Goodbye

Dear Reader,

My first memory is of my sister. She's four years older than me. In the memory, she was holding my hand. In the memory, she was laughing and we were running through a field of tall grass. I can still smell the flowers, the promise of more springs to come. I can see her turn back, her eyes squinting from the combination of the sun and smiling. I can see her blond hair shimmer in the sunlight.

I never told her about the memory. Maybe she remembers. I don't think so. It was a random memory, one time picked from many. Her name is Olivia. I called her Olive when I was little. I was the only one allowed to do that. I still am.

My name is Saylor Dawson. I'm fourteen years old. I'm sitting on the edge of my bed. In my hands lies a rope. In front of me is an open closet. How ironic. In that closet there is a horizontal bar. The rope in my hands will be tied around that bar soon. And the rope will soon be around my neck. And I will cease to disappoint.

When I was three years old I learned to read. My parents were so proud. I mean, it's not like I was reading The Great Gatsby or anything. It's just I didn't talk much, so my parents were kind of worried I would be 'behind'. Not in that way, Dad. My mom brought me to a bookstore that year, and bought me a book of poetry by Shel Silversteen. Now, it sits on my bookshelf, gathering dust.

I've read as much as I could since. My parents were so encouraging. My whole family loved to read, and we had stacks of books just floating around the house. I was never limited in what I wanted to read. Reading was one of the most prominent memories of my childhood.

Regrettably, another memory I find very common when I explore my memory are the hours I spent in church. I hated church, but both of my parents were very Christian, and I was consequently forced into spending my Sundays sitting in a stiff suit, back straight, and listening to an old priest drone on. What was worse, I didn't agree with most of the Bible. Especially when I turned eleven.

I had one real friend growing up. Her name was Leigh. I met her when I was seven. We were at the park. Both of us lived within walking distance of the town common, so both of us frequented it often. Olivia used to take me there after school so I could run around. When I was seven, I decided to climb the tallest tree in the park, (I know, I was totally brave like that), and when I got to the top there was already a girl sitting on the highest branch. She was very small, but drawn of entirely of lines and shapes. She had long dark hair that fell in her face, and skin like burnt caramel. Her eyes were huge in comparison to her face, and the only part of her body that didn't seem like it would snap if you touched it.

"Oh, hello." She said, staring at me without blinking.

"Um." I said. I was really awkward in those days. "Hello."

She patted the branch next to her. "The branch is big enough for both of us."

I climbed up silently, sitting next to her. The park was bathed in golden light, the beginning of the sunset.

"I'm Leigh." She said, without looking at me.

"Okay," I replied. "I'm Saylor."

"Cool."

And a friendship was born.

Leigh and I were in the same class since we were nine. Maybe coincidence, maybe the teachers realized how much we liked each other, maybe not. The important thing was that we spent almost five years exclusively in each other's company. I think my parents liked her, mostly because she was very polite in their company and because she was a girl. I think they hoped that we would end up as an item, and were secretly worried, as I never showed any interest in girls. But I wasn't interested in Leigh, nor any other girl for that matter.