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?