He always said he wanted to go out with a bang, I didn’t realize that meant literally. I remember the sound of the gun piercing through the crisp night air then the thud that followed. I remember seeing his body lying still with that signature sly smile creeping from the corner of his mouth as if he had just told a joke. His eyes were closed, dark red blood pouring out his chest and mouth, staining his clothes, sinking into the sand of the beach around him. I remember the screaming ambulance taking his pale corpse away. I remember going back to the cabin up the road and getting out the Phrontistery, finding his note tucked away in the back cover. “Travel for me”, it said. “Goodbye, kid”, it said.
Oliver T. James was my childhood friend; the weird, tall kid that no one bothered to know until I came along. We met at Sunset Beach, a place we’d end up visiting often growing up. He was carrying around this plain, Tardis-blue sketchbook about twice the size of his angular, freckled face. Being one of those most curious and lonely kids in town, I decided to introduce myself. He was two…
We stayed at my Aunt’s vacation cabin, a cozy little place where you could get away from the world. With the beach a few blocks up, that’s where we spent most of our time. Adventure after adventure, story after story written in the Phrontistery. Oli seemed happy, his foster parents weren’t there to bother him and we could be alone doing what we both loved. How ignorant I was. I have no idea where he found my Aunt’s gun (which was only to be used for protection) that according to her was under lock and key. I was in the loft in my bed, I couldn’t sleep. I had this sick feeling in my stomach that I blocked out because I felt it was nothing. How ignorant I was. I heard him creep out. I thought that he was just going outside for some fresh air. How ignorant I was. Now he’s gone and I have to bear with it. “Goodbye, Oli.” I…
