vii: riley (after)
It hurts. You feel it clench in your chest, like a million speeding arrows shooting towards your heart. It presses against your ribs and makes you feel like locking yourself away. Squishing yourself into such a compact, that you just float away. You become atoms, and soar higher.
You don't go to school the next day. How could you? Everyone would be talking about it. You don't want to go through that misery. No one knows what happened, so there are bound to be theories about it.
You click the power button on the side of your phone, and the screen comes to light. Notifications overwhelm you, family members messaging you wishing their sincere condolences. You open up the Facebook app. You know you're going to regret doing this: you type his name into the search bar.
His profile pops up on the screen.
Farkle J. Minkus
Goes to John Quincy Adams Middle School (started 2014)
Lives in Greenwich Village, New York
From Philadelphia, Pennslyvania
712 friends
You scroll through his profile, his last post had been four days ago.
Farkle J. Minkus updated his profile picture.
It was from Hallowe'en, when he painted his face to look like a skeleton.
The caption was "everyone has their demons."
You read the comments that people wrote, all of them basically the same.
"R.I.P Farkle; you will be missed."
"I didn't know you very well, I only spoke to you once or twice but you seemed like a pretty cool guy. Rest in Peace."
"An angel gone too soon."
You didn't know half these people were friends with Farkle. Goes to show, people are more interested in the dead then the living.
You once read in a book, that people are always trying to take the spotlight. No matter what the situation, they are always trying to take over the show.
That's why suddenly everyone here is his bestfriend. They want people to look at them, and feel sorry for them even though they barely knew him.
You close your phone and instead get out of bed to retrieve your laptop. You pull the top open and open the iMovie application. It takes forever to load, and you tap your fingers on the desk impatiently. When it finally does appear, you instantly tap the record button. You breathe, and try to let go.