Hissing, snarling waves prowled about my body. I was numb with shock and they served as a dull reminder that this was real. Life was a swirling canyon of thought and sound; my sight hardly served as a useful tool at this point. He was smiling—laughing at me. His sardonic amber eyes were taunting me, because he knew. He’d taken everything I’d ever known and shattered it with a mere puff of air—a sliver of a word.

I thought for sure I’d feel angry by that point, but my body was beginning to shut down. I was going into full panic mode, yet I made no sound. I merely hung my head. He was right, or so I thought. After our nine-year friendship, he’d destroyed me; he’d left me abandoned in a sea of sorrow and pain. I smiled and let out an empty laugh and followed him as I’d always done. What else could I have tried to do? I’m not a violent soul, though I really should have at least threatened him; warned him with a future consequence. But I didn’t.
He continued to laugh and joke with me as though he cared not for the terrible crime he’d committed. It hurt; I hurt. And he hadn’t even laid a finger on me. All it took was a slice of his sword of a tongue—a few stupid sentences and he’d made me doubt my purpose… my existence. I didn’t feel beautiful, because he didn’t think I was. He saw me as a mere object; he didn’t sense my pain anymore.

As we walk, I ignore his rambling. I let the treacherous monster of remembrance devour my mind; I begin to experience the bittersweet memories of what we’d been. We’d known each other since we were five. We were a bit shy of each other at first, but time revealed that we were to be the best of friends. The few words we exchanged that day grew to sentences, to paragraphs, to whole novels in what we learned together. It became a joke that where one was the other was soon to follow.

A few years passed and he began to come over all the time. He was angry; I was angry. We had many things happen to us that we judged to be unfair. We became a whirlwind of negative thought. We each fed off each other’s dark thoughts and actions. But we could always be happy together. We searched for monsters in our cellars and thought of ways to fight off our dull anger.

As time progressed though, I noticed a change. He began to hang out with guys more than me, and I was jealous. He was my brother, though not by blood. But the blood didn’t matter; our friendship is what did. But he began to fade, though I always welcomed him back when he needed me. Always. Though we argued and fought, we always found ways to come back together in our united effort against the world. 

We were in sync like no two friends could ever be. I could look at him; he could look at me and we would know in an instant what the other was feeling. He thought of taking his life; I helped him out of the darkness, and he no longer thought that way. I played a young counselor, and he told me everything that was wrong. I listened; he cried in my arms. He was scared, and so was I. Neither of us wanted to grow up and face the world that awaited us.

I became aware that he was talking still and awaiting my response. I gave him a dull nod. We returned home. I didn’t tell my parents what he’d said to me right away. By the time I opened my mouth, it was too late. He moved. He’s gone. And I still sit with the furious ashes of what we once were. But it’s funny, because sometimes when I listen hard, I can still hear the laughter of two five-year-old children in the halls of my home. They’re oblivious to what awaits them, for they’re busy watching cartoons and whispering secrets.

And, despite it all, I can’t say I’d want to go back and change it. He hates me now, and I’m struggling with the thought of forgiving him. Perhaps we’ll make up. Perhaps we won’t ever speak again. But one thing’s for sure: I miss my best friend. And he’s taken him from me with but a few, empty words.