90 Acceptance (1/2)

There was no fanfare when Mike died; nobody even remotely batted an eye about it. When I screamed and shouted outside of his room for anyone to help me, I saw no people there, not even anyone remotely curious about what I was crying about; I was desperate. I ended up calling 911 on my own, telling them what happened to my dear friend and that I found his mangling corpse hanging on the ceiling.

After a few minutes, the police officers arrived along with an ambulance, and they went along their jobs to transport Mike's body into the morgue. After some more interviews and interrogations in the police station, a detective told me that I should go home before giving me the apparent news, Mike is already dead, the police do not need me anymore because they already have all that they needed. He tapped my back gently before telling me to go home and rest. I knew that he meant it well because when I looked at my reflection in a mirror inside of the questioning room, I realized that my face looked just as dead as Mike when I saw her corpse hanging on his ceiling. The officers are kind enough to give me a lift home, which I wanted to refuse, but the detective insisted that I should take his offer. I didn't argue anymore and allowed more of my tears to flow during the silent drive home in the police car.Find authorized novels in Webnovel，faster updates, better experience，Please clickfor visiting.

After three days, I visited the hospital and found out that Mike has no immediate contacts other than me—no family, no other friends, and no other people who would care for his death. Apparently, he was already dead three days before I found his ghastly corpse amid the cold darkness of his room. The doctor even stressed that Mike should be thankful to me for so many reasons because if I didn't visit him at that time, he would have probably remained there until the only thing we could find is his skeleton dancing around his lonely room or someone would complain about the murky smell coming from his place. However, I couldn't even thank myself enough for that at all because I came way too late, three days too late. If only I came earlier, maybe things might have ended well for Mike. Perhaps it would have been better.

Oddly enough, when I went to the hospital, the doctors have informed me that someone had paid for his hospital bill. At the time, I was too tired and broken to think about the person responsible for paying Mike's hospital bills along with his funeral. I just thought that maybe he has some kind of insurance or something. Nonetheless, I hated it; I was already counting all the money I have left and spend it on Mike's hospital bills and give him the best funeral service the world has ever seen, but I couldn't even do such a small thing for him. I felt like I was about to throw up every time I think about this. I am disgusted of myself, for I couldn't even help him even after his life had flown to the other side.

I then posted Mike's obituary and everywhere I could to notify his family about his passing. In that obituary, I posted Mike's picture that we took when we last met each other in a bar along with another of his image when he was still in high school that I accidentally found in his Facebook albums while reminiscing the days when he was alive. I also wrote my contact information and where I planned to hold Mike's funeral there in hopes that one of his family members would notice it. I tried to do it so well; I posted it everywhere and did everything that I could to let everyone know that such a wonderful life once existed in this world, and now is the best time for them to let their love to him known.

After another three days, the first day of the funeral finally commenced, and not even a single soul excluding me attended. I was beyond broken without a doubt, for I felt like the entirety of my body had stopped functioning well. I didn't felt like this when my mother died—this sort of loneliness and utter sadness coming from a pit forming deeply inside of my chest; I have never felt such absolute form of isolation as I looked around the empty room where Mike's dead body was supposed to be mourned.

Finally, in the stillness of the growing death around me, I finally managed to have time to process everything that happened to me. I cried—I wept more than I had ever done so in the entirety of my life. I knelt in front of Mike's casket after looking at his peaceful and beautiful face, thinking about how such a troubled soul managed to leave such a calm shell. My gurgling voice echoed throughout the empty room as my gaze wandered around the chairs that contained no life in it as a though finally struck my mind.

There is no other life in here other than me: no other living people, no other soul to witness my sadness for my friend—my friend who returned to me just as suddenly as when he died. It felt like I do not deserve the grief I am feeling as my tears kept flowing and flowing out of my eyes while I pounded both my arms on the floor.

You see, I could not even feel angry for Mike because of what he had done to himself. I didn't have enough reasons in me, nor do I have enough people to stir some kind of triggering effect that would blast my wrath away into the stratosphere. I could only feel regret that I was not there for him in his final hours; I didn't even see how he struggled while the rope tore through the skin around his neck nor have I seen the pure melancholy in his face while he was preparing to do the thing that he had done.

The funeral only lasted for two days. When Mike's body was lowered 6 feet under, I was still the only one crying for him. As I went home after seeing Mike's name engraved on a stone tomb, I was the only one who was crying for him. The days went by, and no people contacted me to know more about Mike or to ask what Mike's life was before he eventually killed himself.

There are no press people who went towards me and ask about his woeful life and how it all led to his death. The police dropped the case the day it was put forward to their offices because, well, what else could they possibly answer when all of the conclusions are already inside of his room? No family members were there around his casket to grieve and talk about his wondrous life like a bunch of hypocrites who never really knew who he was until he inevitably died.

Mike's death just feels all too... unnecessary to the grander scheme of life now that I have seen the entirety of it. Nobody would care about the death of someone when there are hundreds of more similar cases as him happening all over the globe. There is no juicy narrative surrounding Mike's suicide or any story behind it at all that would catch people's attention. There are no amount of foul plays in it that would pique the interest of the world to make them ask more questions about it.

In this world, I am the only one who thinks that Mike's life and death are not dull. I am only one who cares; thus, I'm the only one who has to bear all the tears for it. Who could I even confide these feelings with when the only person I could talk to about it is the sole reason why I am feeling this way in the first place? If no one remembers him, who will? I made it a constant reminder to myself that I should engrave Mike's memory within me for as long as I die and honor his life the way he deserves.

I went out, and when I finally saw the bustling life of the surroundings, I finally let my shoulders droop down as my tears stopped streaming out of my eyes.

My mother is dead.

My best friend is dead.