It has become routine for me to write letters to my dead best friend. Every night after dinner for the past week, I have gone up to my closet-sized room to write a few words to him. And every single night, a heaviness looms in that room where he used to sit. Tonight was no exception.

Dear Carter,
It’s been about three weeks since I’ve seen you. The sleeping meds that I got a while ago aren't helping. Since you’ve been gone, it has, of course, been almost impossible to sleep. Your voice was always so loud and bold when you spoke, and now the silence makes me uneasy, especially at night. I’m dispirited by the fact that no one put in the effort to listen to you. It seems like I’m the only one who really misses that voice. (Sorry, depressing.) On another note, I’m happy to say the pestering at school has finally stopped. The fact that I lost someone might be the cause of that. It’s not the same, Carter. Everything I do from now on will be offset; like when you finish a story, and it leaves you with a gnawing feeling because you realize it was never real, just paper on words, yet it left you believing on every damn page. I miss you. Talk to you later.
Your Friend: Anthony

I’ve ended all my letters like that. “Miss you, talk to you later,” is my cop-out phrase, I guess. Carter had been my friend for as long as I could remember. He never left my side. When we were three, we would fight against dragons in the basement, and he would pat me on the back after the invisible beast would be pierced with a tinfoil sword. When we were ten, he convinced me to put a No. 2 pencil in the microwave, (which did not earn me an A on my science experiment, like he said it would). Carter convinced me to do stupid things; he was someone who never thought there could possibly be a consequence to something that came from his “astonishing mind”. Even so, he was brave, charismatic, and wildly hilarious. It just so happened that he was everything I wasn’t; I was the quiet kid that people would only notice in the event in which he did something ridiculous, like microwave a pencil. He was in the small pool of people I willingly interacted with. My parents dealt with his presence; but after one year of high school, our misbehavior became more severe.
Carter may have been audacious, but no one gave him a second glance. Everyone thoroughly ignored his acts for attention.
“How was school?” my mom used to ask.
“Fine I guess; Carter’s seat got shoved again.” I would reply dolefully.
“Oh hun, thats awful! You know Carter is always appreciated here.”
The artificial sympathy in her voice was always less than believable.
On the fourth day of sophomore year, students were already comfortably complaining about their first 32 hours back in classes. I was sitting at a corner lunch table with Carter.
“You know, Anthony, you seem like you could be a good wrestler,” He said, with his elbows on the table--leaning to his left side so he mimicked me.
“Oh really?” I scoffed.
“Yeah! you don’t throw a swing at anybody, and you only fight people in your weight division. So you would go up against other kids with extreme absence of muscular prowess. Seems like a good sport to start with, right?”
“Your ideas are truly inspiring." I conveyed in the most sarcastic tone possible.
“Who knows, maybe your opponents will say ‘see that lanky, light-haired kid over there? I have to go against him. God give me strength!’” He boasted indecently. I knew very well that I was a beanpole, with a mop of blonde hair growing out of the top. To top it off, I was a beanpole that could burn in the sun at a preposterous rate. My brown eyes were the only dark pigment visible on me. Carter had the same colored eyes as me. He was shorter than me by a hair. He didn't have as much of an “extreme lack of muscular prowess” as I did, and his burgundy hair was much shorter, and extremely unkempt.
Just as we finished our rousing wrestling dispute, three juniors came walking towards our corner table, looking viciously eager and ready to get to us. When they reached us, the broadest of the bunch nearly shoved Carter onto the floor.
“Oh, I’m sorry, was that your friend?”
I must have looked like I was ready for murder, because the other members of this guy’s trifecta made a collective “Oooooh” when they looked my way. Carter stood at the end of the table, collecting himself.
“Ha! Why isn’t he telling me off?” their leader boomed. “Where’s your friend’s balls?”
Carter gave me an astonished glare, pleading me to help him.
“Well, I could ask you the same question.” I replied to the kid built like a brick house. That winning comeback resulted in my awkwardly sitting next to my opponent in the principal's office as I waited to go home. I didn’t think it could be more awkward sitting next to him, but I was utterly mistaken once I experienced the car ride home. At home, my mom put a steak on my swollen eye and made sure to yell while getting close to my face.
“What were you thinking, Anthony? You told me you would be better!”
“I’m sorry, alright? The guy shoved Carter to the floor like it was nothing,” I explained with an extreme amount of hostility.
“Of course. Carter." She sighed.
“Anthony, I know you say he’s this outspoken person, but you’re always the one fighting in his place. Why do you bother?” She sounded really distraught.
My dad walked into the kitchen, rubbing the back of his head, looking disgruntled as I held the cold meat to my eye.
“Anthony, your mom and I talked. With all the fights you’ve gotten into last year, well, we looked into professional help. It might help you with anger management, among other things, perhaps.”
I was offended. No, insulted. Anger management? Among other things? My dad began again before I could protest.
“I know, it sounds bad. But at least go to the first appointment? We’re only asking that much of you.”
The way he pleaded those last few words made me concede. I owed them this at least. I reluctantly agreed to go to my first session that Saturday, which felt more like an interrogation. Dr. Torres was a pleasant enough woman, her hair pulled back in a bun and a sincere face, but she asked me questions that made me squirm in my seat. I went along, gave her information like my grades, or my social status at school.  None of which interested her as the answer to one of her later questions.
“So, Anthony, what is the cause for most of your controversies?” She asked in her tranquil voice people usually use on toddlers.
“Oh, uh, Carter? I guess.” I replied nonchalantly.
“Really? Who is Carter?” Her eyes lit up, like she finally found some sort of lead.
“A friend.” I responded, “We’ve been friends since I was three. He’s usually the one that convinces me to start these, uh… controversies.”
“Interesting.” She was leaning in close now. “Do you feel pressured by your friend?”
“Oh no, not at all. He’s the most supportive person I know. I guess our ideas get us into trouble here and there.”
“This seems like more than a ‘here and there’ situation, Anthony.”
She was right, but I didn’t see the problem. There were always kids like me that were prone to getting into trouble. Why were Carter and I so unique? I was itching to get out of the situation; and I think Dr. Torres could tell, because she spent the rest of the session talking to my parents. When they were done, Dr. Torres seemed content with our introduction, even with the lack of enthusiasm I provided.
“I’ll see you next time you get into a fight, so lets make sure we don’t see each other again. Understood?” She said, with an unusually pleasant smile.
My deal with the psychiatrist didn’t last very long. Word spread about my little confrontation with brick house boy, and my black eye didn’t help with hiding that fact. More and more people started poking fun at Carter and me. Three weeks after my session, a sophomore in homeroom gave me a smirk as he kicked Carter’s chair to the floor (along with Carter). With three weeks of torment built up, I hit him across the jaw without thinking. To compare the awkwardness, sitting in the principal's office and Dr. Torres’s office after that incident felt exactly the same. All I could think about while Dr. Torres was scolding me was how Carter thought I could be a good wrestler, I would just have to refrain from hitting as much. I was scheduled for weekly sessions. I sat with Carter on my bed that evening after my second meeting at the doctor’s.
“Why do you even have to do this?” He shouted as he jumped off the bed to face me, messing up his hair.
“Because every time I save your ass, I become a bad-tempered lunatic!” I shouted back. I didn't care if it was late; I didn't care that my parents were eavesdropping. I bellowed and didn’t give a second thought. Carter let his head drop in exhaustion, trying to figure a way out of our mess.
“I know, I know. It’s just, I don’t think you're crazy okay? You and I, we don’t have it easy. We never did, but I’m still here, okay?” He sat down and spoke in a hushed tone, “I’m the only one that is here for you.”
I looked at him, and sighed in defeat. Our situation had gotten worse, and I desperately needed him around. He was extraordinarily easy to talk to. Having him walk into a room made everything clearer, calmer, easier. If he couldn’t be there anymore, I couldn't fathom the idea of it.  I opened my bedroom door to see my parents hastily walking towards their room at the end of the hall.
At my next session, Dr. Torres peculiarly changed the subject from our regular Carter conversations.
“So, your parents tell me you have a hard time sleeping.”
“Yeah?” I replied, a little thrown off. “I usually talk to Carter pretty late at night when I can’t sleep.”
“I see. Well, I think if you rested easier at night, it could help with your violent tendencies.”
She had never talked about this before. It was out of her character to derail from a topic (the original topic being Carter).
“ Maybe. What are you saying?” I asked, with an eyebrow raised.
“I’m saying, that I am prescribing you some sleeping medication. I personally think it will help tremendously.” she answered eagerly.
As my parents and I left Dr. Torres’s office with my new prescription, I heard her tell my parents she was insistent on knowing the results of this experiment, to which they both replied with a gentle nod. I took my first one that night, and had a bleak conversation with Carter before bed.
A week passed, and Carter missed a day of school for the first time. It was so uncomfortable, being alone. People kept asking me where he was, usually snickering after their question. When I said he wasn’t there, they quietly walked away. I walked into my house that evening, collectively strided past my parents in the dining room, and broke down once I reached my bedroom. I sobbed in disorientation. Tears streamed down my face because the feeling of pure, utter confusion and discontent was too much to bare. My straw-like hair was in front of my bloodshot eyes as I laid on the floor trying to figure out what the hell was going on. I took my new meds hoping to get some sleep that night, but it never came, and neither did Carter. The week went on. I saw him three of the five school days, and only talked to him on Sunday night. When I saw him, something was wrong. He was... fading. It was hard to tell it was him sometimes. He wasn’t brave, charismatic, or funny anymore. He was just, there, and eerily quiet. I desperately wanted to know what was wrong, but he never had an answer for me. Somedays I would see him the first half of the day, then he would just vanish in the afternoon. I never knew where he went. My parents looked at me sorrowfully as I walked into the house every day with a sullen disposition,  my blonde hair looking as unkept as Carter’s in my attempt to be just as distant as him. It was the first time my eyes had ever seen my parents look guilty. Every night, I became more numb to his absence. Eventually, the first week came where I didn’t see him at all. I was somewhat adjusted to being alone, and everyone at school got used to the fact as well. It felt like detox. Having someone I confided in for everything, taken away from me, wiped off the face of the earth--it was a violent hurt. Carter was dead. To everyone he was never there, but for me he was officially dead. I wrote my sixth letter to him on a Sunday night.
Dear Carter,
My parents act like I’m stupid. Like I don’t know what they did. I snuck into my mom’s cupboard and found that my medication says “hallucinogenic” on the bottle. They think I should have let you go a long time ago. You can imagine how that little discovery went down. God… I don’t think anything has been this bad, Carter. Am I crazy? Am I as screwed up as I think I am right now? Sometimes I just want to say, “to Hell with it,” and throw the orange bottle away, and maybe you’ll come back. Yet somehow, I know it won’t work that way. Dr. Torres calls you a “coping mechanism,” and it makes me furious. You were nothing more than a friend, and an astounding one at that. Sure, we made ridiculous mistakes, but those are the same as remarkable mishaps. It’s because of those mistakes I was unconditionally proud of my black eye from brick house boy, or the criticisms from mom and dad, because they were all for the idea of  you, the remarkable mishap. Thank you for being the inspiration of every battle scar. I miss you. Talk to you later….Yeah, talk to you later.
Your Friend: Anthony