Everyone on this planet has a story, and as I lay here, bleeding, broken, and for the most part, unable to move- I have nothing else to do but look back on mine.
I suppose I could just stare up at the sky and attempt to ignore the burning ache near my ribcage, or the sensation of glass shards being dragged around inside me everywhere else, but I'm afraid that this might be my last chance to (coherently) reflect on what led to this moment.
Surely, it won't be pleasant (still, far more so than just lying here), but I think it would be in my best interest to take this chance to remember.
I glance to the side for a moment (I don't think he's breathing-) before shutting my eyes.
I start from one year ago.
A year ago, though the story begins nearly sixteen years back.
Because a year ago was why I'm here, now.
Because that was when I came home.
That was when I met my best friend.
It was when I found something more important to me than anything else in the world.
