Death

Death.
It's a bittersweet concept.
Some people fear it, others welcome it and some just don't see a point.
Then some live with them all.
I knew someone like that once, years ago come to think of it.
It was a tragic story, but knowing his stance on death.
It becomes a little harder to hear.

My name is Alex Radley. I grew up in a small town, a very quiet place. You'd bet if someone was brutally murdered the town's folk would be offering their children and parents just to see something, anything, happen.

I grew up next door to a boy, a quiet boy. He always had tired eyes. I didn't even have the opportunity to learn his name until year 6 when he transferred to our school. Our town was small but boy did we have a lot of schools. I was running around with my friends, George and Ian when I ran into this small boy. He was about 4 inches smaller than me, with black curly hair and dull brown eyes. I apologised of course, like the polite Englishman I was, he only nodded, though. I had to nag at him for the rest of playtime just so I could learn his flippin' name. Keegan Davidson. A little anticlimactic don't you think? It became a habit for him and me, I'd chase him around the playground trying to get him to speak, then he'd tell me just one thing. Sometimes it would be something useful like his favourite colour or his age but then other times he'd just tell me something silly like his second cat's death date. He was a right downer sometimes. Over the months I'd learnt the important info;

He was born in London

He lived with his mum and aunt

He was a few months younger than me

And he was terrible at looking after cats, he was already on his seventh!

After constant nagging and teasing, he finally started talking more, we'd hang out at lunchtime and break by the bins until the teachers would come and tell us off for being so disgusting. He'd come over to my house on Saturday's and I'd go to his on Sunday's. We had ourselves a very coordinated schedule. If I wasn't ready when he came round to pick me up for school he'd just leave, a blank look on his face. My parents liked him, apparently he was so very polite and that I should learn from him. His Mum was very different from him, she had a ghastly accent, I'm not surprised we hadn't seen her around, to have an accent like that in this town was practically a death sentence and that was before you looked at what she wore. I'll put it simply. No child of 11 should see someone in something like that. It scarred me, I can't even imagine what it'd be like to grow up with her!

Primary school ended and we were thrown, quite literally, into secondary school and teenage life. Acne, homework, study this and study that. It was definitely stressful for everyone. Some kids started picking on me and Keegan. It started off small and harmless, just a few petty nicknames or shoves in the corridor. Pretty tame compared to the horror stories people tell in primary 7. But it started getting worse. Not as much for me, as it was for Keegan. At first he'd open to me, tell me all the cruel slurs and insults they'd throw at him. The punches they'd literally throw. But soon he stopped telling me these things. He kept to himself and honestly, at the time I thought it'd stopped. I'd been so caught up in my own problems and stresses, living life like I was on top of the world when in reality, the sky I thought I'd conquered was simply a facade built upon ignorance and lies. He'd paint on a smile to disguise the bruises on his chest. He'd laugh at every joke, holding back tears. He'd do all the things I did, mirroring my actions as if I were the gleaming beacon of what it means to be happy.

It was December 13th, the snow piling up around us. The day started out like it usually would, Keegan perching outside my door at 8:15, us walking to school laughing about last night's episode of EastEnders, separating when the bell rang, walking to our respected classes.

Our teacher took registration, read out the bulletin and excused us to the hall for our weekly assembly.

I sat down next to Keegan, both of us cracking jokes about Mr Alger's toupee, desperately stifling our laughs. Mr Alger gestured for us to quiet down as he began our morning prayer.