She woke up this morning to the sound of her alarm clock. She didn’t move, but just lay there in bed. Finally, after a long time, she slowly forced herself out.

She didn’t even glance my way. She just walked over to her dresser, and stared at herself in the mirror. I could hear her sigh. If only she’d open my pages, I’d tell her what she really looked like. Beautiful.

She covered her frail body with revealing clothes, and covered her beautiful face with makeup. She sprayed herself with perfume, and off she went. To another day of school, I suppose.

She came home crying, again. This isn’t an uncommon thing anymore. She used to be so happy. She used to sing and dance in her room. She used to talk on her phone for hours, smiling and laughing every few seconds. I even remember the days when she’d bring me along to school, if only barely. But now, I merely sit beside her bed, all covered in dust. My pages haven’t been opened in years.

When she took me to school with her, she’d keep me in her backpack, and then at lunchtime, she’d pull me out. And read my sacred words.

The day she stopped bringing me to school was the day she yelled at me. I didn’t even do anything, and she was yelling at me, blaming me for her parent’s divorce. It’s not really fair; I didn’t do it.

She hasn’t touched me since that day. She’s glanced in my direction, but not since that day have I felt the soft caress of her hands. Oh, how I long for the feeling of her eager, hungry fingertips flipping through my pages.

I can’t put my finger on why she came home crying today, but her boyfriend had run in after her. She yelled at him, for a long time. Listening to the conversation, I assume that he cheated on her. Like her life is not hopeless enough already, boy.

After he left, she lay down on her floor, and she cried. And cried. And cried. Then, after no more tears were left, she grabbed the pair of scissors from her dresser drawer, rolled up her pant leg, and sliced her skin. I don’t know why she does that. It looks painful, but she does it anyway. I’ll never know.

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She tossed and turned last night. And I couldn’t help but hear her muffled sobs. I could also hear her talking. She talked of how she couldn’t take it anymore, and how she hated her life. And how she wished she was in the grave. Cold.

I can’t believe she couldn’t hear that voice. The voice that seemed so loud to me, but so quiet to her. Whatever person that voice belonged to, loved her very much. Always. They’d always be there, until the very end of age. I wish she could hear them.

This morning she didn’t get out of bed for hours. She told her mom she was sick. I could hear her crying all morning. Open me!

I promise, I can make it all better. Within these fragile pages of mine, purpose is found. The words between these two covers hold meaning. You can inherit the abundant life you always wanted.

When the evening came, she finally pulled herself from under the covers, very slowly. She changed her clothes, and left her room. And after that, I didn’t see her for a while.

She had decided to run. But the day she finally got escorted back home, I had already been packed in a box. The sound of her voice, once again, soothed my long forgotten soul.

She was going to live at her dad’s house. I could tell that she wasn’t happy with this living situation because she didn’t leave her new room. She just kept lying on her floor, reluctant to eat or talk to anyone.

I think a miracle happened today though. While she was unpacking her things, she dusted me off, and just stared at me. I could feel the longing in her gaze. But after a few seconds, she sighed and placed me where I belonged in her eyes. Beside her bed.

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Once again, she couldn’t sleep last night. She seemed to just stare at her ceiling. And just like every other night, she was talking.

She talked of this man. This man who died for her. I would cry every night too if someone died for me, but I’d also feel very loved. She’s so loved that someone died for her. And it does say somewhere in my pages that that it is the greatest love of all.

Finally the sun rose, and she got herself out of bed. She clothed herself with clean clothes, which actually covered up her skin. Or perhaps, her broken heart. And she didn’t put on as much makeup as she usually did, just enough to cover the circles underneath her eyes.

I didn’t know exactly what was going on, but she grabbed me and headed out her door. She ran up the stairs, out of the house, and opened the car door. She flopped me onto the passenger’s seat.

I didn’t know where she was taking me, but she didn’t say a word as she drove. She didn’t even turn on the radio.

Then she pulled up to a huge building with a blue roof, with a cross above the doors. She was going to a church! She grabbed me and headed inside. I heard wonderful music. She sat in the very last pew.

Even though the music sounded joyful, she sat on the pew as stiff as a metal rod. She just sat there; her lips did not even turn up into a smile.

When the music stopped, and the preacher stepped up to the pulpit, she grabbed me even tighter than she had before. As soon as the preacher man opened his mouth to speak, she muttered to herself. “Why am I even here?” I think is what she said.

I couldn’t hear the preacher well, but I caught glimpses of what he said. Bitterness. Wrath. Anger. Forgiveness? A message that sounded right out of Ephesians. Perfect for her.

Before I could hear what the preacher said next, I felt something wet hit my leather.

Tears.

There were tears steadily making their way down her face.

The preacher ended with a benediction out of Jude, and then music started to play again. She left before they ended the song.

She silently walked to her car, got in, and started it. She laid me down in the passenger’s seat, once again, and began to drive. She didn’t make it home.

Halfway between the church and home, she stopped the car. She gripped tightly to the steering wheel. Salty tears started to form in her eyes again. Then slowly, almost carefully, they slid down her face.

She gasped for air, and then wiped the dripping tears from her chin. “God, why did you let his happen?” She said through her sobbing.

“Why weren’t you there?” She then added.

I was. That voice again. That one I heard every night before. But this time she seemed to hear it.

She looked behind her. No one.

She looked beside her on all sides. No one.

I heard it again. I still am.

As the voice soaked through her skin and into her heart, her tears flowed freer. Her wailing grew louder. But her face became calmer. Peaceful.

In a sudden movement, she grabbed me from the passenger’s seat. What seemed like an electrical current flowed through my leather-bound spine, as she opened me and started to read.

Be still… and know that I am God.

The words echoed through the corridors of her heart.

Even I am he who blots out your transgressions and remembers your sins no more…

Then something I never thought would happen again, happened. In the midst of the tears and pain in her face, the corners of her mouth started to turn up.

She smiled.