Untitiled

A piece of writing for my Creative Writing class. Our prompt was "What I Remember.."

I remember wondering how dark red could truly be. I never knew a color could look so solid, so intimidating. The color seemed to take pride in being set free. It mocked me as it seeped out of the wound, and I became entranced. I sat there pondering how blue could turn into something violent, when it’s such a tranquil color. Why am I going on about a color exactly? Why aren’t I doing anything? Why am I still sitting in the middle of a hard, dirty sidewalk holding his head when I should be holding a phone?

                I didn’t care that blood was staining my clothes, and the sound of people around me didn’t prompt me to move. The streetlights suddenly seemed too bright, and the ground felt too hard. Everything seemed too intense, and very unnecessary. I tried to focus on the sounds around me instead of the dying boy in my arms. The pitch of the dogs barking was now fascinating. It was like my mind and body were two separate entities. In my heart though, I knew he was going to die tonight. There was nothing I could do to stop it; help was already called. Even when they arrived, I knew they couldn’t save him. That tiny glimmer of hope disappeared when I noticed the change in him.

                He’s been stabbed before, and he always fought through the pain. This time was different. It seemed as if he gave up on fighting, and gave up on life. Something about him changed when the blade touched his skin. The life seemed to go out of him; he didn’t fight back or even try to protect himself. Then he was still; so still, I couldn’t tell if he was dead or alive. The only way I could reassure myself that he was alive was feeling his faint pulse in his wrist and the slight flicker of his eyelids.

 Why did he give up on fighting for his life? The simple, ugly truth is that he knew who stabbed him. A person who he trusted with his life took it away. We all knew who he was really, and yet, there was nothing we could do about it. There was no proof. I wish there was something I could have done, and that my body didn’t rebel against me. I wish a lot of things now, but I know had I done something, it wouldn’t have even mattered. You can’t save someone who doesn’t want to be saved.

                What I haven’t told you is why that night occurred. I haven’t told you that the guy who stabbed my best friend was someone I used to tell “I love you”. Before the drugs and weed, that guy was someone I called my brother.  He wasn’t my brother in the true sense of the word. He was someone that was always there for me, and I considered him my brother.  He was a brother to all of us, especially to Jordan. Their families have always been close, and we grew up together. Why did he stab him? It’s what I ask myself every day. Apparently, flushing illegal drugs down the toilet and actually caring what a 15 year old does with his life gives a person permission to kill. The need for power was in his blood, more than love and the bonds of family. He disappeared after the shooting, claiming to visit his cousin.

                In the weeks after, I was numb. His family would stop by often, always black forms that were a constant reminder of what happened. They hugged me, crying and muttering over and over again that they missed him, and didn’t understand what happened. Honestly, I didn’t feel anything. I didn’t feel sorry for his family, or even myself. My emotions seemed to have been shut off, as in the way you shut off a facet and I had no clue on how to turn them back on. When I thought about it, it was as if it was another story I read. I know now that was how I dealt with the pain and shock, but I will never forgive myself for not trying. It’s not every day that your best friend dies in your arms.