Renee

RIP Renee.

I froze at the sight of those words in a Facebook status. It took a moment for my mind to process this, seeing a familiar name listed after those three letters. "RIP." Rest in peace. I've always felt that using an abbreviation like that when talking about death seems a little insensitive. Can't you write out three words to honor the dead? 

I didn’t know her well. We were barely acquaintances. She was one of the new kids in eighth grade. She used to sit at one of my lunch tables (I switched between two tables most of the year). She wasn't the type of person I usually associated with, sexually active at thirteen, already into drugs and weed, always in the midst of the sort of drama that came with living so recklessly.

Freshman year, she disappeared. Whisked off to rehab for a heroin overdose. She faded out of the world I lived in and I eventually forgot about her.

And only a few weeks back, she was back in school, numnerous piercings decorating her face, which was framed by pink-streaked curls. I watched her walk into the cafeteria on her first day back, something in my brain stirring from its slumber, the tiny, unimportant section of my memory which was labeled with her name. I watched her saunter past me and directly over to one of the "scumbag" tables. I remember thinking, Pssh. Of course.

Why are people even classified as "scumbags" anyway? Is it the drugs, the sex, the sloppy clothes, the indifferent attitude? A lot of people are like that. They’re just wrapped up in some sort of shiny facade that (sadly) makes up for things like that. Maybe the "scumbags" don’t have the time or the money or they just don’t care enough to cover up their stained interior with a charming exterior. They’re just people. Why is it so easy to judge them?

So, she overdosed on something, probably heroin again. And she’s gone. Dead. It's not like this is some sort of video game, where you get a second try. She had her whole life ahead of her.

I've heard it said that with heroin, your first time is the greatest. The rush is unbelievable. Euphoria. Just one time, and you have become an addict. So you keep using, trying to find that same rush. But you never do. What could make someone so sad that they ruin themselves in search of an artificial happiness?

I looked up at my parents, who sat across a small plastic table scattered with McDonald's food, and said, "Renee is dead." They didn’t seem to react, but it's not like they should've. It was just a name, mentioned here and there.

There’s something that’s been pulling at me ever since I found out.

Her family. Her parents. Do they even know? Do they even care? What about her sisters? One of them is in my Drawing class. She doesn’t talk very much (then again, neither do I), and she looks a little intimidating at first glance. I've always found her kind of fascinating. Everything from her everchanging hair color to her self-designed and tattoos to her air of indifference. She wears cloth wristbands around her arms, and I have a feeling I know what lies beneath them. I could never imagine bringing myself to hurt myself. But maybe I haven't been through enough. And the worst part is, I've heard rumors that she's on hard drugs too. And after this incident, I don't exactly think she'll try to change her ways. Just the opposite, if anything.

I don’t see her smile that much. But I remember seeing her in the hallway recently, and she was laughing. She was happy. She was with Renee.