My best friend,( or, atleast she was my best friend, before I had to move) died. I just found out about it. I am mildly, if not seriously, damaged. They say she comitted suicide, by slicing the veins in her wrist. However, I can't truely say that I believe she commited anything, for such a word is usually implicating crime of some sort. We were always together, her and I. We had sleepovers and crushes, the usual stuff that only you and you best friend can do without fear. She had her own problems, and hell, so did I. Everyone did. T'was the life of a thirteen year old girl in a city so cold. Death was something we didn't fear, but rather something we yearned for, and never really implicated it, knowing full-heartedly that no-one was unloved. We had eachother, and therefore someone was loved. I really did, though. I loved her with all my heart. She moved to another part of the city, and I was evicted. we moved, and lost eachother. But I never knew just how much we truely lost.
