Desperation

         Marie Jacquez always wondered how a real dead body looked.  All she had seen were the ones in funerals—her second cousins and great aunts—all dressed up, face slathered in makeup, body cold and stiff.  She never shared this wonderment with anyone, but without knowing, one of her parents granted her this wish.  On Marie’s fourteenth birthday, her mother was killed by her suicidal father.
         Marie watched helplessly as her mother and father turned into two dead bodies.
         Their faces were pale by the time the police arrived.  Their bodies were warm and could be moved, unlike the deceased she had seen sleeping in their coffins at funerals.
         However, Marie saw more than the bodies themselves; she saw dark, damp, putrid red blood.  Her father used a nine-millimeter pistol for the murder weapon, shooting his wife several times in the chest, and then taking his own life with one shot to the head. 
         Marie became an orphan on her fourteenth birthday.
         It was supposed to be a prime time of her life, a time when she would fully advance into a teenager.  She would begin to be accepted at school and in her family.  She was looking forward to being fourteen, but her parents destroyed this hope.
         Some, hearing of the tragic homicide, called it a “sad thing” and Marie a “poor girl,” always commenting next on how revenge-driven the world was becoming.  Did they realize that this same “poor girl” they talked about needed a loving family?  An encouraging mother?  Someone who cared?  The public never seemed to realize how much this event would change Marie’s life, and how one kind word could change Marie’s reaction.
         Marie was transferred to an orphanage on the other side of town.  She knew no one, and had no intention of meeting anyone.  In the girls’ free time, they would sit in the main hall and talk.  Nobody talked about Marie to her face, but as soon as she left the room, the other girls held hushed conversations about Marie, her life, and the homicide.
         Marie was smarter than they thought.  She would sneak back into the main hall, hide behind a chair or desk, and listen.  None of the gossiping girls suspected their words spread farther than their friends’ ears, but Marie was always listening.  Their words stirred up fires in her heart.
         Marie was a professional at hiding her emotions.
         She would cry in her head, scream in her head, hate others in her head, and pray in her head.  She did a lot of praying.  Her prayers, however, lacked the love and admiration put in by religious groups.  She screamed at God.  “Why did you kill my parents?” she would ask.  “Why did you put them in my life to begin with?  Why don’t you give me a friend?”
         Marie received neither answers nor friends.
         Everyone at the orphanage hated her.  They didn’t express their hatred in physical abuse or lousy pranks, but they tormented her heart.  Marie never reacted; she watched patiently and tried to drown out their nasty comments.  Nothing worked.
         She found an answer after surviving three months in this “Orphanage From The Devil,” as she called it.  She was watching the small sixteen inch black-and-white television in the orphanage dorm room with all the other orphans one evening.  A movie came on; it was an old film based on the classic “To Kill a Mockingbird.”  Marie watched with wide-eyed wonder as they portrayed the courtroom scene between the black man and the white men. 
         “Why do they hate each other?” She muttered to herself.  Another orphan heard this question and took it upon herself to answer.
         “Duh, he’s black and they’re white.”  The words hardly made sense to Marie.  Caucasians are tan sometimes, Africans can look pale or jet-black.
         “What’s the difference?” Marie asked.  “They’re all human.”
         The other girl merely said “Racism.”  Then she gave Marie an annoyed look and turned to watch the film.
         Marie realized something she’d overlooked before:  she was Hispanic and everyone else was Caucasian.  They hated her because of how she looked.  Racism is a terrible thing to face, and Marie hardly could stand the idea.  “Surely not everyone in the orphanage is racist,” she thought. 
         Marie failed to realize every last one was racist—against her.
         She trudged through two years at the orphanage, desperate to find a way out.  As she tossed sleeplessly on her bed one night, she eyed another orphan’s belt hanging from their bunk-bed post.
         “Only a minute,” she thought, desperate.  “One minute of suffering and it would all be over.”  Marie grabbed the belt.  While wrapping one end around the bedpost and another around her neck, she prayed for the last time.
         “Okay, if you’re out there, wake up someone and have them stop me.”  With this, she jumped.
         Seconds ticked by, the pain in her neck and chest growing as she struggled for each breath.  Seven, eight, nine.  She glanced around the room, tears falling from her eyes and making rivers down her cheeks.  Fifteen, sixteen.  No one awoke yet.  She shifted, surveying the other half of the room.  A girl awoke, giving Marie a short burst of hope.  Twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one.  The girl stared at Marie, her eyes realizing what was happening, but the girl failed to move.  She seemed satisfied.  “Hey,” Marie screamed in her head, “Don’t you realize I’m dying?”  But she didn’t voice her thoughts for fear of everyone’s reaction.  Thirty-four, thirty-five, thirty-six.  The girl lay down again.  She didn’t care!  Marie stopped counting the seconds.  Moments later, she took one last gulp of air and died.
         The others, finding her body the next morning, quietly told the administrator of the orphanage.  The administrator called the police as necessary, the media came, and after three long hours everyone left.
         Marie became just another body in the morgue.
         Two years later, people still referred to the tragic homicide, calling Marie once more a “poor girl.” 
         “Pity she died,” they would say, and then they went on with their lives.
         The other orphans have forgotten, the press has forgotten, almost no one recognizes the name Marie Jacquez anymore.  People moved on, not realizing that even one kind word could have saved Marie.  She was a desperate figure—a late-night tramp—knocking on their heart’s door, but nobody cared enough to open up and share with Marie.  What are words for, if not to encourage?
         The public failed to answer Marie’s plea, and she died friendless and helpless.