A suicide story

In a week and a few days it will have been three years since you shot yourself. Three years since the day that shattered all the lives that you touched. It seems that the closer that your day comes, the more I find myself thinking about you. It's not just the bad stuff anymore, either. I can finally imagine you dead and not burning on a stick in hell for the heinious crime against nature you commited. I can see you in peace, and be okay with that. It's taken a long time for forgiveness to set in, three years.
I don't see you on the streets anymore, you don't haunt my nightmares covered in your own blood, a gaping hole in your chest. I can look at Danny Diveto (You looked just like him, whether you liked it or not) and not feel sickened and angry. A lot of my anger has faded, just as everyone said it would. Time may not heal all wounds, but it blurs the edges, makes it softer, more palatable. The pain, while still there like a broken tooth, has become bearable. Or maybe it's a burden I simply got used to carrying around.
I can still feel it though, weighing down my chest, but I can breathe through the pain now. I can remember what a wonderful life I have gotten since your death and not feel so bitter at you. I know now (I knew then, but I didn't care then) that you must have hurt so badly to take such drastic actions against yourself. I no longer blame myself. Maybe there was something that I could have done or said in the weeks or months previous to your suicide, but then again, maybe nothing I said would have made the slightest difference. You weren't very fond of me in the fist place. But that's okay now.
I can look in a mirror now and not see your face staring back at me. I no longer hear your footsteps outside my door, or hear your voice muffled through two rooms. I no longer have to worry about you litteraly driving me crazy, from the grave.
I can think of you and not cry, and it's nice.