Forget Me

Chapter 1

I opened the first notebook, a kind of diary Jessie had kept. He must have been fifteen at the time. His self hatred and cutting was in full force, his painting’s weren’t helping as much as they used to. God, he was gone. Left. Without me, without saying goodbye to my face.

Don’t get me wrong, I knew this had been coming, knew it since he was thirteen and I was fourteen. It’s just something that was always gona be.

Maybe life needs to be there.

Maybe it needs to wait for me.

But life wont wait.

Time wont stop.

I have watched years go by.

Trying to make something of myself.

In 15 years what have I done?

Had my heart broken.

Given up my friends, pushed away my family.

Just so I can have my heart broken again.

Now I’m tired, so tired.

Sleep, its like a blissful heaven to me.

And I dream.

Sometimes nice dreams

Sometimes nightmares

And when I wake up

Every time, the first thing I think of

Is

Adam

He must have loved me for a long time.

Eighteen, dead at eighteen. Killed himself at eighteen. Suicide at eighteen.

And not a person but me to care for him, not a sole morning his going.

His family had chucked him out years ago, and apart from me he didn’t have a friend to speak of.

He’d lived in an attack of an old, abandoned house. It was literally falling apart and I guess he thought it might kill him so he wouldn’t have to do it himself. He painted his pain onto paper and canvases. Kept each once propped up against the wall. The small stack of notebooks on a bookshelf. Art supplies on a desk and on the floor.

There was a pile of blankets where for the last few years he’d been sleeping in one corner of the room. Walking over there I picked one up, they smelt like him. Like old paint and cheap shampoo.

How could I have let this happen? How come I didn’t notice last time I saw him.

Just a note, all he left me was a note, a fucking note.

Why did it have to be him? Why did it have to be me?

Course I new where he was heading and by now he was probably there. He was going to be dead by the time I found him, no matter what way I looked at it.

I needed him, the idiot, I needed him did he not understand that?

He was mine, my property mine. I was the one who had cared for him, I was the one who had fed him, clothed him made sure he took care of himself when he didn’t see why he should. Me, that’s right, me. How could he do this, it was so selfish, so what if he was sad or depressed what about me? I was left behind to wonder what the fuck went wrong, what the hell I did to make him do it, or what I didn’t do.

He loved me, he needed me. And I had needed him, he was my purpose, I had to look after him, I had to. Why else had I never hurt myself, because I new it would encourage him to so I fought the thought off. Why had I not run away, because he needed me to take care of him.

That bastard, why in the name of hell did he do this.

I would find him, me, before he did it, before he died and I would give him a good piece of my fucking mind because that bastard could go to hell if he thought I was letting him go that easy.