So my mom forced me to be in speech. I hate speech, just saying. I prefer to be the writer. Not the speaker. Anyway, I chose to do a category where I read two poems and a prose in the middle. I chose the topic of suicide, mostly because I can really relate to that particular subject. I mean, after all my ODs, it should be obvious. Anyhow, this is the prose I'm going to read on Saturday..
When I was twelve, I watched my best friend die. I watched her slowly deteriorate into nothing, just tightly-stretched skin barely covering her bones. I saw the puffy eyes, the glistening tears running down her face. Even people we never talked to noticed her changing. When the wristbands started appearing, we never worried. "She just wants attention." "No, she's just being funny. You know how she likes to joke around like that." But I knew the truth. I knew what happened in the privacy of her bedroom. But my best friend was strong, she could handle anything that came her way.
When I was twelve, Bree would take her bracelets and wristbands off and roll up her sleeves. She wanted me to see what was happening. But I didn't want to know. I didn't want to suffer along with her. But she'd shove her arms in my face without a word, forcing me to look.
Angry red openings covered her inside forearm. The image still haunts me to this day. Broken hearts, words, X's, FUCK YOU's, and trails of dried blood were all over, like rivers on a map, but worse. The long, deep line going from her wrist to her elbow, running parallel to her vein; the one vein she craved to drain.
When I was fourteen, Bree called me up saying she was sorry and she loved me, but she couldn't take it anymore. Confused, I ran to her house two blocks down the street. I threw open the door to her room and found her sleeping-a bottle of pills next to her face. Too scared to leave, I lay down next to her and checked on her every few hours, making sure she was alive. I couldn't let her die while I was there. She was fine, but wouldn't tell me what happened or what pills she actually took.
When I was sixteen, my best friend started smoking pot. Her rebelliousness progressed, turning into alcohol. Then, popping pills. She'd become the monster in her nightmares. She became skinnier and skinnier from her anorexia, and her eyes glazed over from the drugs.
When Bree turned sixteen, I stayed the night at her house. She started the weed and booze before I even closed the door. I took a hit, then two, three, four. I was stoned after ten minutes. She was drunk after twenty. She told me she hated her life and wanted to die. I told her I hated my dad. She said she was going to kill herself someday. I laughed and told her to shut up.
When I was sixteen, my best friend killed herself. Combining her addictions she ended her life with me laying next to her. First the high, then the drunkenness. When she woke from her unconscious state, her blade was right next to her, directly within reach. She cut the vein she so coveted, letting the blood pool below her as her life force left its containment.
Her note was under my pillow, saying she wasn't sorry this time-she was saving her life by ending it. She asked me to take care of her little sister-she was only twelve. Don't let her see the body. Twelve year-olds shouldn't have to see their older sisters die.
But when I was twelve, I watched you die. And I didn't try to stop you.
