My brother called me from Kansas, his base where he is stationed. I greeted him happily and he bursted out with it "Jack's dead." I sunk low. Jack, The Good King we called him, was dead. Who is Jack? My friend. Friend of my two brothers whom I had known since I was in 5th grade. He had made me laugh and was practically my brother.
When my brother said the words I felt like I had when my acual father had died. I had no words, no reaction. Just a sickening sink in my stomach. The ones that made you want to puke, but you couldn't even move. How......why......Jack. The Good King and one of the most gifted guys I know gone forever. I hate death. I hate it more than I hate more than I hate crime and war. I hate it even more, when I know them, and I can't help but have that sickeing, empty feeling in my chest, where someone once placed themselves. And now, they're gone forever.