ALEX
one.
dear alex.
My life didn’t always involve sleeping and throwing up.
This was of course, after I stopped meaning something to everyone.
Now there’s only a pattern. I am only, a pattern.
In the days after you died, I realized that my life still continued to suck,
ten times worse actually, right down to the juicy, seedless, core.
Once upon a time you were alive. You weren’t supposed to end like this.
You can’t die, it was supposed to be me because I’m nothing more than
a pity party and dying was supposed to finally get your attention from me.
It took them exactly half an hour to discover your death.
It took two more of those for the world to discover your letter to me,
another week to actually read it, and less than that, a half of a
moment for my life to become hell over it.
June-2010
I woke up to silence, well it wasn’t really silence in the literal sense of the word, more like silence of what one should naturally wake up to on Saturday mornings of summer. Meat frying in a pan, shower water running, the coffee maker, perhaps birds uttering songs as flowers are watered. There was none of that.
I walked down the stairs that morning, cautious of what I might have found, hearing only the banging of my own heart inside. Something was wrong.
In an instant, humans have the ability to realize life is lost. Minus the words, or facial expressions it’ll take, there is a natural gene encoded for comprehending.
In my living room, sat my mother, other mothers, a group of my friends and a group of not my friends. I heard sniffling before I rounded the corner, hushed tones, and phrases like “...poor girl.” and “…such a shame.” And then “beautiful thing she was…”
I knew what had happened before it was even a notion inside me. I walked in silently, choking back tears, shaking my head rapidly on instinct, as if my denying it would go back to last night and change things.
My mother’s eyes met me with a pained nod as I collapsed into her lap bawling and whimpering. I noticed after 5 minutes of my continuous crying, that I had been assembled into some type of hug thing with all the girls who weren’t my friends and all who were, crying around me when I looked up.
“She’s dead.” Tammie whispered, shaking her head, the only one of us not crying.
And it was if, having the words spoken aloud was all it took. It was over and she was gone. Alex Ragnarsson. Age 16…was dead. Things were bad now, and from here they were only going to get worse.
My life didn’t always involve sleeping and throwing up.
This was of course, after I stopped meaning something to everyone.
Now there’s only a pattern. I am only, a pattern.
In the days after you died, I realized that my life still continued to suck,
ten times worse actually, right down to the juicy, seedless, core.
Once upon a time you were alive. You weren’t supposed to end like this.
You can’t die, it was supposed to be me because I’m nothing more than
a pity party and dying was supposed to finally get your attention from me.
It took them exactly half an hour to discover your death.
It took two more of those for the world to discover your letter to me,
another week to actually read it, and less than that, a half of a
moment for my life to become hell over it.
June-2010
I woke up to silence, well it wasn’t really silence in the literal sense of the word, more like silence of what one should naturally wake up to on Saturday mornings of summer. Meat frying in a pan, shower water running, the coffee maker, perhaps birds uttering songs as flowers are watered. There was none of that.
I walked down the stairs that morning, cautious of what I might have found, hearing only the banging of my own heart inside. Something was wrong.
In an instant, humans have the ability to realize life is lost. Minus the words, or facial expressions it’ll take, there is a natural gene encoded for comprehending.
In my living room, sat my mother, other mothers, a group of my friends and a group of not my friends. I heard sniffling before I rounded the corner, hushed tones, and phrases like “...poor girl.” and “…such a shame.” And then “beautiful thing she was…”
I knew what had happened before it was even a notion inside me. I walked in silently, choking back tears, shaking my head rapidly on instinct, as if my denying it would go back to last night and change things.
My mother’s eyes met me with a pained nod as I collapsed into her lap bawling and whimpering. I noticed after 5 minutes of my continuous crying, that I had been assembled into some type of hug thing with all the girls who weren’t my friends and all who were, crying around me when I looked up.
“She’s dead.” Tammie whispered, shaking her head, the only one of us not crying.
And it was if, having the words spoken aloud was all it took. It was over and she was gone. Alex Ragnarsson. Age 16…was dead. Things were bad now, and from here they were only going to get worse.