It had been one of the saddest moments of my existence. I still remember the day as though it were yesterday.
I came home from school that day only to be taken to my grandmothers house. This wasn’t anything unusual. Since my grandmother’s health had been deteriorating we would often visit her during the afternoons to make sure she took her medicine, ate something, and had someone to talk to. But the news I received there shattered my world, and changed me forever.
After that day, I lost my appetite and suffered from sleep deprivation for weeks. Each time I would close my eyes I would picture the body. It was too much for me. Nothing like that had ever happened, and it seemed like no one around me understood what I was going through.
I remember sobbing on my grandmother’s couch; crying so much that my shirt was soaked in tears, and my nose wouldn’t stop running. So many emotions ran through me while two thousand different thoughts zoomed around in my brain. I had a feeling this would happen, because life never has happy endings, but I still wasn’t ready for it. I just couldn’t believe it. As I cried into my hands, my mother saw me, and began walking towards me.
“He… why did… but she and him…,” I couldn’t get the proper words out.
My mother’s face was full of concern and worry.
I took one sharp, deep breathe to try and calm myself and tried to explain once more, “My favorite character in this god-forsaken book just… He… He died, mom.”
Her mouth formed an “O” shape, as comprehension filled her face. She paused for a few moments, then said, “Oh, it’s okay hun. Now, come on, help your grandmother with the dishes.”
A part of me died that day, along with that beloved character. I still shiver sometimes when I glance at that book on my shelf, but I have to remind myself: he wasn’t real.
Oh and my grandmother? She’s alive and well, thanks.