[ WP ] Write about a person coping with the death of a friend .

Might as well try one for myself! 
 
 _______________ 
 
 I looked down at his tattered shoes. The year had done no good to them, only harm. Two holes near the toe, several holes elsewhere. God, the years that I had to explain what he was like, if I could have just shown them these shoes, and then said, “ This is what he ’ s like. ” I would leave them there to sit, look at the shoes, observe them, and think about what type of person this would represent. Let them know that they were getting into something that wouldn ’ t be pretty. 
 
 Then I would tell them that the shoes are still being used. 
 
 That day, I realized how I should ’ ve been describing him. He looked shaggy, like he was new in town, and wasn ’ t quite able to find a barber. He never stunk, but his pale white skin always had its own little scent to it. 
 
 I guess that we were friends. Fuck, I knew that we were friends. God, we ’ d known each other since first grade, hung out almost every day, and I ’ m still having second thoughts about if he was my friend? What a friend I was. I sorta guess that I must have been like that for the last half of high school. I brushed him off, yet he always came back, always forgave me for what I had done. 
 
 I guess that I realized how crap I was when he said I was his best friend and I realized that I didn ’ t even consider him an acquaintance. I just hung out with him cause there was no one else, and never thought again about it. 
 
 He was always sort of broken, though. I think his house was full of abuse, pouring out insults and beatings as if they were water and he was a wilting flower, and after a while, you could tell the only reason the plant was withered was because it was drowning. Caught on antidepressants daily, catching up with the good part of his day only when he saw me, because no one else would even come close to him. 
 
 But, as I was saying at the beginning, I was looking down at his tattered shoes. I looked up at his face, on this last day of school. Senior year was over and I was ready to get on with my life. 
 
 He said quietly, “ Man, the halls are really different empty. ” 
 
 “ Yep, at least I ’ ll never have to be here again. ” 
 
 He sank down on the inside. I don ’ t know how I know, but I could just tell. 
 
 “ Well, the times here were good at least, ” he almost whispered. 
 
 “ Yes, yes they were. ” 
 
 We paused, and silence slid into our place, making the hallways its home for fifteen seconds. 
 
 “ Well, I got ta head home. I ’ ll see you later. ” He started to walk away. 
 
 “ Seeya, ” I said as we parted paths. 
 
 It ’ s been four years since that happened. The last thing I said to him was “ Seeya. ” I made a promise, however indirect it may have been. I ’ m sorry if this sounds flustered. I knew I was his only friend. I knew that he had no one else. I could have easily called him or replied to one of his texts. 
 
 But no. 
 
 The last thing I said was “ Seeya. ” 
 
 And I guess the obituary means that I lied to him. 
 

