Angie was an amazing friend. Loving, caring.. She was a gift from heaven. She let me in without holding back and she gave me her trust, which I treasured. Her life was dark though. She was full of scars that I could not see but rather feel. Something about her made me sense darkness. Her eyes, they seemed to tell a sad story. She always said that she was fine, that she would get better, but each time she got worse. She slowly drifted, further from me each time I tried to help. She said that no one could help her, that no one could understand her. But I tried reaching out everytime she pushed me away because I thought that maybe it was her way of saying she needed me, but I was wrong. Hours of silence turned into days. Days into weeks. She never looked into my eyes, always away when I said hello. I didn’t want to give up on her. I kept convincing myself that I should try. I had sleepless nights and puzzling days. Trying to figure out what it is exactly that was wrong with her. Then one morning she came up to me. Her eyes were scarlet red and she couldn’t stop crying. I held her tightly in my arms and murmured in her ear that it was going to be fine and that she could talk to me. She completely broke down and I let her lie on my laps as she fell asleep in between the sobs. My heart broke as I gazed at her, slowly rubbing her back. I was finally realizing how helpless I was. I didn’t know what to do, what to say. She sighed and I knew she was awake. Trying not to upset her, I asked if she wanted to talk about it but she said no and apologized for breaking down on me like that and then ran off before I could tell her that it was okay, that she didn’t have to apologize to me. I went home that day, with a frown on my face. I cried my heart out and told myself that it was okay but I knew deep down that it wasn’t. Angie didn’t speak to me for weeks after that so all I could do was look at her from a distance and hope that she was fine. I knew that she came from a broken home and she knew no stability. Her father fought her mother so many times eventually divorcing. Angie was only ten when her parents made the decision that pierced her soul. She was an only child and so she lived most of her life feeling lonely and empty. She drew pictures of a girl that she said expressed her pain. Every drawing had a story to tell but everyone of them had that girl. When Angie finally spoke to me, she handed over a drwaing to me. It was different from all the rest and she had written something down. It read;   I’m a dark soul A story no one can ever comprehend I know nothing but pain And all I want is to give up   And it finally hit me. Angie was suicidal. She was a slave of depression and it had consumed her. That night I stayed up, trying to understand the picture. Tears filled my eyes as I asked my father to take me to her house. I let myself in with the key she once gave me and ran straight to her room. I was late, too late to save her. There she was floating in her bathtub, her face in the water. She had chosen to end it all. I blamed myself for not being there to save her. Six feet under with lilies her favourite flowers next to the Cross that beard her engraved name. Six years later and my heart still breaks at the mention of her name and on my favourite wall is the picture of the lilies floating in a bathtub full of water with a Cross lying on the floor.


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