2
You know, from where I'm standing, the world looks so small, innocent, in fact.
The sea was difficult to alter and the distance made the sky look so bright and cheerful.
But if you looked into everything with detail, you will always notice the imperfections.
Reader, I ask you, how is your day?
I was never asked that, but it's a really vital question.
How will anyone know that they're are happy and okay if you don't ask them about it?
Ironic how I've asked you though, I mean, you could be just a harmless passer by, but I can still imagine that you will have a negative turn on your day because of this- and for that I am so, so, sorry.
For all I know, you could've discovered this note as you're about to do the same thing as I.
And I only wish that you would look at the note, place it back down and walk back the way you came.
Because none of this is admirable.
None of this is brave.
And I don't want you to look into the distance and wonder if it hurts, because that's a question they all wonder;
"would it hurt to die?"
It does.
Dying though, that is the worst part- not necessarily the actual death.
I have friends who are dying.
They don't know it yet.
But they are.
At least inside.
October 5th, 1999
It was a Tuesday when it happened.
Mikey and Frank were at school, and I was at my mothers house, doing the washing when I got the phone call.
It was an old friend, Patrick Stump. He and his husband Pete had gotten married two years ago, now, they were a match made in heaven.
"I-it's Pete- he's taken an overdose- I don't know what to do!" He said through the phone, trembling like a scared puppy.
I had managed to calm him down, and I was soon on the way to their home on the west side of town.
Their home was gorgeously decorated, inside and out, with pure white walls on the exterior of the house, of which clearly got painted often. It was a cottage like home, with an elegant garden. Inside, the home was decked with patterned wallpaper and petite shelfs, with picture frames and small toys.
Pete was in the bathroom.
He was curled up in a small ball close to the loo.
I knew it wasn't the moment of reminiscing- but I could remember in high school when a similar thing had occurred.
You see, this was his relapse.
He hadn't touched drugs in four years.
Until the fifth of October.
He was shaking a lot, as though his life had depended on it.
I loved him like a brother and it hurt to see him in such ill form.
"He's been like this for a good hour now- I didn't know if I should call you or his mother- or the hospital- Do something Gerard, please. I can't live without him." Patrick whimpered, clinging firmly onto my shirt, as though he was trying to pull himself out of the sad realisation that this was inevitable.
I worried for Pat- he always seemed to be an attraction for trouble.
And I worried for Pete; because he was trouble.
And I remember as we were on our way to the hospital how Patrick couldn't bare to look at Pete, to see him die.
He kept his head buried against my chest, I held him like a mother would hold her son, I held him like I was trying to hide him from the cruel reality that was death.
But sadly; I sure as hell couldn't stop it from happening.
And at 6.09pm; I had to call my brother.
At 6.13; I had to explain the horrific details of my best friend's successful attempt on his life.
And then; at 6.16; I had to call his family and repeat the entire process.
I wouldn't ever forget their cries, as they rushed into the visitor's room, demanding to see their child.
And I wouldn't forget Patrick; whom of which refused to let Pete leave his side; even after death.
That day; remained, like a painful tattoo- an imprint that will remain- sending a shiver up a person's skin; obviously the pain is only temporary- and the emotional pain of Pete's departure would fade on all the people that it had once affected deeply.
Except for Patrick Stump.
I didn't ever want a love one to see me die.
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This is succchhhh a short chapter; but I'm really getting into writing this; it's a good time waster-
XoXo
Beth.
