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cc&d (v222) (the July 2011 Issue,



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Because Of You

Meghan Frank

    We sat down backs to the fridge feet on the cabinets. Mellissa was putting nutella on some sort of cookies; Eric and Randy were watching Steven play some stupid golf game on the xbox. We were just talking shooting the shit, when I saw something in your eyes, something was wrong. I asked you what was wrong, you responded, “Do you promise, no, swear not to tell anyone?” I agreed. “I’m going to die” you told me, “I’m not going to be back next semester, in fact I’m going to be dead by Christmas. I haven’t registered for classes, I’ve stopped going to classes, and I’m just not giving a fuck anymore.” I asked you why you were going to be dead, genuinely worried. “I have a disease. Its incurable. The doctors say its not good, I’m not going to make it to Christmas. That’s why I make jokes about not having long to live. Please don’t tell the others, I don’t want them to worry about me.” I agreed.
    The next few weeks we cracked jokes about fucking girls so you wouldn’t die a virgin. We talked about death and the afterlife and who would show up to our funerals. We had both joking and deep philosophical conversations. I didn’t know how much that short conversation we had in his dorm carefree and innocent would cause me, because on December 23rd,/sup>, 2010 at 6pm you killed yourself with a gunshot to your head.

    You knew. You knew that because I had done it before I would be helpless to help you. You knew that if you told me I wouldn’t be able to do anything. Just after thanksgiving you told me you weren’t coming back. You told me you’d be dead by Christmas. You told me you were sick, that you had been diagnosed with an incurable disease. Depression is not an incurable disease. You told me. You can’t tell me goodbye, but you can tell me your going to die? And I can’t tell anyone because I don’t want to be blamed for not stopping you. You’ve left me with this giant burden that I can’t share. After all of our conferences and telling me I was like your little sister you...
    I’m listening to the others talk about you’re saying goodbye to them. They’re all saying how they would ask you what’s wrong and you would say, “I’m fine.” Or “I can’t tell you about this one.” Or “I don’t want to scare you.” But you told me. I don’t know whether to be mad or honored. I’m mad for not asking others about you being sick. I knew you were going to do something stupid. I guess because I told you I had attempted in the past you assumed I understood. But I don’t. I don’t think I ever will.
    I wish you had left something to explain, a written note, a voice mail, a video on your computer. I took your book. I hope nobody notices, but I needed something to remember you by. I took your “Brave New World”. You had it locked away, so it had to have meant something to you. I wish I had reacted to the information better. I wish I had done so much. I miss you. A bunch of us are getting tattoos in honor of you. I designed it. I’m proud of it. It’s a Greek Cross with the words “It Takes Heart” going through the middle with your name and death date. It’s a lot like the design you were going to get, I found it on the first page of your biology notebook. I’m watching everybody cry. Erin, Jessie, Annie, Emily, and Andy are either crying or on the verge of tears. Eric and Randy are mad at you and I don’t blame them. Johnny is hacking out a lung on the floor, typical. We all drank to your memory. Bitch beer. Vanilla vodka & coke. Coors.



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