Poems for the Dead

Gray clouds covered the sky, and I could smell rain in the air, blue and red lights plastered the houses in the neighborhood, and yellow caution tape outlined Todd's overcrowded yard. As I drove down the street I glanced over to see his little one story house crawling with police. The first thought that passed through my head was that Todd had done something stupid with his friends again, and was paying the consequences. How wrong I was, but I wish that that were what it was to this very day.
Later that night I was in my room finishing up some of my Spanish homework, then I heard my brother call for me to come down to the living room. I came out of my room, passed the bare white walls of the hall, and made my way down two flights of stairs. I hit the tile and saw my brother in our dark black leather computer chair on his Facebook™  home page, just tinkering around with it. He stopped and looked up at me, “Bryant is dead” that was all he said, with not a hint of remorse in his voice. I wasn't sure if I should believe it or not, but I couldn't blame him for how I was addressed, he didn't know Bryant as well as I, and he didn't know I knew Bryant so well. So I turned around and jogged up the stairs, went back into my room, and pondered the news I had just received. Two minutes later the phone rang and my heart pounded. It was my sister, Rebekah,  calling to talk to me. I reluctantly picked up the cordless black phone and put it to my ear. “How are you holding up bub” my sister said, “I'm doing fine, why?”, “I thought Joe told you about Bryant?”, “I've got to go” I said “I'll call you tomorrow, okay?”, “Don't hang up ye”... the line went dead. I turned around and step by step I slowly ventured up the stairs, and made my way through the dimly lit hall. As I entered my room I turned my radio off, and an eerie silence filled it's place, the only thing I heard was the clicking of my bedrooms ceiling fan as it passed round and round. My body felt almost as numb as my heart, and at that moment something in me died, and rage took it's place.
This was one of my best friends, my old next door neighbor, the kid who taught me how to skate, the one that used to help me with my Spanish homework so we could hangout. I tasted something hot and salty, as I put my hands to my face I felt the warm sticky tears moisten them. At that moment I was called down again, the last thing in the entire world that I wanted. All I really wanted was peace, and some time for myself, just for everyone to leave me be. Yet there was nothing I could possibly do for that, I was in a house full of people, and I had school the next day. My mom walked behind our tan colored couch and asked me what was going on. The only words that came out of my mouth in a dry croaking voice were “He's gone” and she hugged me. I don't believe she understood, this was not one of those times where a mothers love was necessary, I needed a friend, someone who really understood what I was going through. I know that my mom had dealt with death in the past, but every death is different, and every death holds it's own story. I let her try to comfort me, I didn't want to hurt her, and once she was done I went up stairs, walked through that blank hallway, entered my room, pulled out my black notebook, and put a pen to it. I spilled my heart out on that page. That was something I always loved, poetry, it relaxed me. Now something had changed, it was dark, I didn't have a happy thought left, or though it seemed. Nothing has changed to this day, I'm still hurting, and my poetry is colorless.
Then the funeral came, the one and only day I have ever feared in the entirety of my life . I was sitting in the outside seat of the row, my pew was rock hard, and the church smelled of burning candles and roses. Such a contradiction to the mood that was presenting itself. The pastor spoke of death and life, I was half expecting psalm 23, that would've hurt the most I believe. Once the silence fell, the coffin was lifted. It made it's way down the rows, and it seemed to be flying by until it passed me. At that moment everything slowed down. I tried to keep my eyes and mind focused on the stained glass, but it was impossible, almost as if something forced me to look at him that one last time. And then it hit me. This was the last time I was ever going to be in the same room as him. I broke down, just knowing that he was about to go six feet under, and there was nothing anyone could do, not for me, not for him. Helpless, that is the only word I can use to describe me that day.
One of the few questions I hold closest to me is why someone would possibly take a picture of the bullet holes in the wall. Yes, Bryant had shot himself point blank, the bullet entered and exited his head. I was at a sort of memorial service in front of the house that he had killed himself in, there was a group of people huddled around one singular person. I drifted towards the crowd and saw it. Those images are still seared into my brain. Bullet holes; blood splatter and bullet holes. Angled in the wall, with specks of blood around it was a tiny hole just big enough for a bullet to fit in nice and tight. It took me all I had to not lose control then and there. I could just see him, finger on the trigger, sitting in his boxers at the base of the bed, that look on his face, and the thoughts racing through his mind at the very moment he pulled the trigger. And in my head I'd like to believe it was regret that sole thought to redeem himself in my eyes, but I know it wasn't. There is always a reason as to of why we make the decisions we make, and he made his for God only knows.