After my blood stained my mother’s floor, she cried. She cried for days and days on end. She stopped taking calls, she stopped working, she stopped talking.
After my little brother found my body, he got silent. Dangerously silent. Friends no longer cheered him up, and video games were no longer an escape.
After my grandmother outlived her grandchild, she saved face. She lied to world and told everyone the family was moving on. Behind closed doors she resented the world that took someone so young from her.
After the bathroom floor was scrubbed free of what was once me, my dog spent days outside my bedroom door. Whining and clawing at the small gap between the wood and the carpet.
After my best friends heard the news, they all sobbed over each other. Strangers offered them condolences. But soon enough each of them lost the light behind their eyes.
After my name was chiseled in a stone, complete strangers stood over me. They cried for the person they wish they knew, or they person they wish they were kinder to.
After I died at my own hand, ripples ran through my community. Ripples that I didn’t even realize I had the power to create.