pasted firmly on her face as she waves at the pretty girls whose job it is to be nice to everyone (be they whatever), she realized just how nice it would be to find someone who would listen and really care, even if it was only through messages scrawled in a bathroom stall.      17