Memories

I have happy memories that I loved but I have bad memories also. It’s easy to remember the happy ones since they bring a smile on your face. They spread a burst of feelings that has you chuckling softly and shaking your head thinking, “Did I really do that?”

                Then the bad ones come, almost like leeches that latch onto you, sucking your blood. It brings a slight pain to your chest or a horrified expression that leaves you with nightmares. I hate those of kinds of memories.

                I give anything in the world to have this memory be a good one but it isn’t. There’s nothing good about someone dying or even witnessing the death. Well, that’s my memory. I remember the day that Morgan died, I watch as he fell into an abyss of darkness.

                What makes his death even worse? He didn’t even scream.

                He didn’t look scared or even the slightest bit frighten. He looked calm as if he was made of stone. He was the one hanging on the thread of death and me? Well, I was the one with the frighten expression; I was the one that was breathing heavily.

                I was the one that needed comfort and that’s what he did. He talked to me, asking me for my name, age, date of birth, classes I took.

                I was ashamed to tell him that I was in most his classes; I even blushed as I told him. He was close to death and I was blushing. I suppose it’s a natural reaction since Morgan is one of the popular guys. He was the town’s Golden Boy; he was always in the newspaper, featuring a story about charity work, his good deed, his kindness, thoughtfulness. And I, well I’m the one that was at home, on the weekends, wearing my P.J’s past twelve, reading about his work, all the while, stuffing my face with chips. I wasn’t exactly outgoing or athletic.

                But, I like to think I was the one that truly saw him, the one that had real feelings for him. Yes, I, Megan Hanley had a crush on Morgan.

                I didn’t love him, maybe if he had stay alive, I would’ve fallen for him but it would have ended in heart-break.

                Even as I stand here, on soil ground, where the dead are bury, wearing a black dress with heels, my heart ache. Not because I watch as everyone in town, stand here, crying but because I was the one they blamed. Whenever the priest mention Morgan’s name, at least two people would turn back and look at me with cold eyes.

                They blamed me, because I wasn’t strong enough. It never occurs to them that he was the one that ask me to let go. He was the one that pry my fingers away from his. He was the one that whispered, “Its okay.”

                And I had to live with that, forever. I had to live with that one bad memory.