I had a friend. His name was Alex. I was around 10, and he was 11. We were best friends and hung out together all the time at elementary school. He fended off my bullies, I helped him with math. I played at his house, he played at mine. His family welcomed me, and my family welcomed him. He was the brother I never had. 148Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡwiGGar7GpS
But one day he didn’t come to school. And my mom told me when I got home that Alex got into a car accident. My mom drove me to the hospital to visit him, but when we got there, Alex’s parents and family were leaving with tear stained cheeks. A wave of confusion and desperation flooded in me at the look on their faces. Alex’s dad held Alex’s mom while she wiped the smeared mascara underneath her eyes. Before my own mother can catch me, I run up to Alex’s parents and look up at them with pleading eyes. “Is Alex okay?” I say, my voice coming out weaker than I meant it to. Alex’s mom’s bottom lip trembles more, and she leans down to hug me.148Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡLMCTleugbX
”I’m so sorry sweetheart,” She whispers in a wobbly voice in my ear. “Alex is gone.”
Time stops. As the information goes through me, voices echo. I zone out, my mind racing and my heart hammering against my chest. My breathing is out of my control. I hear someone say my name but it doesn’t register. Next thing I know, Alex’s dad is shaking my shoulders, finally getting my attention. “Are you alright, Hannah?” 148Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡLgTPVegSsp
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I’ll never be alright. 148Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡdZSgWp83MY
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At least that’s what I thought then. Now, almost a decade later, I find myself feeling guilty about Alex’s death. I feel guilty about being able to live on and have a life of my own while Alex is buried six feet under with little fingers and legs that never had the opportunity to grow. But every year, on his birthday, I go back to his grave. I always set his favorite flowers in a vase next to his tombstone. 148Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡJ7act8MhXO
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