“I’m so, so sorry, love. This isn’t your fault. I love you so frickin’ much. Please, please, please don’t be sad. I never wanted it to end this way. I love you, always remember that. I’ll miss you, and I’m so sorry” -click-

I didn’t register the loss of contact as the cheap cell phone escaped from my grip and hit the carpeted floor. I couldn’t force a single sound past my lips either. And if I could have glanced at my face in that moment, I’m positive my eyes would have been wide with realization and fear…


My best friend is dead.


I hate to say this now, but I guess I saw it coming. Thinking back to the way he’d been acting and our conversations weeks prior to that Thursday. He seemed more distant and determined to make sure I knew how much he loved and cared for me. I knew he had some issues and that he lived with abusive foster parents, but I never really thought that he’d go as far as committing suicide. He had his little sister to worry about, she was too young to understand how cruel this world can be. We were just glad their parents never touched her.

I remember the day I met the cute, blonde haired boy with the piercing blue eyes that seemed to tear into your soul. I was six, he was nine. We were playing on the swing set at a small park across from my Elementary school, entirely oblivious to the other. He kept swinging really high and jumping off and landing in the sand, only to stumble back over to the swing and do it again. After watching him for a few minutes, I decided that what he was doing was totally awesome and I wanted to try it too. I got myself swinging pretty high at that point and I was slightly confident that I could do it and look as awesome as that boy. Fortunately for me, I got scared at the last second and ended up landing on my butt. I didn’t cry like every other six year old would, but burst out laughing instead. With my head in my hands and my body shaking, the indefatigable nine year old noticed my supposed distress and ran over to me to ask if I was okay. If I remember correctly, he wouldn’t leave until I proved to him that I was fine and no scrapes or bruises blemished my surprisingly clear, lightly tanned skin.

Once satisfied with the aftereffect, I grabbed my hand, pulled me up, and dragged me to the monkey bars where he showed me how to climb on top of them. He continued dragging me and racing me to the various play equipment until we were so exhausted we had to retreat to the field to lay down in the shade of a large oak tree. Later that day, when our parents forced us to say our goodbyes, he introduced himself as Dustin. My new friend exhibited straight, blinding teeth and a slender, towering frame. Even at nine he was over a foot taller than my 4-foot stature. I found a new love for freckles that day, since there were quite a few that littered the top of his cheeks. I have to admit he pulled them off well.

Two years later, he was still that happy-go-lucky 11 year old that everyone knew. He payed attention in school, was involved in football and soccer, the whole nine-yards. The only difference was the numerous bruises that littered his skin. He played it off as injuries from football or messing around with his friends. No one thought any different, I mean, why should they?

After about three more years, the once-vibrant blue in his eyes had dulled considerably, almost to the point where it seemed grey in the right lighting. His platinum hair was dyed to a shocking red, and the freckles had multiplied quite a bit, though were hardly noticeable due to the dark tan he always seemed to sport. Along with the tan, dark circles were always present under his aging eyes. He became increasingly tired. Grades seemed to slip and he started falling asleep in class. He seemed more distant he didn’t make an effort to talk to me as much anymore. I knew something was up, but I was too naive to realize the full extent of it.

I recall one day, I showed up on his doorstep at around four in the morning. I had snuck out through the basement window and walked a few miles to Thames Street, thankful that I knew the path by heart. I had a nightmare. Stupid, really, but I knew my mum wouldn’t be able to do anything about it, however, Dustin always could. He picked me up and carried me to his room, where he placed me in his bed and brought me hot chocolate. I always loved his version of hot chocolate, I would ask him to make me some every chance I got. Usually when he served me the steaming drink, he would twist and braid my hair in outrageous fashions. He never failed to make me laugh, even on the worst days.

When I was eleven, he dragged me to the park where we met. We sat on the same swing set, and he told me that he thought I was old enough to know what was going on. He explained that things were getting tough, and that his foster parents weren’t treating him like they should. I knew he was in foster care, and I was so thankful that he wasn’t getting bounced around in the system. I think he was too, even though he was stuck in a bad home. He was like a big brother to me, even more so than my own brother. He was my mentor; my protector. I will never forget the look on his face when he told me that he didn’t want to be here anymore.

I think it was at that moment that I ran over to him and crawled onto his lap. My short, chubby fingers gripped his black T-shirt with sheer terror as I sobbed into his shoulder. He kissed my cheek and whispered words of comfort in my ear in attempt to calm me down while he continued rubbing my back. It didn’t seem to matter that I acted so much like a little kid that day. It broke me, knowing that he was hurting so much. My head nestled in its favorite spot in the crook of his neck and my hands still twisted in his shirt as he continued his elucidation.

He used a lot of big words. Words that the doctors had used to describe what was happening in his head. It would be an understatement to say that I was absolutely terrified at that point. I didn’t know what this meant for him. As selfish as it sounds, I didn’t want him to leave me. I was young and scared, a bit hopeless you could say. I didn’t think I could face the world without him.

What I didn’t cognize, was that I was right. The moment Dustin spoke those words into the reciever, I instantly knew what had happened. I was heartbroken to say the least. I could barely sink to the floor and pull my knees to my chest before the small whimpers broke into sobs that racked my entire body. It took a few minutes for me to calm down, but the second I did, I called his sister. I told her to tell their mom (the nicer of the two “parents”) to go and check on him. I made it very clear that she could not go into the room. No matter what her mom said. To this day, I still thank whatever god is out there that she listened to me.

I remember that on February 21, 2013, I got that dreaded phone call. Ever since I was eleven, we would call each other every morning before school. I didn’t really expect that Thursday to be any different. For all my friends, I guess it wasn’t. I picked myself up off the floor, finished getting ready, walked to the bus stop, sat next to my best friend and laughed at some joke she said, just like always. When I arrived at school, I sat at the same table I always do and talked about the same things that always came up every morning. My smile never faltered, I made sure of that.

It didn’t seem real, as cliche as it sounds. I didn’t want it to be real. My feeble attempt at ignoring the ache in my chest was to no avail. All I wanted to do was curl up into a ball on the dirty tile floor. The pounding in my head was indescribable, and the ringing in my ears drowned out the voices of my friends and the crowd around me. I was all alone at that point. My world was crashing all around me, my walls were obliterated in minutes, but I held my head up high and kept on walking.

I like to think that I’ve grown up quite a lot in the year since he passed. I’ve overcome obstacles Dustin never reached and I was able to face this sadistic world on my own; without the guidance of the only person I really cared for. With the loss of my liberator, society believes I’ve grown harsh and unruly, when in reality I just learned to grow up and fight my own battles.


I have come so far, thought I was so strong. The truth is I just fed myself a lie for too long. The only one to blame is me… Where did I go wrong?