I Am Broody
Today I was thinking about a friend who killed himself. How his family blamed me and then erased his existence from their lives. He still has no headstone, it's been 3 years. I'd have thought they had the money when they sold all of his things. His brother tells me they did and chose to do other things with that money, like a ski resort trip. Now they are broke and I don't pity them one bit. To purposefully erase someone seems cruel. I suppose in the end we are all forgotten, we are all just stories until those stories stop being told. So really, it can't be cruel. But I'd think he meant more to them. He meant more to me.
Thinking about him is difficult for me. His memory and the memories of all the good times seem to be distorted, washed away. Hard to recall many of those days because of what replaces them. The night he died pushes it's way in front of those memories, so instead I remember the sound of the gun, the blood in his throat. His screams which were to be his last words. I kept those from his family. Gave them that ignorance. They'll never know how he regretted doing it as soon as the wound was bleeding. They'll never know I got his blood on my hands and clothes trying to help in any way I could, knowing it was too late. How he screamed. Struggled to breathe as blood pooled in his lungs. Then silence as the life left his body.
I also remember cold. When I think of him I associate him with cold because it was cold the night he died. I asked to stand outside of the police cruiser to get some air. I was too cold but I refused any jackets. The cold was balancing my shock. Keeping me from violently sobbing and then feeling nothing a second later, as I was in the car, back and forth between the two. Standing outside in the cold kept me quiet. Kept me level. December is special now. The cold is better now.
There is a sort of beauty in tragedy. I'll always appreciate it no matter how sad it makes me. Something somber and melancholic. Something nostalgic, in a way.
Thinking about him is difficult for me. His memory and the memories of all the good times seem to be distorted, washed away. Hard to recall many of those days because of what replaces them. The night he died pushes it's way in front of those memories, so instead I remember the sound of the gun, the blood in his throat. His screams which were to be his last words. I kept those from his family. Gave them that ignorance. They'll never know how he regretted doing it as soon as the wound was bleeding. They'll never know I got his blood on my hands and clothes trying to help in any way I could, knowing it was too late. How he screamed. Struggled to breathe as blood pooled in his lungs. Then silence as the life left his body.
I also remember cold. When I think of him I associate him with cold because it was cold the night he died. I asked to stand outside of the police cruiser to get some air. I was too cold but I refused any jackets. The cold was balancing my shock. Keeping me from violently sobbing and then feeling nothing a second later, as I was in the car, back and forth between the two. Standing outside in the cold kept me quiet. Kept me level. December is special now. The cold is better now.
There is a sort of beauty in tragedy. I'll always appreciate it no matter how sad it makes me. Something somber and melancholic. Something nostalgic, in a way.
22-25, F
