Tests of Friendship

         He was my best friend.  He is my best friend.  I just don't know him anymore.

         We used to share everything.  We used to be happy people - the funny guys - just the two of us, like brothers.  Until his sister died.  That was when everything changed.

         After that, his smile seldom appeared again and his laugh evaporated.  His lips curved downwards, responding to the overwhelming sadness in his heart.  He stopped doing all the things he loved; he stopped being everything he had become.  At first, I thought it was a normal reaction.  I mean, his sister died.  They had never seemed close, but apparently they loved each other very much.

         Things were much worse than I ever suspected.

         We were in his parent's car - that's when I noticed.  It was the last day of the wake, the following would be her burial date.  I was trying to cheer him up by telling him that this was God's will, he should not be sad or mad.  She was in a better place.  He wore a long sleeve t-shirt, which he'd rolled up to counter the summer's heat.  I saw the fresh scars.  My heart skipped a beat and I felt my soul drowning.  I was shocked for a second, dumbfounded.  I pointed at the scars, but then he looked at me severely.  I kept quiet.

         Once we had parked at the funeral home, I waited for his parents to walk away and then I pulled him behind an empty car.  I felt strange, both mad and sad at the same time.

         "What is that?" I asked, pointing at the wounds on his arms.

         "Nothing," he answered bitterly.

         "Stop it!  You can't mutilate yourself.  That is not OK.  Look, I understand the pain you're going through; it must be awful losing someone so close, but you gotta get yourself together.  It was God's will to take her away from us and now, she's in a better place.  You have to cope with the sadness and pain, for both your parents and yourself."

         His gaze wandered, so as to avoid any interception with mine.  His breathing paused and I saw a tear well up in his left eye.

         "You say that, but you're not the one who feels alone at night and you're not the one who feels like dying!  You don't understand my loneliness, my pain, or my suffering."  His look was stern and my heart broke like shattering glass, so I stood there numb, like a zombie.  I suddenly felt like I wasn't being supportive enough.  I opened my arms to hug my best friend, but he was already walking towards the funeral home.  My friend, my poor friend - I was losing him, and he was losing himself.

         The day of the burial I felt destroyed.  I would have preferred to stay at home, but I was obligated to my friend and to myself.  Dressed in black clothes, the summer's hotness choking me, I arrived at the funeral home.  The sky was clear and the sun bright, which I found very ironic.  Finally, the time came to carry the coffin to the graveyard.  Her mother, father, and her brother, my friend, were there with two others I didn't know; there was one more space, so I took it up.  I wanted, no, I needed to feel necessary, I wanted it to be some kind of message to my friend.  The message said that I was there for him.  I was there for him when good things happened and I was there at the bad times.  I wanted to let him know that I was always there.  I would carry the same burden as my friend, feel the same pain, cry the same tears.  We walked with the coffin on our shoulders for half an hour, braving the sun, until we were at the grave site.  My friend did not share his private burden, but neither did I.

         The coffin was lowered into the hole.  Sobs and yells, along with whispers permeated the otherwise silent graveyard.  Eventually my friend and I left his sister's grave and went for a silent walk through the eerie graveyard until we took seats at another person's grave.  I glanced at his forearms and saw new scars.  A knot formed in my throat.

         "I'm sorry for yesterday.  I wasn't showing you enough support.  What kind of a friend was I to act like that?"

         He nodded.  "You are a great friend - my best friend, thank God," he said appreciatively.

         My eyes filled up, but I contained the tears.  "You've got to stop it," I said as I pointed at his scars.  "That won't make you feel any better and I am sure your sister would never have wanted you to do that; especially not for her.  Please stop."

         "I know it's not good, but I can't stop myself.  My sister's dead.  I feel like my heart has been pummeled to a point where it can never recover.  The rush I get when I cut myself, my skin slit open and the hot blood flowing outside - it makes me feel and makes me forget all the suffering I'm going through.  At least for a moment, I can forget how awful and alone I feel."

         "You are not alone!  I am here for you, always.  Your parents and all of your family are, as well.  Stop what you're doing, we can get through this - together."

         "I'm so sorry.  I know I have to stop, and I will.  I promise," he said, tears flowing from his eyes.  I hugged him, he hugged me, and we both sobbed as silently as possible.  We supported each other.  When the burial had finally ended, we both prayed in front of his sister's tomb then walked out of the graveyard.

         "Thank you," he said to me.  He was smiling softly, but the bags under his eyes showed signs of exhaustion and crying.  That was to be the last smile I would ever see from him.

         The days following the funeral were not the best.  The shadow of his sister's death hanunted my friend.  He tried to appear in high spirits, but he was noticeably changed.  Who wouldn't be?  The summer was reaching it's end, so I tried to involve him in activities that would get his mind off the event that had transpierd.  He was still wearing long sleeves to hide the scars from his parents.  I understood why; he did not want to be another worry for them.

         About a week after the burial, my friend's parents called me.  They asked me to stay with him for the day, since they were going to settle some legal matters and he refused to go. I accepted in delight; any time with my best friend was time I relished deeply.  I thought of things we could at his house, maybe talk a bit, surf the internet or go outside to play some basketball.  Anything to get his mind off everything that had happened.

         I arrived at his house about an hour after his parents left.  I entered the house without knocking, like I always had.  I called out his name, but no one responded.  He must be hiding, waiting to scare me, I thought.  He was always trying to give me a good scare.  I walked slowly, trying to detect where he was hiding, but I heard nothing.  I thought for sure he would be in his room, so I went there.  I opened the door and stood there petrified - my friend was dying.

         He was my best friend.  He is my best friend.  I just won't see him anymore.

         During his funeral, I remembered all the times we were together; all our laughs, our adventures, and our jokes.  I will miss his smile, his crazy ideas, and his friendship.  He won't be here anymore, He's gone just like his sister.  I finally understood the pain that he felt when his sister died, because he wasn't just a friend and he wasn't just my best friend - he was my brother.  How could I have hoped to help him when I did not know his pain.  I never felt it.  I was not good enough, not a good enough friend and not a good enough brother.

         During his burial, I remembered when I found him lying on the floor, a razor in his hands, blood gushing through countless opened wounds on his arms.  He was still conscious and in great pain.  I fell to my knees before him and in a desperate attempt to save his life I tightened my hands on his arms, tried to contain the blood escaping from his cold body.  He was pale and in a whisper he told me, "I was too weak.  I'm sorry, bro."  Tears poured down my eyes.  I grabbed my cell out and dialed 911.  The smell of blood boiled up to my nostrils, as I tried to wrap his wounds with my t shirt.  There was nothing I could do, everything was useless.  I let my friend die and when the ambulance came, we were both lying on a pool of crimson, cold blood.

         I pulled out a piece of paper and a photo from my pocket, then threw them inside the hole.  I watched them both dance in the air before finally touching the hard dirt of my friend's final resting place.  The photo was of us and the piece of paper was a little letter.  After his death, I returned home and wrote the note.  I was in the worst state imaginable at the time, so I couldn't not remember what I had written except for the last few words:  I forgive you, brother.  I hoped that those words would reach heaven, and my friend.  They finally put the coffin in the hole and I slowly walked away.

         I felt alone.  I felt terrible.  With the razor in my hand, I thought I felt how my friend felt.  "I'm too weak, too," I said to myself.

         My hand shook as I neared the razor to my skin.  The metal's cold touch and my skin's hot blood reacted with each other - like a warning, or a sign.  I moved as if to slash myself, but something stopped me.  It was something I could not see or control, but I could feel it.  I released the razor and started sobbing.  It was like a ghost or a guardian angel was there.  My guardian angel.

         He was my best friend.  He is my best friend.  And he's still with me.

*If you are having suicidal thoughts and/or are cutting yourself, please stop.  Search for professional help or talk to your parents.  Life has more for you than you'll ever know if you deprive yourself of it. Don't do it!*