*Trigger Warning*
2 days
To Whom it may concern,
I'm sorry, I really am. We all knew this was the end game, let us be honest with ourselves. Ever since I put on this sweat shirt and Sam painted the floor it was written in my destiny. Don't cry for me. Please don't, I don't want you to cry. You should know that I am happy. Free. This will be the only way I can take away the guilt, the voice, everything. I never thought I would do this but now I want to. I'll see all again someday. I promise. And To Katrina, I'm really am sorry to have to put you through this a second time. You must understand why I did this. I had to. Please watch over my mom for me. Lastly To Corey, I use to be just like you, that was until I put on this sweatshirt in the middle of the summer. I know why you were put on this earth, you were made to watch me suffer and die, you were the one the world knew was strong enough so please don't cry. I am going to miss listening to you talk about that girl Devyn. She sounds lovely, I really hope you get together with her someday. This is why I leave this sweat shirt for you. Maybe someday you will understand.
Yours truly, the boy who wears sweatshirts in July,
Colby
The brunette pulled the sweatshirt off of his body. He folded it neatly on top of the white bed and put the note on top. He took one last look around, all of it white. Was this the same thing Sam looked at before he died? Did he hate how white everything looked too? Sam's voice was silent as Colby tied a sheet around the ceiling fan. Mostly the sheets are stapled onto the bed, only specialist take them off to clean them. Colby was lucky to find an unused one. He doesn't remember where or when. He took the chair from the corner of the room, the one that Corey normally sat in. He stood up and wrapped the white sheet around his neck, a badly made noose that should do the job. "Do it." Sam's voice whispered, it gave him the push he need as he kicked the chair out from underneath it. He dangled attached to the fan, his life seemed to flash before his eyes, he never knew the cliche movie trope was so real. His face must of turned black and blue, he was sure of it. He couldn't breath anymore. It was happening, he no longer felt sad nor did he hear Sam's voice any longer. He did it. He swung back and forth, his own master piece finished. He was no artist instead he was an angel, a savior who was suppose to save Sam but failed. His wings were clipped and he fell from the sky, dangling from a make shift rope. He swore he saw the door open and he swore he heard a scream but...