If I had known I would ever write again, I wouldn't have lived the last 20 years in this state.
These were his last words, and the end of the beginning of the first thing I wanted to write.
Damn, I didn't think it would fall apart like this, but I guess it's for the best.
Michael died and left this paper for you, you bastards.
His life wasn't easy, but it seemed enjoyable to an outsider. Those who knew him knew it was hell.
I hope you'll read his story, because I was his friend and witnessed his hell.
Michael was just an ordinary middle school student who slept through most classes and only woke up for gym class, or at least that's what I always thought.
I'd never seen him lift his head from his seat, and no one dared talk to him because he was the only foreigner, even though we knew he spoke English.
His life was quiet, and I didn't dare bother him until the opportunity arose. As class president, I handed out the English literature papers, and he got a perfect score!
I couldn't believe my eyes, and I didn't dare speak to him, so I went and gave everyone else their papers but not his.
I waited for him to wake up so he could come and ask me.
Michael was tall with deep features, his eyes held a sharp gaze, and his hair was dark, thick, and strong, but not excessively voluminous. He gave an air of laziness and dissatisfaction.
"You have my paper, don't you?"
"No"
"What?"
"No"
"Sorry, I thought you had it because you're class president."
"Did you cheat?"
"No."
"Really?"
"Really"
"Are you good at writing?"
His face lit up as if I had touched his good side.
"Yes ... Write a little. Do you want to read? "
That's how we became friends, and that was the beginning of the end for Michael.
From a writer to someone whose death everyone mourned.
And I think I was the only one who cried.