I drove into the box, which was tucked away in the corner of the attic. I haven’t seen this box in years. But the untreated wound in my soul was beginning to fester and rot, taking away all voice beautiful of good in my life. 

Wherever you are, may this letter reach you, my very best friend.

The written word has always come naturally to me, but I find myself crumbling up many sheets of paper and throwing them in the garbage can as if I was playing a very pathetic game of basketball.

I never thought I’d lose my best friend, but here we are. Good people always believed in goodness. And I guess that’s how this all started. 

I was thinking back to the days when times were simpler for us, simpler for me, and simpler for you when we were kids; the world was still full of hope despite the many dark secrets we kept hidden from the world.

Remember when we were sitting together, you were sitting at the desk across from me, and I said I liked your shoes. I remember very clearly when the teacher told us that he thought the person who was holding a gun to his head and asking for money was a joke. I just smiled and laughed it off; how could you not believe someone pointing a gun at your head would be a massive threat designed to make you piss your pants, run away screaming and give someone every penny you can find? I would be searching my purse, my wallet and turning the pockets of my jeans inside out if someone told me to give them all my money at the threat of death. 

But I guess I get it now. People don’t want to believe in the things that frighten them the most. And what scared me the most was the prospect of losing someone who could understand me. 

The first day we met, you were wearing Tripp pants and a Blood on the Dance Floor t-shirt, and you smelled like Patchouli and tobacco.

I remember those nights we spent playing video games and talking on the phone. You were my life preserver.

They say the people that are hurting most are the ones that are typically the best listeners and the ones that care the most.  

I remember the night my world changed forever; you were the only one who listened. I was wearing purple pajama bottoms and a new black sweatshirt. I was sitting on the bathroom floor looking at some dollars for Statue Of An Angel. Telling you how much I loved you, how much we hated the rest of the world.

That was the day you became my family. 

We would listen to ICP while hiding behind the band room, smoke Black and Milds, and pretend we were spooky kids. 

You thought it was cool that you can make smoke rings with your lips and try to convince me you’re a good kisser. In retrospect, I regret never finding that out for myself. The day before you left school, I told myself I would kiss you, and I never did. I regretted that for a long time, but I was a shy 17-year-old who thought you were way out of my league.

I looked at you and saw someone handsome and intelligent and kind and wonderful, and why would you ever look at someone who looks like me. Remembering the day they decided you weren’t allowed to come back to school. 

Like most of us do, you like to put up a tough front, and I remember you made off-color jokes in the cafeteria. Also, you liked to wear a charm in the shape of a bloody axe around your neck. 

You were standing in the library stone-faced stoic, looking at pictures of April 20th, 1999. As an edgy kid, of course, you were. 

Then the cops came in made you leave; that was the last day I would get to hug you. Leave or spend more days right where I got to hold you close. I miss smelling your hair, the scent of  Camel cigarettes, and artificial strawberries.

Looking back, I didn’t see a lot of red flags that something wasn’t right, but because I knew you in ways that others didn’t, I decided to push them aside. 

Sometimes I wish I hadn’t because if I hadn’t, perhaps you’d be here with me, in the warm and loving arms of your best friend who could take care of you, listen to your problems, have a cup of coffee, and talk just like we used to.

Instead, you’re running away in a pine box because I chose to ignore my instincts.

 I’m so sorry I didn’t come to your funeral. I’m a coward. When I was little, my great-grandmother died, and my mother sat me down and told me how important it was to make the day about her. The day that we said goodbye to her wasn’t goodbye but rather a type of send-off. 

I will wear a pretty yellow dress with pastel purple flowers, my grandmother’s favorite color was yellow. And that day, when we got to the church, my mother told me that I should go up to the casket and say a prayer, so I did. I went up to the casket, knelt on the bench beside it, and asked God to take care of her end to make sure that he would pass messages along for me to her.

But I made a mistake. I looked in the casket. To this day, I wish I had never looked at that box. 

I saw my grandma stiff and lifeless in the box. Some days that’s how I picture her now. I want to remember the fun times we had. Even though we were poor, she made things a lot of fun.

My grandmother made an extraordinary time when I would go to her house. Some of my favorite memories are pretending we were jungle explorers in the garden hose with a giant green snake and listening to the radio singing along even though we didn’t know the words to any songs. 

I never wanted to replace my images of you being silly and fun to end our long talks about anything and everything we could think of. I never wanted to replace my images of you with a picture of a corpse in a box with a soulless bag of rotten meat and formaldehyde. 

The day that my world fell apart is burned into my brain forever. A picture of you popped up on the evening news. It was your yearbook picture from the year before. You were wearing the same green hoodie you wore to a bond fire weeks earlier. 

We all drank wine coolers and talked about senior year. We were planning our lives. Was this a snap decision? Why did you lie to me? Were you lying to spare my feelings? Were you lying because you were plotting the whole time? The news wants us to believe you’re a monster, but in reality, you’re one of the best friends I’ve ever had. 

I’m going to miss you so much. The blood, the end, the life of show that was once my best friend.

I wanted to go to your funeral but I couldn’t. There were too many people asking too many questions. News from all over the country was swarming around my front door. 

I can’t even walk the dog or go to the store for a carton of milk. I blame you for taking away my peace. Everyone says high school is supposed to be the best years of your life, and the reality is you made the best years of your life what you were.

You protected me from boys, and you gave me a shoulder to cry on when my parents were fighting, even helped me change my F to a B at one time which would have worked if we used permanent markers.

How the hell could you do this to me? 

I remember the days we spent eating bag lunches in the courtyard. The safe place away from the world was the place where the police would have to draw a chalk outline around your lifeless body.

I hate you, and I hate you for who you became. I can’t stand the loss of you, and I feel like you died a long time ago. Maybe I wish you had.

I crumbled to the floor; dust and fuzz covering my jeans.