TOO LATE

IV

Later that day, she did what I had told her to do. In the small town of Nevada City, California, words spread fast. Really fast. Her parents found her two hours after she committed suicide. When my mom told me, I didn't know how to feel. I didn't feel anything. My mom tried to be kind to me. She was the first person that I had pushed away.
"Luke, honey, it's okay to feel things. I know that she was your friend and that-"
"She wasn't anything to me. I don't fucking care. She was just another pathetic girl at school." I turned around and started walking toward the garage door.
"Luke! Don't say things like that. Luke! Luke!" I got in my car and drove to Calum's. His mom is a scientist and she was studying global warming in some cold place. She's really cool, because she sends me pictures of the penguins there. She's never home though, because of that. His dad left them when Calum was four. He's always alone at the house, so the boys and I always visit.
When I got there, it was only Calum and Michael in the house. They were sitting on the couch watching Catfish: The T.V. Show. I sat down without saying hi. Calum turned to me.
"How are you doing, Luke?"
"Why are you asking me this?"
"Well, I mean, you had to have heard about Brooke, right?"
"Yeah, so what?"
Mikey cut in with "C'mon, man. Even I feel bad. We were pretty mean to her."
I couldn't even look them in the eye when I said this. "You guys are such girls. I don't give a fuck. She wasn't anything to me." I started to get more angry. I didn't want to explode at them, so I kept it in. "Cal do you have any alcohol?" "Uh, there's some whiskey in the cabinet by the fridge. I went back towards the couch with a small glass and the whole bottle.
Michael was the second person I pushed away. "Luke, you know you can tells us anything, right? Like, we won't judge you if you feel even the slightest bit guilty about Br-"
"Why does everyone keep asking me if I'm alright?! Shit. I don't fucking care! She did it to herself, and it was obviously her choice!" I sounded like such an asshole. Michael glared at me.
"You know, I knew you were a jerk, but I didn't think you'd be a grade A ass." Mike spit venom into these words and I felt it. I stood up and grabbed the bottle of whiskey. "You know what, Mikey-" "Oh, what, dipshit?! What do we all need to know?" "I don't fucking need this bullshit. Hell, I'm going to feel however the fuck I want to feel." I started walking towards the front door. "Thanks for the alcohol, Cal!" I yelled. Before I was out the door, I heard Calum curse under his breath. "Fucking shit." He hates conflict and tries to stay out of fights. Tough shit, Cal, tough shit.
About three hours later, I was in my room, staring at the empty bottle of whiskey. My hands were starting to shake. I kept getting flashbacks of her face after I told her. It was like she decided, then and there, that when she got home, she was going to kill herself. Like I was the one thing that had set her off. I remember thinking that I never actually knew who she was. Sure, she was Brooke Anderson, that one girl at school that only had acquaintances. No real friends. She was in the poetry club. I just got to thinking about what kind of poems she had written before her life ended when I remembered something. I had some of her poems in my pocket.
I took out the crumpled pieces of paper and tried to flatten the paper as best as I could. The first poem I read was called Someone Actually - Posted 03:46.

Someone Actually Posted 03:46

Sometimes I get so sad I just wanna leave, but I'm not supposed to tell you that.

I'm supposed to say "I'm fine" and when the man with the notepad asks, I'm supposed to hold up four fingers and a thumb.

But really, I can't even hold up two . . .

I'm sorry that I'm not worth a full hand. I'm not a five, or a four, or a three, and especially not a two. Two fingers remind me of peace and the war inside of me is not willing to compromise.

They are all Fascists. They'll never bargain with a pathetic person like me. They just want to rule my body, and they will not hesitate to be violent. They do things like send surges of unhappiness and longing and anger through me, in hopes of me giving up and giving into the darkness of the little orange bottle. At the bottom of the bridge. In the shiny silver blade.

I'm not going to though. I will be a hand of three. I will be happy. Or at least I'll play the part the was given to me in the beginning. I will do this because even if I'm not happy with myself, others will be.

I will not be doing this for me.

I will be doing this for all the people outside the cage. Some are backstage, rooting for me; I'll wave to them from time to time. All the others want to watch me for their own entertainment. They will see my hand of three.

I remember having this weird feeling inside of me. I kept trying to imagine how her life was to make her feel this way. This poem makes her sound so strong. Especially the last stanza. I quickly looked at the next poem titled Somebody Actually - Posted 23:22.

Somebody Actually Posted 23:22

Everyone should speak in pen.

All love letters should be written in pen. Ink is permanent. Words can also be permanent.

Scratch that.

Words are permanent. As I was typing this, I did make an error, but I was typing in pen.

All love letters should be written in pen. All things shouldn't be erased from confessions. Our words should be raw and real. There are people who can be raw and real.

These infinite people are extinct. More and more are dying of broken hearts because they are so very delicate. Their hearts are being preyed on by the Heartless.

The Heartless only believe in speaking with pencils and erasers. To think long and hard about what they will say. The words that are produced by the Heartless are distant or friendly to a very close limit.

If you ever encounter one, they'll greet you with a "Oh, hello". You can try to talk to them, but they'll just respond with a "That's cool". Then they'll give you one of those short, tight smiles that show no interest whatsoever.

The Bright Troops go and risk their hearts in hopes of changing the Heartless. 30% of the troopers are successful, building our population up. 70% of those poor troopers lose their upbeat rhythm.

They come home from the Eastern Front and are provided with music.

You see, this is where my job comes in.

I bring in blankets and ice cream and Netflix accounts and an excellent selection of music. This therapy will be permanent; as was their heartbreak. Some go back out to the battlefield. Some go exploring and find themselves in the Western Front's trenches.

All of us Bright soldiers must remember that writing in pen is a sacred power that not every one wields. Everyone can learn, but most of the Heartless who try, end up giving in to the comfort of being too safe.

Earlier this morning, I came upon this book that was titled Heartless Philosophies. There were three main concepts of being heartless. 1.) To be Distant is being safe. 2.) Getting too close to anyone other than ourselves means a painful revival of our beating drum. And most important to remember is 3.) Owning Hearts will lead to utmost despair and sadness, for love can easily be erased. It is safer to go without. And that was it.

I'm sorry if you spent the time to read this. I just gave you a sickness. These words are permanent. Maybe permanent things aren't so good afterall. Maybe it will be easier to just quit my job of comfort and find some safe comfort for myself. What good is permanence anyway...
Has it done me any good?

Helping others gives me nothing.

Can this be temporary?

Can I be temporary?

Why can't I make any sense? Why can't sense make me. I

-

That one was way longer than the first one. I felt this one ore though. I loved the way she described her ideas. She gave them stories and roles. I understood the rules of the Heartless. I re-read the poem over and over again. I reached for the third paper finding in my dismay that it was just some homework. My mind kept yearning for the second poem. I kept reading it. I eventually fell asleep. Blue eyes and wavy locks fluttered under my eyelids that night.