Breaking Point

It's been a long day and I'm ready for it to be over. I'm ready to go home. There's only two classes left for the day, and they're my two favorites. But as I walk to my next class, I run into the group of boys that drive me crazy. No, not the love kind of crazy. The kind of crazy that makes me want to punch them in the face.
Every day, they stand in the stairwell. Some of them stand back, while one of them waits by the door. It's the same thing every day. When some poor, unknowing kid walks to the door, he'll open it. And as he opens it, the guy by the door will act like he wasn't paying attention, and pretend to get hit in the head by a door. Then he'll let himself fall on the floor, and either act like he passed out or moan in pain. Sounds stupid, right? They think it's hilarious.
Today, like most days, I walk downstairs just as the scene unfolds. The boy that opened the door is staring at the guy lying on the floor, his eyes ready to pop out of his head. His mouth opens and closes multiple times, as if he wants to say something but doesn't know what. A look of horror spreads across his entire face. His friend is looking at him like he's a monster who will also hurt him.
“Are you okay?” The kid asks, walking towards the joker. “Do you need to go to the nurse? I'm so sorry,” he says frantically as the other kids moans in mock pain.
“It's a joke,” I tell the kid that's currently freaking out. He looks at me with disbelief in his eyes, not listening to what I'm saying. “No, really. They do it every day. He didn't actually run into that door. He's fine. Just go to class,” I tell him. He looks from me to the kid, horror still in his eyes, but eventually goes up the stairs to his next class.
“Everyday,” the guy on the floor says, not amused. “Everyday you ruin the joke. Why do you have to be such a kill joy?”
“You think because everyone knows who you are that you can act like an idiot and it's okay. Did you ever stop and ask yourself what the repercussions of your little joke are?” I point my finger at him, angry adrenaline spreading through my veins. I don't stop to let him answer. “No, of course not. Because you're popular, so nothing would be your fault. Would if that kid had been having thoughts? You know, thinking that his whole life was worthless, and everyone would be better off without him. No, maybe it wasn't you that started those thoughts. It's the snowball effect. But what if he was right at his breaking point? And he opens that door, just innocently walking to another class, and thinks he knocked you out?”
I pause for a breath, but jump right back into “Then he really thinks his life is worthless, and he snaps. He decides to do it. Would you notice? Would you notice an empty desk in each class he has? Would you notice the pure silence that fills his group of friends, or the tears falling from their eyes? Would you attend the funeral of a boy who died too young? No, you wouldn't do any of those things. But you should.”
I stare at him for a little longer, wondering how he'll respond. Maybe he'll say I'm overreacting, and maybe he's right. But he doesn't know if what I'm saying is true or not. He won't look me in the eye, and he's speechless. What he didn't realize, what nobody would realize, is that I wasn't talking about that boy. I was talking about a girl; a girl that knows she isn't going to be walking these halls tomorrow, knows that whatever she says will be the last thing people hear from her. A girl that will do anything from having the same destructive thoughts running through some other kid's mind, including losing her temper a a group of boys in a school stairwell.
That girl is me.