Somebody To Love

Have you ever experienced the loss of someone you really loved? Somebody say, for instance – a sibling, relative – or in my case, a significant other? Unfortunately, I can relate to that, even though I’m only 15.

Where are my manners? Allow me to introduce myself. My name was William Prosser, for it hasn’t been for quite some time. I changed my name out of choice – for you will later learn why. For a while, I had a life – but that was snatched from me after only about 6 months. No – it was less than that, I’m sure. However long it was, for me – it was too short.

Six years ago, I experienced my 5th liver transplant. It scared me heavily & more than anything else in my worthless lifetime. It’s these thoughts (and many similar) that I wish I could choke every night. Except then, of course – I had a reason to live, and that was for her.

“Her” name was Isara Agar. She was my first girlfriend. Yes, she was everything a man could long for, perfect in nearly every way.  Seemingly omniscient and beautiful, she was simply very awe – inspiring. Nonetheless, she was nearly perfect in every way – which is why in short time, she would be the single greatest friend I ever had – even still to this day, nobody can nearly even compare to her. She was a very gorgeous black haired beauty with brown eyes that had points on her own, sitting way up firm and high. Okay -  they weren’t that large, but they were definitely better than anything I had seen prior to that time in person. Her favorite color was purple, as she would often illustrate herself with, using its magic persona to banish from her face her normal eye and hair colour. At the time, she was queen of my life, surprisingly even more so than even my parents. Also, in those torturously long and painful days, she’d give me reason to dream and hope. Her presence alone dictated some succor of reason to hope, as an idol if so more than anything to me. One great memory that remains, among few that the anesthesia hasn’t erased completely, it’s that one night we all played “Pokémon Stadium 2” together. The game was mine, but the Nintendo 64 (an older video game platform) we had played it on was the Kohl’s houses. No – or was it “Mario Party”? Which one was it? Whichever one it was, it was classically fun. It was also practically hysterical. “We” was composed of me, her, her older sister and my friend Ian. That unforgettable night, we stayed up to almost 1 AM, before my mother had all caught us doing so. At the time, we didn’t care. In my opinion, it was well worth it. Our only punishment was that we had to wash every dish we ate out of the next day. That was no problem as Ian had to leave that next day. So, what did her (Es, as she would often shorten her name down to) and I do the next day to counter this? We went out on a date, the first in a while that we had done before that time. I still feel bad that her sister had to do all the work, though. The bad thing was – that was my idea. Even Es had offered to wash all the dishes instead – if only she had taught me how to be selfless sooner. This is why I felt guilty afterwards. What Hollywood – like nights those were – if only they could have lasted longer. 

By now, I’m sure that you’re wondering on how this (somewhat) autobiographical narrative acquired the title “Somebody to love”. Don’t worry, that will all be explained soon enough. Even now, I dream every night that she could become visible again. To be able to wave, to greet, to AT LEAST become tangible once more – so I could hug or kiss her again, even only if for one last time, I do solemnly wish I could. No wonder they say “only the good die young”. I’m not sure who “they” are, but hopefully, they are all people who have experienced a similar loss. Or maybe even, c’est la vie.

At the time, I ignored and denied the “relationship” part of our life, for I would later go onto to realize just how important it was to me. There was a large, four year – gap between our ages. Luckily, I guess, she didn’t believe in “Redenbacher marriages”. What’s a “Redenbacher marriage”, you wonder? Those are the marriages that (hopefully) everyone is against, but they happen anyways, because the somehow truly believe that two people who are more than three years apart in age can truly love each other (that’s where the term “gold diggers” comes into play, I believe). What a great term for something that’s supposed to be so wondrous, huh? If you’re wondering, NO – we never went THAT FAR, for I wouldn’t lose my virginity until some three years later (at that time, when I met Es, I was 9 and she was 13).  All we did (when I was with Es) was a kiss here, and a hug there. So what? Many of my friends thought it was just that, and that ‘s what I wanted them to believe, even though in front of others sometimes, we would show clear signs of affection towards one another. This usually happened when we dated, of course. When these events occurred (which it didn’t often), we would usually go to Francis’ or the Pasta Bowl, depending on how we felt (and my mother gave me to spend because I always paid). There was another place we would go to a lot more than those other two actually even combined, and it was some random, ran down Chinese food restaurant, for this place was being torn down the last time I went to Chicago, Illinois (were all of this takes place) three months ago before school began again. We went there the most because it was her favorite kind of food to eat, despite the fact that the place wasn’t very friendly or safe. Even now, six years later, after her passing – I eat some kind of Chinese food on every February 10nth, in her honor, as this was her birthday. Had pestilence not had stolen her from me; she would’ve turned 19 this year. It shattered me when I learned the place was being torn down, as I’m sure all it is now is rubble.

Our “chemistry”, as you could call it, was very well suited for one another. In a way, we were like a young Roosevelts (as in “Franklin D. Roosevelt”, America’s 44th president), both of us, if you understand what I mean. We were both also prodigies at drawing and related arts. Very similar to me, she was intrigued by the things in life that were considered “to adult” for her to comprehend. The only ones we did not attempt to solve together were those that were mainly composed of math, for this subject was both of our weaknesses. Other than that, we tried to solve everything else together, without help from our parents. We both also shared a common hatred for “cute and cuddly” animals. Those animals included the seemingly uncantankerous ones, like dolphins, penguins and FEMA (no kidding), no matter how small, cute or inviting they may seem. Thanks to her teachings, she taught me many things, most in which I wouldn’t find until useful until later on in life. At first, it was a little strenuous and pointless I believed, but eventually it came down to alluring me, for her wisdom was clearly at a genius level, far beyond even mine to this day. Most of her ideals I’d eventually make a key part of my own personality. Maybe it was just because of all her tragic experiences in her troubled life. All of that, too I’ll explain eventually. The most important thing she taught me, if anything and above all else, was that the most valuable assets in life are friends. I know this sounds incredibly corny, but believe us – it’s not. 

The setting for all of this was during my primary recovery phase after my 5th transplant. Isara was a local from somewhere near Chicago, so she knew her way around this favorite city of mine quite well. However, during that time, both of our living quarters was in the Kohl’s house in Chicago, Illinois. This place is basically Kohl’s (the clothes department store’s) version of McDonald’s Ronald McDonald’s house.  Both places have the same thing in mind – housing families during their time of medical based crises. However, unlike the Ronald McDonald’s house, the Kohl’s house is smaller, more colloquial and closer to the Children’s Memorial Hospital than the Ronald McDonald’s is. Kohl’s also only limits there visitors to those who go to the Memorial Hospital, for McDonald’s instead houses anyone who can afford it. My mother also once told me that Kohl’s house is cheaper to stay at than Ronald McDonalds’.  To this day, I can still recall every fact, just about the Kohl’s house. The other – not so much so, for I only stayed there for a short time (far before I met Es). It was this hospital, the grand Children’s Memorial, where we both went to when we needed our medical ordeals solved in almost no time. Pediatric hospitals in Florida (where I live now) unfortunately can’t do nearly the same, for unlike up there, they don’t know what to do when it comes to solving those kinds of things.  It’s not their fault -  they just don’t have the budget down here to afford all of those useful things as (again) compared to up there, were the proudfully use almost all of their equipment every day, I’m sure. They also just don’t have the experience. It’s no wonder (I believe) they’re the best medical facility in all of the U.S., in the world I’m sure, even. Yes, they’re even better than that place in Miami.

She was here for different reasons. Mine was for a deadly blockage in my hepatic artery, an artery that runs from your heart to your liver and hers for a (basically) defective heart. This blockage was lethal, and according to them, I was lucky to be alive when I did. Thank goodness I was to, for otherwise I probably would’ve never gotten to meet her. Good thing she was here, too. To be more exact, she’d go onto tell me that she was up there for chronic congestive cardiac – based problems. In English, if you don’t understand, this just means that anyone of the numerous veins or arteries based in and out of the heart would repetitively clot up and eventually form a blockage (as she joked about it, calling it “annoying heart disorder”). Basically, the same reason I was up there for, except mine was liver based.

Because of her, one of the most important things I learned from her was the many uses of “makeshift beer”, or as you know this common refreshment as “root beer”. Before this, my favorite soda to drink was coca – cola, which is good, but not in my opinion nearly as great as root beer. Compared to it, it also has better uses. She showed me how awesome it was and in short time, it would become my favorite past time to enjoy whenever I was a celebration of some sort, clear my mind, bored, or just needed to go to sleep (though it sounds counter – productive, it works). To this day, I still use it for its many qualities, I just simply don’t drink it so much now as compared to when I did then. Second most importantly of all, she taught me how to write so complexly and majestically, like I am now.

If it were anything that bothered me about her, it was her father. He was a bitter middle aged man who was that way to everybody, even me, the one (again, at the time) young man that his daughter hoped to join in holy matrimony with some bright and sunny future day. I mean, Es really did love me! This fact took him a long time to process. But when he did, he was very loyal to us, for I never really understood why (until later). He was also pretty bad with his first impression. But oddly, even against the backdrop of this dreadful scenery, nothing seemed to affect his ways. His occupation was a video game maker/ distributer, and he also came up with the founding ideas FOR a good percentage of those games. Her father’s company would later go onto conjure up a video game for PS3 (a video game console), called “Valkyrie Chronicles”. If you have played the game, then you may be able to recall that Es tragically died in there, too – by something other than pestilence, thank goodness. My love of nature and I myself, would be used as the core idea behind the character “Sergeant Welkin Gunther’s ”, ideas and beliefs, for her father once told me that Es looked up to me as “a younger adopted sibling she could trust”, even though the game itself tells a different tale. The game says that Isara is adopted, not I and also Welkin is older than Es, not younger than (her). Isara’s older sister, Eunice (pronounced ‘u – niece’)  would be used for the core idea for the character in that same game that was named “Rosie”, for the both of them were (and probably still ARE) hotheads, for the most part. Good thing I became friends with her father – otherwise, who knows how that game would’ve been different. Even now, to this day – I’m still trying to beat that game. It will be worth it, though, for the sake of remembering everything possible that I could about them – if for anything, at least, for Isara’s sake.

Unfortunately, though- like parties, she would eventually pass away. Man, I remember that day (not this one I’m about to explain to you, though) – for it seems like yesterday, but I remember that it was long ago. I remember getting up that early cold winter Chicago morning, for it had begun to snow early that year (for them), but it wasn’t for today. I dressed prematurely for this day with long khaki’s (because it was even colder in my room) but no shirt, in which I had forgotten to put on. This morning was cold, for it was about 55 degrees F (as their high), but yet the Kohl’s house was very warm and cozy, which was good for this stunt that was about to happen. I awoke at 9 AM sharply that morning, and she was listening to her favorite song of that large and heavy red CD player of hers that she’d carry around the Kohl’s house sometimes. Also today, she was already dressed, too, wearing a collared jacket, with a purple turtle neck beneath and blue jean pants. She’d bring it downstairs to the second floor of that facility, the “living room & kitchen” of that place, so she could listen to some CD produced by the famous band “Queen” with the song “Somebody to love” featured on it. On that CD player, shortly before those symptoms of hers occurred, that song had just ceased from playing on that thing, and like every other morning, she would greet me as soon as I laid eyes on her beautiful body or face. If I were lucky enough, sometimes I’d even receive a hug or a kiss out of it. Unlike most people at that time, however, I allowed her to slip when it came to calling me “Will” or “William”. However, it is for this reason that I can no longer stand this name, the reason being why I switched because of how emotionally unstable I’ve become. It’s also for this same reason why I can’t watch chick – flicks or romance movies anymore. 

As soon as that event happened, she gave me a cheery, happy glance by a window while leaning against one of the place’s sinks, and from behind her back she pulled out a newspaper. We both pulled out a chair for ourselves from beneath the wooden – square table that was positioned in the center of the room, and from there, she warmed up my brain by discussing politics and something else in the newspaper with me. Later on, she would also make me some coffee to drink, in which I would do so gladly. After conversing for about an hour or so on those topics, she then asked me a controversial question: “You know, I wonder what it’s like being you – I really do. It’s miserable, isn’t it?” Completely fine with the question, I (truthfully) answered: “Being me isn’t easy. Every conscious second, you’re plagued with your own burdening thoughts, and in the end, all it brings you is an overwhelming sense of depression and grief. Even worse, you have a mark of Cain to remind you of your guilt.” “Wow, that’s deep”, she responded, “Good thing I taught you how to think on my level.” This was another thing that I have to thank her for – the ability to begin with another person a deep discussion. That ability remains within me to this day. This skill would become handy in future life, for using her “logical dialect” – what she calls her writing style – I would eventually use  to perfect my writing style, thus rewarding me with a “6” on the FCAT writes, the highest anyone can obtain. We eventually went on to talk about going shopping that day, for at that time some clothes department store had  opened three blocks west south from the hospital then, and she said that she needed some new clothes.

This is where the first symptom befell us, for she then said that she had begun to feel a pulsating pain in her chest. At first, we disused this as a means of an emergency, but what we didn’t know was that it would eventually escalate to something much worse. We ignored it then because it was these pains that she would experience frequently and often as a reminder that her synthetic heart was positioned incorrectly, but still correctly working nonetheless. I helped her sit down in a chair near us, for she had described it as a second later “A simply riveting pain that can’t be helped”. This reassured me that nothing was wrong because again, these things would normally occur every now and then. This is great, because I thought something was really wrong. After this first bout, we just continued to talk for quite some time about what to do that day, as if nothing had occurred then.

Please excuse me, for it is after here were my memory becomes very fuzzy, but I’ll still try to tell it to you as best as I can remember. This is also where it will become very depressing. So if you are faint at heart, I strongly suggest that you should not read on beyond this point. If you aren’t, then ignore my warning and move on.

After that, during that same early tragic morning, I was fully alert now of everything around me & my surroundings, because two cups of coffee will do that to you. Here was where her 2nd symptom occurred.  Somewhere in between, we got to talking about other things. It was then when she said ardently “Do you remember the first time we met? We were both out of our minds, for you were an addict of morphine and I of oxycontin. Do you remember?” “Yes,” I responded, “For you would later tell me that I was the reason that you wanted to recover so badly, and you would eventually. You told me that it was for the ‘grand life’. It’s the first time that I ever actually felt special in my robbed by pestilence lifetime. Because of it, my childhood and infancy was stolen from me, and steroids with some other drug made me grow up too fast, which is why I’ve been through most of puberty already (remember, I was only 9). Anyways, I’m proud of you that you did, but I wish I could say the same.” “Don’t worry, you will eventually. Don’t let yourself down – but remember, overconfidence is the worst enemy of all.” In a way, we would become Plato and Socrates, something I would discover myself later on in life. Like them, I would be the one to write down her last words not on stone tablature but instead paper, of course, and be the last and only person to hear them too. Much to my horror, she then said “Wow, sweetie. Is it hot in here, or is it just me?” At first glance, I thought she was kidding, in which I then took the liberty of telling her to please stop doing so. She then frightened me by telling me that she WASN’T kidding. Her skin also started began perspiring, which took me a short time to notice so, and she also was experiencing a shortness of breath. At this time, I wasn’t even aware of the fact that I could learn CPR, so my first intention was to do what I thought was right. Also, I thank my doctors for the excessive amount of steroids I was on during this time, which would help me greatly for the crazy stunt that I was about to pull off. She then said “Carry me, I think I’m having a heart attack!” Anyways- so, like you see in the movies, I picked her up, with my left arm supporting her neck and my right supporting her legs. This wasn’t the smartest of moves as I would later learn in life, when I would eventually learn and become CPR/First Aid certified. I ran as quickly as I could down stairs, even avoiding the elevator, and out I bolted from there straight to the hospital’s ER district. Thankfully, even though it was cold at the time, we still made it there in short time. While bolting, she told me also that she “felt like she’d born torn asunder in half from the waist, and that her top half had been discarded into a Brazen or Sicilian Bull.

Pause: if you don’t know what a brazen (or Sicilian, it doesn’t matter) bull is, in short, it was a medieval torture device used in ancient Europe. Its victims were encased inside a bull made out of bronze (the metal) and a fire was set beneath it, so its captors would eventually suffocate to death by the fumes of ash (the bottom was left open to ensure this, but it was too small to give its victims a chance, if any, to escape), or even worse, be incinerated to death AND even have bronze attached to the now deceased’s SKIN. A very savage & barbaric device, doesn’t it sound like? The device was eventually outlawed in 700 A.D., or so Europe’s records show. However, it is said that it is still being used in Uganda today.

The traffic at the time was missing, so we arrived there in one piece (which is a miracle because Chicago’s usually a very busy city). When we arrived, she said “Heshvector emolish crumb”, a phrase in which she had taught me was an Aztecan phrase, but never what it translated into in English. Smiling, her eyes then closed, and she went into shock. “Es!!!” I bellowed as loudly as I possibly could. A coated figure who was walking by me noticed the tragedy that we were experiencing, but unlike a good citizen, EVEN THOUGH STREAMS OF TEARS were rushing down my face, he retorted “Nice try, kid, but I can see through your lies. Stop acting out, you annoying brat.” Excuse me? No kid – this really did happen. Did – what – is he blind? Or is he just heartless? What happened there? “Mr. Vargas! What are you doing? Can’t you see that the boy is holding his sister in his arms? Come over here, sir – and we’ll take care of her. Just drop her – here, on this stretcher.” At the time, too infuriated to do so (aloud), I mouthed to her the words “thank you so much”, &  and moving  galumphly, eventually dropped Es on the stretcher near the nurse’s position. She’d quickly then carry her off into another room, running her way through the cold corridors of the hospital’s halls, making metal “clanking” sounds for every step that the nurse took. Many more would eventually follow the nurse and be informed of the situation. “Mr.” Vargas then laughed. Of course, out of instinct, I started following them. “Where do you think you’re going, punk?” Vargas retorted, holding me back from my destination. Even though at the time, it was the worst thing I could probably do, I shoved him as hard as I possibly could out of my way, which later would just create more problems for me.  His body slammed against the wall, making a loud “bang” sound, which knocked him out cold. But how would I have known? I thought I was doing what was right. As Es herself would describe it later, “I was martyring myself for a friend.”  And also, I didn’t care – I just wanted to see this conflict resolved. Vargas was a selfish & hallow man who I’m sure wouldn’t be able to digest such an intricate thing as love anyways.

An hour or so later, she was admitted, or officially became a patient, into the hospital’s ER unit, where she was now residing at. Before that, of course, they did everything else that they “had” to do. They allowed me (through a window secretly, of course) to watch as they butchered her fragile body. I saw everything. From them giving her an IV to even, ultimately, retreating to using those metallic mittens (AED pads) of dissidence on her. It was then when I begged as each second went by that it would end. Every time they pried open some part of her – whether it was a section on her arm or chest, I felt as if the same was then happening to me. After witnessing all of this firsthand, I wanted all of those doctors and nurses (even though they were helping her and doing their job) dead for what the forced upon her. From the crying to the screaming and everything in between, more than anything now I wanted them massacred, each and every last one of them. Why did she make all of those panicking sounds? Because almost shortly after being “put under”, she reawakened from her state of being, as she would later describe to me. All of this – and more, was why I wanted all of those workers impaled. Of course, I didn’t want it described to me again, for I’d seen it firsthand myself. After this traumatizing experience, I learned that

First: I was a man now, no matter what anybody told me or anything, for I was a different type of man, rarely described in any story or article, for I had experienced the (almost) loss of yet ANOTHER friend. This type I was would be described rarely, but clearly seen in, for example, Hemingway’s “A FAREWELL TO ARMS”. This, too, I would later on realize in my lifetime.

Second: The world was sure as heck not as my parents had described it to me as. Then again, everyone is different – and somebody always has to be the unlucky one. If so, then – why me? I’ve never done anything (intentionally) evil to anyone. You can’t take anyone’s word for it – you have to experience it yourself, no matter what.

I remained at her bedside no matter what, even taking care of her myself for that following month. My parents did all of the grocery shopping for us. Her parents were, for some odd reason, nowhere to be seen – it was like they had just vanished without a trace. This would eventually become another reason why her father, in particularly, agitated me. I never met her mom. It wouldn’t be until during the last week of that month that we learned why her parents were so busy – they hadn’t yet told her, but her mother had filed for a divorce against her father. The details of why still haunt me to this day. Even more ironically, my parents would eventually go on to do the same, except not telling me until a year later.

During that time, all I could think is “Why would something so destructive happen to us? Even more importantly, what has fate decided for us?” I’m no fatalist, but even I, for once, believed that it had something in store for us. Hopefully, I wished, it would be good health.  However, what I didn’t know was that I’d soon find out.

That night, I think I received the answer in a dream. The dream that I had that night was me, in a dark room with nothing in it. From there, I heard some thunder and saw a vision of a cross. Then, I felt a pain in me erupt briefly (of her, maybe?). After that, a (lion?) roars, darkness rolled in – and I saw a hand holding a key coming out of the ground, made out of the thunder that had struck earlier before. What did this prophetic vision mean? At the time, I was a firm believer of Baptism (I no longer am, and haven’t been for about 5 years). When I tried to walk up to it, it all disappeared. I felt that odd pain again and another dream swept in, taking the other one’s place.

Strangely, my parents thought me suitable to take care of her, and when they didn’t I’d just wait until that night and sneak out, usually coming back early the following morning. They never caught me – not even once. The nurses who took care of her during those times, too thought that the whole idea was funny, as I’d usually tell them that I was her “very caring brother”. They always fell to it, so I stuck with it. The way that the (single person) rooms are set up is that in the center, that’s where the patient’s bed is, facing the big TV protruding and attached to the wall. To the left of the bed is the couch where a visitor can sit in if they want, and it can also fold out into a small, comfortable bed. This is where I would sleep in most of the time, because there was also an electrical outlet to the wall behind the patient’s bed, where I would usually charge my Game boy Advance SP (a handheld video game console) and play while Es an I would converse (the couch was also within my arm’s reach to the outlet). Sometimes, Es would want me so badly that she’d call my parents directly with her small, oval – shaped cell phone and them herself if I could come over and spend the night. These nights would usually end up in us cuddling together while we watched some movie and eating kettle popcorn (which she got me to like, eventually). If only I could re – experience those marvelous nights ever again…

Two months (I think) later, like any other day, I woke up. I checked on her carotid pulse using two fingers, and her pulse felt fine. A nurse had taught me how to do this earlier. “Will! You’re awake!” she’d always greet me with, because she just loved other’s company – especially mine – that much. The following question would always be “what do you want to do today?” “I don’t know” I’d always respond, either scratching my head or shrugging my shoulders, “Are there any procedures that they need to do with ya’ today?” Even if that were true or not, she’s always respond “No. We have the whole day to ourselves.” “Good” I’d always respond.  During this time, I’d either go take a shower now (during this time, I only did so about once a week, completely forgetting to do so because of her) or check what time it was to see if Jerry Springer was currently on TV. It came on at 9:00 AM, 11:00 AM, 1:00 AM, & 3:00 AM during those times. She was like a child most of the time – a trait of hers, among many, that I loved more than her others. When Springer was on, we’d enjoy it through breakfast until 1:00 AM – in which at this time, we’d both become bored by the overwhelming drama contained in 3 episodes of his show. It was now when we’d either play together a board game (usually LIFE) or work on homework – it just depended on how she felt, for I could care less. After watching those three episodes this day, though – her doctor (at the time) encouraged us to embark on a walk through the hospital. So, I slung her left arm around my right shoulder and tried to get her to walk, which she did very slowly.  At the time, her legs looked very thin and weak. Making our way through the hospital’s cold and numerous elongated halls on that floor; it was then when I told her “See? Isn’t it great to have somebody to love?” In a mirror off in the distance at the time, I saw her blush, smile, close her eyes and agree. “Yes – It’s great to have someone accompany me through life, especially through these life changing times. You see, it’s this reason why that is my favorite song.” This moment I would later go onto crown in my life as the best moment in my life, though like most people – it wasn’t until later on. We both then shedded a tear of happiness in unison, for this was part of what made this moment so magical to me. Above all else, I hope she could feel it, too. I’m sure she did.

You know that old axiom “you don’t know what you have until it’s gone?”  I’m sure someone’s bugged you with that saying somewhere in your lifetime. It’s true, though. This classic lesson I’d soon learn the hard way. I wished to god that I never had (sorry if I offend you).

About half an hour later, we arrived back at our living quarters for the time. All of the bed’s sheets had just been done being cleaned, which would explain why it felt warm (even from a distance, you could smell it). The ground was done being cleaned, too, for this would explain why it was a little slippery.  I dropped her into the bed and from there immediately ran east south into the bathroom. I looked in the mirror – and cried because for once, I knew I had someone to love for myself. I wouldn’t re – emerge until sometime later when I had relieved myself of those tears. When I did, she asked “Are you okay? I heard you sobbing in there.” “Don’t worry”, I said, “For once in my life, it’s just – I feel like I belong.” This feeling I’d never experienced before, and after she died, this feeling would slowly disintegrate inside me. Up until there, I’d always been picked on, so intensely that others would laugh at my cries, even forced to be secluded from others because of my so called “disabilities”. Seclusion, as you may know, only fosters depression. Anyways, from the bed, she then hugged me, holding on for dear life and whispered softly into my ear “when I’m around, you will always belong.” If I could ever hear this simple phrase again from her, or even another person, I wonder – how different would I be? This time, I was able to withdraw my tears, and I’m sure she did, too, for when I had first met her, she explained to me a similar feeling of loneliness. She than asked me to turn on her CD player and, of course, play the Queen CD that had that song on there. She went on to explain to me that “Because she finally had somebody to love,” she felt “truly free” and also like telling me a secret that would change me forever. She then said “Did I ever tell you that I’m an orphan?”

This shocked me completely. That phrase completely changed me forever. How could someone with this troubling of a life turn out to be nice? So perfect in almost every way, too – HOW? Is it because she was told lies as a child? How? How – I’ll never exactly know or even comprehend for sure, for she never told me & even now, I can’t even begin to ponder on how she grew up to be so nice to everyone. Why didn’t she turn out like Mr. Vargas? Again, - I’ll never really know.

Later on that day, she also shared with me how her biological parents were – well, let’s leave it at “abusive”, even though she told me a whole lot of other adjectives that day to describe just how incapable her (biological) parents really were. She drew a heavy breathe, and then said how she had wished that (before she met me) that someone would put her out of her misery, for at even age 9 she had begun to experiment with drugs. Even worst, no one ever told her that she’d been born with a defective heart. This is where my hatred for drugs began from. “I wanted to be free, but until now, I never realized what that truly meant. I’m so thankful that we met when we had, I really am. I hope you are, too.” “I am” I said, for I truly was, too. “You were my knight in shining armor, but I’m afraid you came too late.” “Why?” She just sighed heavily, and told me to turn off the CD player and the TV, which were both currently on at the time for some odd reason. I did humbly, and from there, she told me to lean closer to her. “Have you figured out why I treat everyone like it’s there last second?” This central theme I would eventually absorb into my own personality, which not even I can’t fully explain why, even now. “No, why?” I asked in curiosity. “Because, any second could be my last second. My doctors gave me 2 years ago only 6 months to live – and yet, I’m here, aren’t I?” “Yes, you most certainly are.” “All of those drugs I did at a young age have come back to extract revenge, and with it, most likely, my life. The surgeons and staff here have refused to give me a heart transplant just for that reason alone. But, what they don’t know is I’ve changed for the better. Through my determination for salvation, I haven’t done any type of drug for almost 3 years. You probably don’t know, but that’s one of the hardest things to ever quit, almost like smoking, I’m sure. Our relationship is proof of that. I mean, think about it – have we ever fought?” “No, and every time we were going to begin to, we just walked away from one another.” “Exactly”, she then remarked. This WAS true, for she taught me too on way I should be a pacifist. She always personally believed that “Anything that begins in anger will always end up in shame”.

WARNING: THE NEXT PART WILL BE REALLY TRAUAMATIZING, TOO. AGAIN, IF YOU’RE FAINT OF HEART, DON’T READ BEYOND THIS POINT.

Sometime later, she said “You know what I treasure more than anything else in my life, William? You. That’s why I love you, too.” I gasped in amazement. “You’re serious?” She expressed a look of assurance on her beautiful face. “Dead serious. Believe me.” She held out her right hand, like she wanted it shacked, and like in a movie, right when I went to do it, tragedy struck. “Uh!” she gasped, shortly before being interrupted by shortness of breath. “Help – me!” She cried out then suddenly, and her right arm slammed against the bedrail, making a loud “KRR!” sound, as if something had been broken. Her eyes also shut (in discomfort, probably), and she said (an extremely troublesome) pain had struck her then.  The heart rate machine began to let out it’s long, annoying and alarming  “beeeeee….” cry, recording no sign of cardiac activity. Of course, I then pressed the “nurse call” button on the remote, but nobody came. Again, this really happened. I just held both of her hands with my own close to her heart, hoping to god (again, sorry if I offend you) she would just miraculously become stable again. Of course, that didn’t happen, as this is based off a true story. It was in these last 10 minutes (guessing), both to short and to long that she would (basically) say what would become her final words:

“My full name is Isara Gabriela Stephanie Agar, (I didn’t even know that she had two middle names) and never in my emotionally, or figurally  malnourished life have I ever met or seen a more beautiful thing in life than those who could represent themselves in an appropriate manor. Now think – how much would you give up for a decent life, above any? For it is this life that  is the best –  not the poor’s or the rich’s – that is the best environment one could root from and ultimately  flourish into, much like the blossoming of flowers on trees. Mon ame (this is what she called all of your friends as, because in Cajun - French, it means “friend”.) I’m so very happy that I found love in my plagued – ridden life, especially at my young age.” It was then when I began to cry yet again. This angered me, for I felt as if I was acting disrespectful to her. “Now you know why you must treat everyone as if every second is their last. At least – please – do it – for me? Especially to those closest to you – do absolutely everything possible for them at least. And you – be grand, stay grand. Do not waver or falter from your path that this life of yours has awarded you with. It offers many opportunities, along with its burdens.  All I ever wanted to do was help others to never end up like me. Was that so much to ask for? Guess so…  Heshvector emolish crumb.” It was then when she attempted to kiss me one last time, but she couldn’t. She was simply just too weak to. I lifted her neck up for her and attempted to do so, but was then knocked out of the way by some nurse (yeah, they finally arrived). I never got that kiss, for then I noticed that her body was stricken with (what I would later on in life) be able to identify as the condition “cyanosis”, which occurs when the body is deprived or lacked of oxygen. An hour later, she’d be announced dead. After this dramatic event in my life, I knew that I could never be the same.

When she died, many things happened to me. Innocence was torn from me because I no longer had her shelter. It felt as if anything beyond reality had come to seek me out & destroy me on purpose for its own selfish reasons, almost like a bounty hunter. A maelstrom had also summoned itself within me to suck out everything that was keeping me together at that time. From there, I also began a campaign of self destruction that continues to this very day. In short – my life went downhill from there, and it continues to even to this very day. It’s almost like I’m in a hellish prison I can’t break free of.

She had such a heavy influence on me, how could I? Even now, I can still hear her talking to me in my head (during certain times), to remind me when I’ve done something (morally) wrong to another person. I’d also learned that

Death is the worst thing of all. One dying is tragic, but yet, seeing someone else die is even more tragic. Why? How is that? Is it because I’ve died three times before myself?

That was also the day that I set out on a mission… for her. I plan to at least be equal to her by helping everyone as much as I can, as she did for me, especially my family and friends for through her death, I’ve learned who I should become. Though, I’m pretty sure that will never happen, I will at least try to. Who knows? Maybe, I’ll break free from that (psychological) prison of mine as soon as I do so. Though, unlike her, I don’t want anyone to see me in my final moments, because (again, unlike her) it won’t matter to anyone anyways. I also want to become easy to get along with and free this world of prejudicial restraint, so that no one ever ends up like me or her ever again. We may live in harsh times and also in a great nation, but it is from other cultures’ examples where even we have learned some our nation’s most important lessons…

After seeing death yet again (the first one was with a friend I didn’t explain here, but he was a boy with brain cancer), I gained new abilities, mainly two that help me understand others. The first one is being able to talk to the dead. However, I have to be where that person was buried at to do so. Otherwise, I can’t do it (I know that sounds made – up, but it’s true). The second one is the ability to hear EVP (basically, the dead). In a way, I am like a shaman – only different, because these abilities were forced upon me. 

This story didn’t end well, just to let you know. In short, I was shortly thereafter sent to a psychiatric facility, where I would experience the next worst 4 months of my life. I would eventually would regain my thirst for morphine, and I’d also become a venomac – or “human vampire disorder”, is a mental sickness that I developed one day I tasted my own blood and my mind, in short, snapped when this happened. I became extremely aggressive and wanted to kill someone or something. This is where I would develop my love for animal cruelty, for I learned that this would suffice instead of killing other people.

Remember Mr. Vargas? Yeah, he sued me a shortly after her death, but before I went to the facility for “aggravated assault.” Bad move, mister. My family defended me and we, not him, won. We countered and won thanks to my father’s outrageous claims made about him (good thing he’s like that). None of those claims were true, but yet – we still won somehow.

I’d also go onto research what that Aztecan phrase (“Heshvector emolish crumb”), when translated, means in English. It means “good luck, good bye/farewell and until we meet again”. This would explain why she said it the one time she thought she’d die and the one time she really did. I hope I see her again soon – I really do (in person, of course).

I don’t remember if her parents (at that time) ever decided to sue the hospital or not. If I were them, I would’ve, even though I know that there is no amount of money in the world that could replace her, for life is too precious like that. If it were, then life itself wouldn’t be precious. That’s why they call it the “present” because in a way, it is one. Think about it – don’t you wish time wouldn’t fly by as fast as it does?

Later on that day (but shortly after Es died), I’d go onto ask those nurses why it took them so long to respond to my call. They blamed it on triage, which is (in their way) an euphemism for “Sorry, we had something more important to do at that time”. HOW DARE THEY! SERIOUSLY?! WHY? What’s more important than a heart attack? The worst part is, if I knew CPR (which I didn’t at that time, but do know), I probably could’ve saved her to! WHY?  They wouldn’t even tell me what stopped them from saving her, either! 

Her funeral was held a month later. I didn’t attend, for it was just simply too painful to think about at the time. Guess what song was played there? You got it – Queen’s “Somebody to love”. How do I know, you wonder? Her father (not biological) wrote me a letter a short time after describing to me what the funeral was like. Her family accused me of “turning my back” (even though I was sentenced to a mental facility for just that reason) when I didn’t turn up during that day of mourning, except her dad (again, not biological), who said in that same letter “I don’t blame you”. That part there – the one referring to the song and her dad’s comments – are the only two parts of that letter that I’ve read to this day.

Remember that red CD player of Isara’s? I own that thing to this day, but not that CD, though. I have no idea where it went (I’m not good at keeping up with stuff). The CD player is at my father’s house. Even worse – the only picture of me with her (that we didn’t draw together) I lost with that letter. To this day, I’m still trying to find it. Knowing me, I probably threw it away, as I’ve never been much for reminiscing.

So now, please allow me to properly re - introduce myself, for I’m a disturbed young man with costly needs and numerous tastes. I’ve been around for a 15 long and burdened years, and in only three or so, I’ve hardened and become (somewhat) cumbersome to this world. My ideas are in need of some restraint, and I know that I should never love someone ever again, for it is far too painful to see them parish. It is this game that I wish would have never ended for us. For now, it is like I need her more than ever and she doesn’t need me anymore.

However, I do know this - the rest was silence – up until I decided to write this.  Most importantly, however, I hope she’s pleased with this. I really do hope so, for I’m sorry that I can’t write any better, but I promise that I’ll make it up to you someday. 

I hope she remembers when we sang together on those beautiful Chicago nights. What we’d sing? If only I could remember…

This is all, I short, how I’ve become who I am today.The rest was silence – up until I decided to write this.