Author: Derra Nicøle

There you were, your motionless frame lying on the storm soaked ground. Your chest no longer breathing, your cerebral no longer pulsating, your heart no longer beating.

An unmarked body that now reveals the evidence of how the angel of death came about to kiss your forehead. In between your head and shoulder is all the proof needed, deep red life that spilled out from their veins through the small gash located on your neck.

Eyes closed, lips shaded a frozen purple and your pale flesh now corpse like blue. You exhaled your last breath much too soon. A dizzying question fills my eyes with tears. Did this mortal warrior fight with every ounce, a battle well fought to the inevitable end or did the warrior that now lays on the ground enter into a suicide mission?

Externally I shed a few respectful tears before doing what needs to be done. Internally I’m shouting to the point of combustion, feeling angry that you’re gone. Angry with the nearing realization that you may have simply given up. My six and a half sized feet want to run off the stabbing emotions, my mouth wants to swear. But, I can’t. Now is not the time and even if a few selected moments were awarded to do so, I don’t deserve them.

Because the black truth is that I know why you met with your demise. I know who sliced your neck. Unfortunately it is not Saturday night and we are not playing a game. This is not a case of Who Done It or speculating that the murderer is Colonel Mustard in the library with a knife.

The person with the knife, the one whos hands are now eternally stained with your blood, the murderer… it’s me.

You died because of me… because I left you to fight a battle that you were unprepared for, a battle that you were unequipped to fight. Blinded by the tough smile that you were born with, I pridefully figured that you could handle life and what it threw your way. My clouded assumptions distracted my clarity. Only after your final cry for help escaped into the skies did I pay attention. However, a final cry it was not. By the time I reached the battlefield the war was over, the rain began pouring and you were laying inside the inviable chalk outline. Every broken piece, every internal gash, every external wound… all marking every time a single S.O.S was shouted. And I selfishly ignored them.

Time to finish what you started. With a shovel in hand the dirt is dug up. Seven feet below is where I lay you to rest. This silver I.D. bracelet is what I place upon this fresh grave. A moment of silent apologies and a promise that my sole mission in life is to carry out your legacy. Ensure that every scar was well-earned and that your story protects, possibly even saves fellow souls sending out their S.O.S.

Years have blinked by, but your memory lives deeply. I, present, lay here in the dark feeling sadly nostalgic. I’ll never forget you 17.

Save your razorblades now, not yet….we’ll win, but not everyone will get out…. -Twenty One Pilots