UNKNOWN
Fourth of July by Sufjan Stevens
He was dead.
It felt like my heart had stopped with his, like the world had come to a grinding halt and forgotten to start again. He had so much ahead of him—so much life left to live—and now it was all gone, wiped out in an instant.
Yeah, he got into some bad drugs, messed around with things he shouldn't have. But I loved him. He was good.
He was the one who cared, even if he didn't always show it. We were supposed to make it through this together—to be the broken, fucked-up kids who survived anyway.
I never thought that one night, one line over a grimy toilet, would lead to this. To silence. To a coffin.
Hell—I didn't even know if they'd buried him yet.
I could feel the tears building, pressing behind my eyes like a dam about to crack. But I kept my shit together. I wasn't going to cry. Not now.
If anyone should've died, it should've been me. Not him. Someone up there had fucked up. Hit the wrong button, pulled the wrong string, waved the wrong wand. And right now, I was begging them to fix it, to take it back, to take me instead.
Just when I thought I was getting better, just when I thought I could breathe without it crushing me, the gears in my head shifted, and the same phrase played on a loop.
He's not here anymore. Dead.
Dead as in never coming back.
They'd bury him soon, cover him with dirt, and that would be it. His body would break down, rot away, turn to nothing. Maybe it'd feed a tree, maybe a flower, maybe—knowing him—a goddamn weed plant. But none of it mattered.
Because it was over. He wasn't coming back.
And he never would.
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