Cheers

Part Six

I woke up a few seconds later, or so I'm told. The doctor offered me a glass of water after helping me stand, which I rejected.

I very clearly remember crying that day. I remember the doctor offering me a box of tissues, and asking him what for. He had to tell me that I was crying. Once it sank in, the shock had blinded me so much that I didn't notice the tears running down my face. Meghan hugged me, sobbing into my shoulder, as I processed what he had said.

She was gone. Gone to a place from where she'd never come back. The word gone echoed in my head as I fell to my knees, and watched tears fall onto my open palms.

Raven was dead. At 12:38, she had died.

It was osteosarcoma. Bone cancer took the only friend I had ever made. I attended her funeral. It was two weeks ago. She wore the dress that she was wearing in the pictures from four years ago. It was a white, knee length dress, with wine red, bright pink flowers, and different shades of green leaves and vines trailing from the bottom up. I thought she'd have grown out of it. It must have been tailored to fit again. Or replicated. I wonder if her parents know where it came from.

She was undeniably beautiful. Puberty treated her well. Her long hair complimented a slender body with perfect curves, and the white flowers she held contrasted against her black hair. She didn't cut it for five years, and she no longer looked like the kid with a bright smile that I remember, no matter how rare that smile was. One thing had stayed the same though. A small white rose rested on her ear where it pinned her hair back. The white petals were fuller and no longer wilted, looking more alive than ever. It seemed to be the only real constant in our lives. She looked peaceful, as though she was never meant to be caught in a world that would only beat her down. As though she hadn't died, rather been set free. But her death only imprisoned me.

It's raining today, two weeks after the funeral. Just like the day we met. Fitting, isn't it? It was raining the day we met, and it's raining the day we'll meet again. It hasn't stormed like this since that day.

Alex didn't even bother to show up at her funeral. At his own daughter's funeral. His only daughter, his baby girl, had died, and he didn't give enough of a damn to even know how it happened. That pissed me off but there was nothing I could do about it. I contemplated going to him directly, but I'd get nothing out of that. I'd only end up starting a fight that I know I couldn't win.

I got home earlier today, and I was so angry. Angry at everything. It didn't even feel like home anymore. The entire world felt barren without her in it, as though just knowing that she wasn't at home studying felt like an arrow to my chest. I asked a god that I never believed in why he'd take her away from me. What I did that was so horrible to deserve a punishment that was this drawn out. I got so attached to her, so much so that it clawed my life to shreds when she was taken away.

So here I am. Writing this to anyone who will care enough to listen. Writing this in the middle of a room I've destroyed. Everything has come off the walls, my dresser has been emptied, the lights are off and have been shattered. I tore the curtains down and punched out the window, slicing my hands to ribbons on the glass. There are several fist holes in the wall next to the detached door, and multiple shattered bones in my bleeding hand. For these past two weeks, I've been completely numb. Not just to optimism, but to pain as well. Everything is in a greyscale. The world has gone monotone. I've even cut myself just to know I'm still capable of feeling pain. Just to watch it bleed! And try to imagine the pain she must have suffered through because she couldn't tell me she was going to die. And I'm not. Not capable of feeling it. Yet somehow at the same time, I'm in paralyzing agony. It's as though I'm looking through eyes of clouded glass.

I'm realizing that she was the color in the world. In mine anyway. There's nothing left. I'm not going to recover from this. I don't want to recover, because that means I've accepted it. I haven't been able to sleep, and I haven't eaten in days. One of the only people I genuinely cared about was ripped out of my life. The only thing that makes it worse, is that she knew it was going to happen. She knew that one day, she was going to have to write the letter that I'm holding. The one with a hospital address as the signature, and she knew she was going to die. But she couldn't tell me, because she knew it would destroy me. She knew that if she told me then I'd waste the last days of her life instead of dancing with her at prom. Instead of fixing a white rose in her hair before graduation. Instead of drinking lemon peach teas together and going to famous ice cream shops just for the free samples. She savored the little moments while she was able to.

She knew that she was going to be ripped out of my life before she was ready to go, and then she was, and it left a tearing scar. So I'm taking the only reasonable alternative I can think of.

I know that there is help out there, but a life without her is pointless. Even if I did recover, there'd be no point. She was my life, and the first person I genuinely loved. I grew up in an unforgiving home that wasn't home, with parents that don't deserve their title. She was the only real family I had. I had Luke, of course, but me and Raven had a connection that Luke couldn't match. There's a gaping hole where she sat, and I'd only fill it with alcohol and pills and cigarettes. I promised myself I'd stop smoking. Didn't I? Or did I promise her? I don't remember. I just needed to tell her story, a document of her existence, because I know all too well that the world doesn't care.

So to anyone who takes the time to read this, give a toast to survivors. A toast to people who had a reason to live that was torn away from them. A toast to people who got help. I know I don't have to do this. But I want to. I'd rather die than spend a dead life searching for another reason to live. So I'm going to die with her photo in my hand and burned in my head.

If you're going to take one thing away from her life, take this: you can't decide what life holds for you. You can't decide where it will take you or what it will do to make you want to lose it. The hand you're dealt is not your choice to make. But you can decide one thing. If you get desperate enough, you can decide where it ends. Life is like a story. You can choose to stop reading whenever you like. Some are long and fulfilling and others are short and will tug a reader's heartstrings. Some have a happy ending, and some are like ours. Twisted and broken, and just won't have a happy ending no matter how much we beg, or how much we deserve to live another day.

So cheers,

          Jace