I have come to love bathrooms. The tiles have always given my head a place to rest, the grime between them have accepted my tears like no other, and the faint stench clinging to my skin like a withering lover.
Hello, my name is Magali--pronounced muh-ga-lee, remixes include: Magaga, Mag-lag, Magoogaloo and other concoctions bestowed by people in places I vaguely remember. I’ve  Googled it and according to Urban Dictionary I’m cool and stylish; apparently my name doesn’t have much more meaning than that; maybe one of the other three first names does. My fading memories, like my altered names, are attempting to maintain some modicum of the life from which they originated. This story that I illustrate from a lone, forgetful perspective, may contain exaggerations from a teenager who spent too much time huddled in corners feeling sorry for herself, too busy crying to look out at the positives in life (or at least the fun internet articles that propagate as much), but this girl had mind enough to keep a sharp ear even when a sharp mind failed to prevail.

She was 13 and in the eighth grade at her third middle school. By then she’d been teased from the fluff of hair that rested, slanted on her head all the way down to the cracks in her toes. She was an A student so everyone hung around her long enough for their group work to be completed without their contribution. She had personality… She was sure of it… just… bad at keeping friends… everyone has a fatal flaw, hers just happened to repel people.

Well, everyone except for one person. since an age she couldn’t remember, Rosie had been the ray of sunshine in her life. On the days tears battled the girl’s will, Rosie, then a young adult, would make her laugh as though that inner battle had ever been fought. If Rosie were a greek Goddess, she’d kick dethrone Aphrodite so fast that she’d get whiplash. Rosie wrapped everyone she met in so much love, most were immediately drawn to her.

But somewhere along the line her stepmother and the girl’s mother had their first, second and third falling out, ripping my Godess away from me.

Many years after not hearing from Rosie she came back into my life, now married yet still so young, But she was my idol, so surely she knew what she was doing. He was a gangly man, with thin spectacles balancing on a pudgy nose. She should’ve punched it while she had the chance.

A fourth falling out and the girl was once more alone in the middle of buzzing hormones. Now the kids had started teasing and questioning her gender. “Is she a girl or a boy?” they asked in mock whispers. I doubt they were inquiring about my preferred pronouns. The girl just withdrew within her perpetual gray and drowned their words out with ear-splitting music as she sat idly in dusty corners. Sometimes tears would fall. Most times she knew her mom would be home soon so she didn’t dare.

Her thoughts became increasingly sluggish, but she still aced all her assignments, her appearance became increasingly gray and black and the pinks and blues her sister attempted to bring back into her life. She only thought of Rosie now and then. Her idol had become second in importance to the math test on Wednesday, third to trying to reach out to people and fourth to that boy who would never notice her.

it was on a sunny day that the girl had completed another five minute homework assignment and was now standing in front of the couch in a futile attempt to burn calories. Her Goddess now a distant thought.

Then her mom came home.

“Magali… You probably want to sit down,” her mom said.

“Um… okay...” she said slowly, descending onto the couch cushion.

“Rosie’s dead.”

She was pretty sure she misheard her.

“What?” the girl said, tears already welling up, her stomach sinking.

“She committed suicide sweetie,” her mom responded with mock shock.

The girl had always thought it was really stupid in the movies when they told someone to sit down before delivering drastic news. It always seemed like such a stretch until she suddenly sprung up, not sure why, it wouldn’t bring Rosie back. Her legs felt as though they were manacled to wall of lead. Maybe if she tugged hard enough, for long enough, that wall would eventually fall on her and she’d be able to join Rosie.
She will never know her true reason for doing it, but as the girl emptied her soul with every heave and sob in her hidden alcove between the bed and the dresser, she blamed herself for not being there for her Goddess like her Goddess was there for her.

For many months she tugged at that lead wall, imploring it to take the ache away. Counselor’s office, crisis center, the whole shabang.

As she grew she realized what a disrespectful attempt it was. She realized the valor in living for her and Rosie. She realized in order to honor her Goddess, she must attack the manacles restraining her instead of imploring the looming wall to crush her. She would learn to be that source of love for people around her-- or at least try to.

That’s the best she could do when the wall loomed over her, tempting her into the eternal dark. She would try.. and try… and try...

Stories like these only lead to tears and omitted details when written from a true perspective.

Stories like these make your heartache from trying to pretend they did not hurt when they happened to you.
Stories like these are best told when the heart aches the least at the thought, so they can inspire hope--I’m just not sure if that time has come for me.