Hey so don't usually write things like this but yesterday the boy who had the locker next to mine killed himself. He was the nicest kid you could imagine, fifteen years old and he decided to end his life. This is the second suicide in my grade this year and the whole thing sucks. It just sucks. This one hit me like a ton of bricks and people say writing what you're feeling is good for you right? So here goes.

If you don't like these kinds of stories then don't read it, okay?

Soda's P.O.V.

People say there are seven stages of grief. They tell you about the shock and the denial, they say that you refute the reality of the loss, to avoid the pain, but they don't say a word about the strangely agonizing, foreign, numbness that will invade your body. They don't explain how terrified you feel when know you should be sobbing but your face is completely dry, undisturbed. It's scary; I thought there was something wrong with me. I was certain of it.

They tell you about the pain and guilt but what they don't mention is the grief that settles in your stomach. It's a beast; it claws at your insides, ripping at your organs, desperate to be released. It wants you to cry, to scream, but you resist because that's not what he would've wanted. Oh, he'd have wanted you to morn alright, but he'd put the reputation of the gang first.

Next will come the anger and the bargaining. None of us did any bargaining, the way we grew up, the things we learned at a young ageā€¦none of us had any faith left that any form of a higher being existed, not one that would've aloud for our childhoods to be like that, not one that would've taken both of them. And if there was, no way in hell would we ask it for anything. But anger, oh we had anger. If you could even call it that. Pony thought that there must have been a more apt description than 'anger'. Anger was what you felt when you got your wallet stolen or your car broke down; what they felt after Dallas was more of a violent, vicious, fury. It was a frenzied, vehement rage that left a bitter acrid taste in the back of your throat, and no matter how many times you brushed your teeth it wouldn't go away. Two-Bit tried to dowse it with alcohol. It didn't work anymore than mouthwash did.

After the anger goes (with some people it doesn't go, Steve won't ever stop being angry.) they tell you you'll sink into a depression. They say you'll realize the magnitude of your loss and it will disturb you, and you'll isolate yourself. We didn't do that; well, we realized the magnitude of our loss, but we didn't get to isolate ourselves. Darry wouldn't let us; he was too worried we'd go the same way as Dallas. I was worried for Pony. He didn't give a shit about Dallas; but Johnny's death killed him on the inside. People tell you that you aren't supposed to encourage those suffering through this stage. It's completely natural and they have to go through it to come out the other side without being fucked up. They don't know how hard it is to be struggling through this and at the same time watch those around you go through the same thing without holding out a hand and pulling them alongside you.

The rest of the cycle is bullshit. Reconstruction, becoming more functional, seeking out realistic solutions to problems with your loved ones. Becoming more practical, rebuilding your life without them.

Acceptance and hope. The magical pot of gold at the end of the fucking rainbow. Like you'll forget everything you used to be. Like you can pretend to be a normal person again.

The problem with that is that you don't remember how to be normal without them.

But they don't tell you that.

There's a lot they don't tell you.