I wondered if in that moment my heart would break. If it could just fall into tiny pieces that I could hold in the palms of my hands and I could scatter them in the snow. My legs were cold. I wasn't sure how long I'd been sitting there; I looked down at my legs half buried in the snow. As numbness took hold it climbed up my body until every part of me was numb. Every part except my heart that was beating so fast I could have sworn it was going to explode. 'At least then I would be with him; at least then I wouldn't be alone again.' All I could think of was his face on stage the night before; joy dancing in his eyes as he said his lines and charmed us all. How could someone so full of life and shining so bright be dead only hours later? Not only dead, but slain by his own hand? It couldn't be real. It just couldn't.
The harsh biting wind whipping past my face reminded me that it was real. That Neil was gone and he would not be coming back to me. Somewhere I heard voices calling my name and soon I felt hands lifting me up out of the snow. But anything past that was a blur.
I woke up hours, maybe days, later in my warm bed. I was sure it had been Charlie or Knox that had drug me back to the school but between then and waking up I didn't know what had happened. When I turned over away from the wall my heart skipped a beat. I had expected to see him, I don't know why. I knew he was dead. I felt it with every breath but I still expected to see him with his head lying on his arm, hair a mess but with a smile on his face; even when he dreamed. Neil had always been so full of light, a sort of nymph quality that made everyone around him want to soak up that light. He had been my first and only true friend, how was I to go back to being alone after having been part of such a special friendship?
I looked around the room. His pictures were still in their places, his English assignment was still strewn across his desk and his wardrobe was slightly open so that I could see his ties peeking from inside. It was like it was every morning before. I imagined that any moment he would come through the door, a book of verse in hand, and give me one of those famous looks that said 'what are you doing still in bed?' I smirked as I imagined him shaking his head in annoyance. That's how I wanted to remember him; in high spirits with a book of poetry to share with his friends.
