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aharry01

United States

A teenager who enjoys videogames, Netflix, blogging, and reading, sometimes all at once. She also enjoys writing light and creative pieces, and isn't sure why she's writing this in the third person.

Message to Readers

Let me know how I can make this better for contest submission! Criticism welcomed!

When they found him

November 8, 2015

Chapter 15

Will is dead. When they found him he was swinging. Swinging like the character from LOST, what was his name? Swinging from his neck, his red and raw neck. Red and raw from the rope tied around it, red and raw like my heart when I heard. There's been an accident. This is no accident, my friend. That's what his note said, at least. It was not an easy way out note, it was a long, sturdy note. If notes can be sturdy. Written on fine paper an artist or caligrapher would use, he detailed his life. His ups, his downs, his hopes, his dreams. His hopes that he will never see, his dreams he will never fullfill. His children he will never have. He was a writer, no doubt. His note, though one could hardly call it a note and more of a will, detailed every aspect of a future without him. His bedroom, clean it out he requested. Give his money to his sister for college, his books to the local library, and his diary -- his most prized possesion -- to his girlfriend, give his life ambitions to me.

When they found him his lips were blue. Lips that had carressed my skin, lips that had whispered in my ear long into the night. Lips that told jokes and spread ideas, profound ideas. Ideas that maybe, just maybe, could change the world. Could've. Lips that talked me of of my own ledge, that fateful night. The lips that I was unable to save. Lips now chapped, puffed. Like John Travolta, we always make fun of him. Made fun of him. 

When they found him, I did not believe them. I remebered reading somewhere that the first stage of loss is denial--but what is to be denied if he is still alive? Couldn't they resuscitate him, they did in LOST. It was not his fault that he was dead, it was their fault. They didn't work hard enough. My mother reasurred me that it was nobody's fault. It is always somebody's fault, I tell her. It was my fault, then. For what I did, what I should have done. I should have said no, I should have... It was my fault that he was not alive. It is my fault that he is still not alive.

I cannot write anymore.


 

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