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Just a Memory

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He always had to have his way, even as a child. Whether that be what he got for his birthday, or even his grades. I remember one time when he was called to the front of the class in 8th grade to assist the teacher in her lecture about how the class average for the state test was terrible, and his score was the highest, and how they should strive to achieve as he did. Yet still he wasn't satisfied with the score he got because it was 98.3% and not 100%. I'm the exact opposite. I'm not terrible in school, but I'm not the best. I guess that diversity between me and Castro is why we've been friends since fourth grade.

I woke up to the annoying sound of my alarm clock buzzing as loud as my smoke detector and cranked my head up, dragging what felt like a thousand pounds of bricks, which was really just the hangover from the six pack we had at the bar last night. Just another ordinary Sunday, or so I thought. Shortly after I got dressed in my usual chewed up slippers, baggy sweats, and my sweatshirt and began watching the morning news to my toast, my phone started to ring. It was Castro, presumably calling to talk about the crazy night we had and to inform me of all the things that I had no recollection of doing. But this time was different, more of a surprise to me.

I picked up the phone to a very ecstatic voice with much enthusiasm, all directed towards change. He always wanted to change the Cuban government, I mean heck, so did I along with everybody else. But what was he going to do? I didn't think he was serious nor could he do what he later proved me wrong to do. Two months later, as I was watching the news, I saw Castro's face on the TV! He was making his way into the seat of the prime minister! I don't know how he did it, he had some political experience behind him, but for this to happen, I was baffled. He didn't stop there either, in less than a years time he formed the communist government he always wanted, and issued government health care and other great benefits.

In the meantime, we were still friends. But something was different about him, worse. His selfishness worsened and he was starting to demand things with more force. I even saw some paranoia in his eyes at certain times. But he was doing good for his country, so who could complain? Little did I know that he wasn't going to give up his spot in the chair which granted him governmental power, little did I know that he was slowly growing to think that I, his best friend, was turning on him. He started doing drugs behind the backs of the media and the public, behind all the inquisitive eyes. All but mine anyway. I knew he was going down a road he shouldn't have, but I couldn't stop him.

After thirty nine years of friendship, and after fifteen years of his presidency, I decided to cut ties with him. That day he invited me to come over and discuss matters of politics and so forth, so I agreed, thinking that it was a good time to talk to him about our friendship. He had moved from the little one bedroom studio he was living in to a nine room mansion, why he needed so many rooms I could never figure out. I pulled up to the gate and was greeted by one of his many security guards, armed with a fully loaded AK-47. I was buzzed through, pulled my car up to the front and got out, shut the car door behind me, and without looking back, walked in the large, overwhelming front door. I had only been there a few times and didn't know my way around, so Fidel led me to the room where a large conference table and twelve empty chairs lay abroad, and shut the door behind me.

He said his part, and I said mine. It was that day that I got a full idea of how badly he wanted, and would, get his way. We finished talking, what needed to be said was said, I got up, turned around towards the door, and as I was about to turn the knob, I heard a click. The distinct sound of a gun being prepared to fire. I froze. I knew what was going to happen, I almost expected it. Every memory of my life flashed into and out of my head as I stood there, frozen.
I heard the bang, it seemed to ring in my ears forever, the bullet feeling as though it took an hour to reach my head. The last thing I remember was a small drop of blood drip down my forehead, past my eye, and that was it.





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