The Suicide Effect | ✓

thirty-four

I spent the whole of today going over every single thing that I did wrong - every word I said that was cruel or mean or unnecessary. I couldn't count them all - there were so many.

One time we were laughing and I told her that she wasn't a very good singer. I didn't realise that she wanted to sing for the rest of her life - I wouldn't have said that if I knew.

One time, we were arguing and I told her that I hated her. I didn't really mean it - she was my best friend for crying out loud! - but I said it all the same.

One time, I told her that if Oscar ever asked me out then I would say yes one hundred percent - without reservations. But I knew that he'd bullied her for years.

And to anyone else these might just seem like bumps in a fairly smooth ride, but to me, I know that they're not. I know that this is all my fault; that I am entirely to blame.

That if I'd not said this or not said that then Becks would probably still be here today.

But everything that she's left behind is void of blame for me. Her diary doesn't say that she loathed me for anything or disliked the way I said things.

It never once says that I made her sad.

I guess that just means she didn't want to hurt me - not like I hurt her.