It’s been three years, today, since i got the news that my childhood best friend had gone missing. In the evening, after I got home from my brother’s birthday party, I saw frantic messages on facebook, directed to her. I scrolled down her page, seeing cries of ‘please call someone, let us know you are okay!’ I googled her name and soon found out what had happened. She had been found dead.
I hated reading but also couldn’t help it. For the next few weeks, i devoured every scrap of news i could find. I googled her name for news articles at least twice a day. She had been kidnapped, raped, and murdered by two brothers (edit: not related to her, just to each other), at least one of whom was already wanted for questioning about sexual assault.
I was so angry. He should have been in prison. This should never have happened.
I had just gotten back in touch with my friend on facebook the week before. I wanted to get together with her, but hadn’t done it yet.
I figured we had all the time in the world, but we didn’t.
I hate funerals, but we went to hers. We celebrated her contagious smile and her life full of joy. I silently remembered all the games we used to play, and how glad i was to have a best friend in the third grade, how sad i was when she moved away. When she moved back to town, it had been years and we had grown out of touch.
It was a closed casket funeral, and i’m glad, because now i can only remember her as an 8 year old with a huge smile, the smile that, i know from pictures, stayed the same her whole life.
We were both awkward kids in the third grade, but she and I loved each other, and I had my very first best friend.
I have nothing profound to say today, just remembering, and mourning.
I miss you, B., and I’m so sorry I missed the opportunity to catch up with you.