I was riding the bus again, y'know, I didn't for a few weeks after Al killed himself using the 41 as a makeshift forty-mile-per-hour fall.
So I was riding, and the driver turns to me an' says "Hey man, I heard you was friends with that guy who splatted himself." and all I can do is nod.
I cried when I got home.
I cried everyday now.
Al was a nice man, he may have been a bum, he may have run out and left a wife with an extra mouth to feed; but he was at the least, a nice man.
I don't understand it, why did he kill himself?
Why the hell would he do that to me?
I showered and shaved, tweened my eyebrows, examined my complexion in the mirror; everything looked the same, but why did I feel so different?
I didn't even know the man's real name.
A short sleep and three hours later I woke up for ******** work.
I want to write, but I'm still in college so I'm stuck working at a restaurant doing dishes.
Maybe I'll write more in you later.
Infinite possibilities-A writer's guild
This is a writer's guild where all can gather for feedback and advice on all mediums of writing. Plus it's a great place for conversation.
