December 12, 2009
By Anonymous

The butterfly, a beautiful insect. It is free as it flutters its wings valiently.

It's like an angel, if such things exist. It can do what ever it wishes. All things must come to an end, though. That happens no matter how sad it is. The wings would eventually be ripped away, stripping you of your dignity and self esteem.

But do you remember? Do you remember the time in which you would sit around with your friends and debate over who your favorite superhero was? Do you remember who you would depend on for help, whether it was your mother, father, brother, sister, or somebody more? I do.

I could remember the swing set I use to swing on in the playground when I was in third grade. My friend had fallen and broken his arm. I ended up blaming myself for such a thing. I was frightened up to the point that it had kept me up most of the night. I was sluggish in the morning.

Do you remember your friends? I could vaguely remember some of them. I can't even remember one's face without looking at a picture. It had been so long. Perhaps it was one, no, two or three years ago since things had taken place. He had commited suicide and I couldn't go to the funeral. My parents thought school had been more important. That made me mad.

Do you know what it was like? I don't without having to be told. My cousin had told me that not a single eye was there. How I longed to be in such a place, giving my last thoughts to such a person. He was a good boy, no, man. He simply had too much to deal with.

What religion were you? I was a Christian. Eventually I turned to being an Atheist. I still am an atheist. It helped me think things through clearly. That is when my wings had been clipped, like the butterfly's. I could only go so far, walk so little. Things were black and white. It would lead me to a spiralling depression. I am still going through that depression. I must stand back up, though. I will walk out the door each day with a fake smile on my face. Just to please other people into thinking nothing is wrong with me.

The author's comments:
I wanted to write a dedication to my cousin's friend. The two were close. I was a mere spectator, but these were my thoughts. Everything in this story is all solely based on my cousin's and my life up to the point when our friend killed himself.

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