The neighborhood was drowning in red. The red lights of the ambulance outside your house. I remember you on a strectcher. I remember the bottle of pills that rolled on the concrete, spilling the reminents of its small, white, circular pills roll down your driveway. I remember the horrified look on your mother's face, the tears that welled in her eyes, the sobs that tore her throat, the screams that will haunt me until my dying day. I remember your funeral, listening to people who never loved you saying that you were their best friend and they could never live without you. I remember crying myself to sleep and screaming until I was hoarse. I remember how the bite of the razor took it all away.
I remember you.