She did it.

My heart pounded in my ears, deafeningly so. I _defended_ her. I defended her to _millions_, on national television. I clutched my chest, heaving, struggling to force oxygen down my throat. I felt my lungs squeeze in a tight knot, my vision blurring.

“She isn’t guilty. I know her. I _know _her. No one knows her like I do.” I remember the sincerity in my words, the pain and angst behind my speech.

I flash back to reality, my words echoing in the silent room. All too silent.

I gasp, clutching back to my last breath of reason. “Ansel!” I yell, my grip tightening around my phone.

He didn’t even let the phone ring, his warm, gentle voice filling my ears. “I know, babygirl.” I choked on my words, the speech getting caught in my throat. His old nickname for me was my comfort, my last strand of sanity I was tugging on. He was my crutch.

***

I dont know how long I sat there crying on the phone, but the sky had darkened by the time I hung up. Albeit reluctantly, but he insisted I have a meal and hot shower.

As I stepped into the bathtub, an image of her face flashed in my head. Her black hair, cut awfully by an enraged version of her. Chunky dyed strands of hair glowed red, her dark black eyes staring at me. Tears glossed her eyelashes, shining when the light hit them just perfectly.

I thought she had the face of an angel. I thought she was innocent.

I thought wrong.

I sank deeper into the water, closing my eyes slowly before submerging myself completely. I’d hoped it would drown out the voices, the recurring images, the yelling, the screaming, all of it.

I gasped, resurfacing, shaking. I watched in horror, in utter defeat as my mind replays the distraught family huddling around each other when the judge declared her not guilty.

The sound of their sobs would haunt me until I was dead and buried, and then in the afterlife. Killing me a thousand times wouldn’t lift that weight off my shoulders. Never would I forget.

***

When I asked her what dye she used for her hair, she laughed at me. Told me it was a special color that was almost impossible to acquire. Ever since then I had wanted it, wished to be exactly like her. My blonde hair was dyed black, and when she shaved a slit into her eyebrow, I had accidentally shaved mine all off. I remember distinctly she had gotten her ears pierced, but my mother refused to take me. I got my phone and pulled up youtube, along with a hair dryer, a needle, and an ice cube.

It was a bloody afternoon.

I now know that I do not wish to be like her. I washed my box dye out of my hair, and my eyebrow eventually grew back. I let my piercings close, and I had my hair professionally cut every three months.

I would not be like her.

I would not die

My hair.

She ran, which means I will not.

I will face them, even if it means I recieve all the backlash.

***

“Hello, is this Gazelle News? Yes. My name is Tully Ria. Yes, Leah’s _best _friend_. _I wish to make a comment on her verdict_. _Live TV is preferable. Thanks. I’ll be there.” I hung up the phone, pressing my fingerpad against the bright red button to end call. I felt like the red was haunting me.

All I had to do was wash it off.

Fin.