Looking down at the last words he wrote made me think of the time we tried to run away. I was five years old, quiet and shy, and he was my best friend, the six-year-old neighbor boy who could talk to anybody about anything. He was easy to be with because he talked, I listened, and we always laughed together. Mom was angry because one afternoon when he came over to play, we thought it would be a good idea to give the cat a haircut, so mom wouldn't have to buy lint rollers for her clothes anymore, since we always used up all of the sticky papers anyways. He waited for me in the backyard as the sun was setting, with his walking stick and bandana filled with potato chips and apple juice for the both of us, smiling up at me with that mischievous grin of his. I nervously returned the smile, perhaps a little more hesitant on my end. I hadn't ever snuck out before, especially when I had been in trouble. I grabbed my favorite red rain boots from the closet, kissed my now less furry cat on the head, and quietly slipped out my first floor window, landing on both feet right next to him. My smile grew as he took my hand and we ran out the gate and down the block. We didn't make it very far, but by the time my parents found us down by the lake, it was dark out and I had fallen asleep in his arms underneath an oak tree. They tried to carry me home, but he wouldn't let go. Finally, they pulled me out of his arms, but he had clung to me so tightly that when I woke up in my own bed the next morning, I had bruises on my arms. That was the night he promised me he would always take care of me, and I believed him.
Mom said I wasn't allowed to have play dates with him anymore. We still found ways to be together. We grew older, and our secret way of communication was through our old oak tree by the lake. We left letters, pictures, and occasionally little gifts for the other to find. When I was ten, I got off the bus after school, ran to our tree, and found one little piece of paper that said, "That was quite the adventure, huh?" I thought maybe he had forgot the rest of the letter at home, so I waited patiently for three hours, to see if he would come to the tree. He never came. It was my mom who found me there, waiting.
I felt a shiver go through my body as I stood; I hadn't realized how chilly it was as the sun was setting. But as mom's face grew clearer, a second shiver went through my body, and not because I was cold. She had been crying. I thought maybe something had happened with dad, but her sadness had to do with me, I could feel it. She waited until we were home to tell me. I knew he was different, but it was a difference I loved. He was special, sweet, and loved me. But the kids at his school didn't understand, they didn't like his being different. So they tortured him. They teased him, because he was sweet and kind. They called him "faggot" and threw things at him, over and over and over. Until finally, he couldn't take it anymore, and I wasn't enough to save him. His parents found him hanging in their garage after school. He was eleven years old.
Eight years later, and I find that piece of paper hiding in the back of my bookshelf as I clear out my stuff to pack up for college. I miss him.
Chloe, well done. You are a story writer. This is a powerful piece.
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