a/n: Better to put this one at the start as a warning. This is probably one of my worst. I know I've written suicide in previous ones but it hasn't been direct. Just a warning, this one is. Figure out who is who if you want.
"I don't know how to start this, so maybe I should start by saying thank you. Thank you for everything, all of you. I remember when I first met you all, hardly any friends of my own and too shy to make new ones. All of you changed that, you all helped me become who I am today. I have had the chance to see you all grow and start relationships, beautiful ones full of unimaginable amounts of love. God, I'm a complete mess and I'm not even finished. I would write this all down, but I can't. you all know why. It's odd, talking to an empty room, knowing no-one can hear me. Maybe that's better. People will miss me less, not understanding why I did it, not having an explanation. It is my choice to do this, no one made me, I want to. Sitting here now, I'm thinking how you'd all react. Two of you would think you could have saved me, a few might drink until sleep overtakes you. Our chief, well I really don't know. You'd probably blame yourself for what I'm doing. Yes it's partly your fault, but I chose to fight, I was too close when the cannons fired, so don't blame yourself for my choice. My dearest sunlight, I'm partly doing this for you, doing as you asked. The night I told you that I loved you, you broke my heart. I was told I was a sinner, that you could never love me, that I should burn in hell. I'll do that for you, and don't cry. You can't cry, not for me, not for a person that loved but was never loved in return. I do blame you, but not for this. I suppose I was always happy, not now. What am I without love, without flowers or poems. Worthless. That is all I am now. The revolution took that from me. So I've made my choice. I can't burden any of you with my uselessness. I'm doing what I want. I should stop talking now. Thank you for everything my friends."
They found him the next morning, blade half clutched in a lifeless hand. Blood stained the sheets of the bed, blind eyes turned to the ceiling, a ghost of a smile on his lips. His predictions were almost right. Two cursed the heavens for not finding him sooner and saving him. Four of them drank to his memory, one more than the others. The young lover honoured his friend and named one of his children after the boys favourite poet. The chief tried to blame himself, claimed no-one that innocent should have to suffer the spoils of a fight. If anyone knew the little church where he was buried, they would see fresh flowers by the small grave every day. The only wrong prediction was that of the boys beloved sunshine, he mourned. He cried and drowned at the bottom of wine bottles. Held desperately on to his loves old poems. Kept them for himself, spent every day reading them. Words of love, of longing and heartbreak. Wishing and praying that his little poet would come back to him...
But he never did.
