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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

This is the updated piece. Criticism is (still!) welcomed, let me know what I should (continue to) work on!

When they found him

November 11, 2015

Chapter 15

Will is dead. When they found him he was swinging. Swinging in his dorm, surrounded by what he once loved, once aspired for. 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 long, sturdy. 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. One could hardly call it a note but more of a will, a pun I'm sure he would have appreciated. His 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 most treasured life story 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 off of my own ledge, that fateful night. The lips that I was unable to save. Lips now chapped, puffed. Lips like John Travolta's, who we always make fun of. Made fun of. His lips that will never whisper into my ear, lips that will never spread ideas, lips that will never talk another girl off of her own ledge.

And his voice, his scratchy, throaty voice will never speak another word. He will never murmur, "Stay beautiful, Erin." His hair will never brush against my cheek, his nose will never run. His hand will never hold mine, never hold his unborn children. His open arms will never embrace his mother, the mother in her child's arms. He will never laugh, never cry. His eyes will never flutter open each morning, and he will never see again.

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 as they did in LOST? It was not his fault that he was dead, it was their fault. They didn't try hard enough. My mother reasurred me that it was nobody's fault. It is always somebody's fault, I sobbed. 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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