9Peyton Sawyer and I have been best friends since the age of five. She used to say that I was her Brookie Buttercup: extremely sweet to counter her bitter self. Now, I am eighteen years old. Alive. Beautiful. Brilliant. Determined. My good friend Peyton Sawyer? Six feet under in a coffin in this place…Tree Hill was it? Or was it Tree Hell? I cannot remember. It's practically the same thing from what I've heard.
It's been a year and a month since her death. A year and a month since I've last spoken to her, since I've last heard her sardonic sense of humor, since I've had someone to call at 3 AM in the morning. Cancer. People always say what a tragedy it is to have cancer or to lose a loved one to the heinous disease, but a person doesn't truly know how much of an understatement that saying is unless they've been there, listening day and night to the cries of pain and the yearning towards death. Tragedy doesn't even begin to describe it. It's been a year a month, eleven months, 396 days, and I have, not once, visited her grave.
So, sister from above, what do you think of me now? Some best friend I am.
New Story! Don't know if I should be starting a new one, but it's been a long time since I've last written. Hope everyone had a good holiday and New Years! :)