I suppose I knew all along, only I didn’t have the strength to say so.

My friend — his name was Barry — grew up in average Americana, not to rich nor too poor, friends, family, school.  He experienced the norm.

We were best friends, brothers even.  We had known each other since elementary school and continued our friendship into high school.  We even became blood brothers, although one looks back upon such things much later in life and wonders what impact we thought that might have.  Still, we were family.

Our experiences were uninteresting, as normal as childhood can be regardless of where it takes place.  Girls, boys, school, family, reading, movies, friends.  The same stuff everyone goes through.

It wouldn’t be inaccurate to say I knew him better than anyone else did; I could read him like a book.

I ignored the signs as they began to surface.  Denial?  Perhaps.  Mainly I didn’t want to acknowledge what I myself could not accept.

I saw his life deteriorate before my eyes.  His relationships began to fall apart, with both friends and family.  His interest in school began to wane.  His grades dropped and performance suffered.  He began pulling away from everyone.  Said he needed space and time to clear his mind.

He never once complained, though.  I finally asked, and he brushed the questions away like so much dust.  Of course, he said nothing was wrong; everyone goes through ups and downs in life.  This was nothing more.

I didn’t believe him, but you can’t force someone to accept help.  Maybe I should have tried.  Maybe I was desperate to believe him, as that would mean there really was nothing wrong.

Then it happened.

I was there.  So was his mother.  She had just left him standing in the road after telling him to get out and never come back.

A day later it arrived.  A letter  I wanted so much more.

It explained everything.  It described a living hell, a family full of hatred for their son, friends being typical teenagers by intentionally and inadvertently causing him pain, his girlfriend playing the on-again-off-again relationship game, school becoming increasingly difficult for him, forced religion condemning him to an eternity of suffering and damnation, life seemingly conspiring to destroy him.

It said I had been his lighthouse.

How could he say that?  I ignored all the signs, accepted his cursory responses as proof that there was indeed no problem.  Why hadn’t I done something?  Was it that I simply couldn’t accept the truth of what was presented?  Did I let him down in some way?  Did I fail to be there for him when he needed me most?  Did I forsake him?  I was only 14, so how mature could I have been?  Still…

The letter said why he would do what we already knew had been done.  It explained what the consequences would be.  It said he loved me.

There was only one gunshot.  I heard it, though I wish beyond anything that I hadn’t.  Yes, just one gunshot.  That’s all it takes if your aim is right.

He was gone.

I will never forget Barry, though remembering is sometimes difficult.

Growing up can be such a dangerous endeavor.

[circa 1986; Egret was also inspired by Barry]