I Don’t Know Much About Death

by Noise Pollution

When I was in high school, there were two students who died.

Tyler died in a horrific car accident that killed him and most of his family. It happened the summer before our sophomore year, the year we’d leave the piss-stained halls of the junior high school and make our way into the real high school building.

I was staying with my father and was out-of-town when it happened. I didn’t hear about it, I didn’t go to his funeral.

I don’t know if I would have belonged there anyway.

He was my science partner in junior high. He was one of the few people that my conceited self considered an equal, intellect-wise.

I didn’t know him much past that. I just knew he was an extremely nice guy.

Me showing up to his funeral would have only been an  insult, I would have been exaggerating my relationship with him. There were people there who were his real friends. I didn’t have a place there. Me showing up would have been making it about myself, in a way. I didn’t want to do that.

I can’t even remember the other student’s name.

It was an accidental suicide. He didn’t know how to use the gun he was pointing at a cop. When running away, he managed to fall and shoot himself.

That’s the story, anyway.

I always wondered how his parents felt. Their child died high, running form the police.

Honestly, I never liked him.

That made my feelings about his death way more complicated than I expected. How was I supposed to feel?

Was I supposed to feel nothing?

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