Teardrops On the Windowpane

Prologue

Rain. It's like teardrops streaking down the window. The sky is crying for you. With you. Because of your loss. Everyone loses something, or someone. But no one could have felt the way I did. Because he was there, standing next to me; smiling, laughing. One second he was there. The next, it was as if he never existed. Everyone mourned, then went on as if nothing ever happened. Everywhere I went all I heard was "I'm sorry for your loss." It was a freight train of feelings all washed up on the shore of a lonely, deserted beach.

The next day came and went, as did the day after that. 'What do people do who have nothing left?' I wonder. As I walked down the busy city street, not bothering to look where I was going, I bumped into an innocent stranger. "Sorry," I mumbled, and kept walking, never looking back.

What is the point of living if nobody you love is living life with you? Why bother trying when you have nobody to impress, and nobody is there to celebrate with? After he died, I found it hard to go on. I stopped going to work, and stopped answering phone calls; from friends, from work, from worried acquaintances; from anyone.

It's so hard. People always told me it would be hard for a while, and that was okay, but eventually things would get better and I would move on. But nothing got better. Just worse. As if the weather was building off of my melancholy mood, gray-black clouds gathered low in the sky, forming a large, thick blanket over miles and miles of city blocks, and surrounding areas. I was surprised the sky didn't open up and create a terrential downpour, as if a flood of sorrow and tears overwhelmed us. I thought too soon, for that exact thing happened not five seconds later.

I looked up at the sky and when I lowered my head again, my face and hair were soaked completely. So much for staying dry. My wet hair was plastered to my face and there were raindrops streaking down my cheeks, and were stuck on my eyelashes. I didn't care though. It wasn't enough to bother me. I still couldn't get my mind off of his death. Everyone who passed by, all the bystanders and streetwalkers who passed me by on the street only saw a mask. A mask composed purely of sorrow and fury. Fury at myself for not spending more time with him. More fury for realizing too late that I never sincerely told him I loved him. But the most fury came from the realization that I would never see him again.

If God really exists, why did he take him away? Is he truly in a better place? I pondered this for a long time. Finally I realized my grudge against God was petty at most, and foolish. I need to move on. At least, that's what people keep telling me. But I can't. And that's why I'm writing this suicide note.