The Death of Tim Johnson

‘It wasn’t Tim’s fault,’ thought James to himself, ‘who could have blamed him?’ ‘He was a bastard child, his father walked out on him when he was only two weeks, and his mother was a meth-addicted prostitute,’ recalled James mournfully. ‘Yet through all that he never let it bother him, he always looked for the good in things; he was an overconfident, optimistic punk, but I loved him anyways,’ recalled James with a smile, ‘it just doesn’t make sense that he committed suicide. I guess deep down he was only pretending, so I wouldn’t know how he really felt. I guess that that the whole time he’d been putting on a social facade, he was always the lead in drama class.’ This bothered James, it made him wonder how much he really knew Tim. As he sat in his bedroom, window open and breeze fluttering through, he wondered if the Tim he knew was real. As he slowly drifted to sleep his only comfort was that among the vast shining stars Tim’s spirit shone.