A/N: I don't know what it is, but this story doesn't have the effect I had hoped for. So please, read and review it! I want to know what you think.
I stare down at the rushing rapids of the river. It's kind of unbelievable, why I'm here. I'm still not completely aware of the reason.
A car drives by, not noticing me, not wondering who I am or why I'm here. They just continue on their way, on with their perfect life.
I am sad. Beyond sad. Could my life be any worse? Sick of this torment, I feel that the edge is closer than I thought. Death seems to taunt me, teasing me, but I'm cruelly grounded to this world.
What could make me do it? Who could make me do it?
Some say that it was because of his life. Most didn't know him too well, though they tried to say that they did when he died.
"He was such a handsome guy! Tall and slender, chiseled features, toned muscles. Brilliant baby-blue eyes, and such a dazzling smile!"
Why did they repeat this to me? I know this already. He was Brad, the guy whose face I will always remember.
"And such a good student too. Always giving one hundred and ten percent! A right bookworm, he was. English, algebra, history, science, he was good at it all. It's so sad that he's gone."
Yes. I know. I suppose he is gone. Gone as though he had just left to the store, and would be back soon. Here we all sat, mourning over him, trying to think that he would come back. We knew he wouldn't.
"He had so done so many things too. Won three basketball, volleyball, and soccer championships, so good with all those sports. Just did everything. So perfect. I feel so sorry that they lost him."
I know. We have lost him, as though he's just some homework assignment that we forgot to do. I know we've lost him.
"Nobody disliked him. Everyone seemed to love his attitude, so optimistic he was. Such a caring friend, helping even people he barely knew. He didn't hate anyone either—he got along with everyone. I would have been proud to be his parent."
Yes. They would be proud. I know. I fucking know.
But why…why do they say such things? I don't understand. Did they all see him like this?
His death seemed to affect everyone, and his friends tried to console his family. I wasn't one of them. His teachers were so very disappointed to lose such a wonderful student. Everyone seemed to stop and listen, hoping it wasn't true. But it was, and that's that.
But it still puzzles me. Why? Why did they think those things of him? Did they even know him?
I can still remember him vividly. His deep, imposing voice, the way it seemed to resonate around me when he spoke. So bone-chilling. I can still remember the way he would carry himself, the way he'd come to school and everyone would say "Hey, Brad!" as he went by.
What was it that he did to make them think that? How could they act as though he were the nicest person? He wasn't.
But I suppose it's all in the past now. It's all in the past. He is all in the past.
Maybe they didn't know him so well. Maybe his life wasn't so perfect. The pressure of going to college, and staying on top of things…just got to him, maybe. He just couldn't do it, couldn't be as perfect as they wanted him to be…just maybe.
They called an ambulance when they found the body. But it was no good. The bullet went straight through his skull and into his brain, killing him instantly. What were they thinking when they found him? What did they think when they saw the dribble of blood that had oozed from the small hole in his head?
Did they think that his life was bad enough to shoot himself? Did they know that his life could have been as bad as mine?
But they all seemed to love him anyway. Why?
They didn't know anything.
I sigh once again as the water below rushes more, and the cool breeze slaps at my face. It is a cold day, too cold for the time of year, the kind of deep chill the creeps into you, and freezes, holds onto your bones and blood and thoughts.
But it is a clear day. The sun still shines, the wind still ripples the grass, the water still runs. The world doesn't seem to stop for him, does it?
The river below calls to me. Should I do it? Should I go? Just like Brad? I want to. I truly do. My life is shit. The sorrow seems to have burrowed so deep inside me, to have become so saturated within me that I cannot remove it, cannot abandon it. Brad did it to me. He made me this way. What he did to me was something that could never be forgiven.
Brad could make me do it. Brad did make me do it.
I sigh again, and dropping my handgun into the river below, I walk away.