I wake and fling myself upward. Sweating and feeling light headed. I had had another dream, about him. I squeeze my pillow and begin to cry, my whole body shaking, letting the sorrow of what happened that one night take over me. If I had stayed, if I had turned back when I heard him yelling maybe he wouldn't be dead. Maybe I could have saved him. You don't know what it's like, to have that hang over your head. To have everyone telling you that there was nothing you could have done, but seeing that look in their eyes, that they believed you could have. They all tried to hide it, but I knew they were disappointed in me. After that night, he was never seen again. In my dreams, he yells at me, "You could have saved me! Coward! This is your entire fault! Why didn't you turn around? Why did you leave me!" I'd see this thing, sprinting towards us, in the woods. I'd thought he was behind me, I could've sworn he was leaping over branches and what not following me. But when I heard him yelp, and heard him snatching trees and whatever he could find as the beast pulled him further into the woods, I looked back a fleeting moment, just to see him clawing at the dirt, screaming my name, then I turned and ran anyway. The time when he needed me most, I left him. The look of betrayal on his face, was something, no matter how hard, I could not erase. I sobbed harder into my pillow, the scene burned into my eyes; I heard his screams echoed in my ears. I stumbled out of bed and stumbled into the living room with my dad's shot gun in my hand. I pointed it at the side of my head. My cheeks were wet and stiff with tears spurting out of my eyes. I could barely see, shuddering and violently breathing, struggling to keep the gun steady in my hand. I closed my eyes, ready to pull the trigger, when my mother walked in. As soon as she saw what I was doing she exploded into tears, "Honey, what are you doing?" she managed to speak. I attempted clearing my throat and whispered "It's too much. I don't – I'm not strong enough. It's – I feel so much pain. And I can't feel anything, but that, anymore." My mother looked at me with pleading eyes, struggling to keep herself together, "Please. Put the gun down sweetie. This is not the way to deal with it." I shook my head. "I can't do this anymore. I hate myself for what I did." I closed my eyes and set my finger on the trigger, and felt the screaming and yelling subside. Keeping my eyes closed I whispered, "it's, too much." The bang of the gun was the last thing I heard. My mother dived across the room just in time to catch me and cradle me in her arms. The expression on my face was peaceful, serene, and I felt the throbbing pain and ache leave me, as I let go, into an endless sleep, that I would never wake up from.