"No," I whispered, brushing your hair out of your face. You looked peaceful. "Why, baby? You were so special..."

I put my fingers to your wrist, checking your pulse one more time before picking up the discarded phone. I dialed the only number I thought of. 911.

When the operator picked up, I almost couldn't speak. Then I told them about you. How I found you in the bathroom, how there was an empty bottle of pills beside you, how you were so lifeless and silent. I told them that there was a puddle of vomit on the floor. They told me they would send help. But I knew that wasn't possible. Nobody could help me then.

They knocked on the front door, and when I didn't answer, they came in by themselves. I called weakly, "I'm in here." Then they saw me, raw and not holding back. My tears were dripping off of my chin onto your chest, and snot was running out of my nose. My lip was bleeding because I was biting it too hard.

They took you away from me. I cried your name. "Brookelyn!" Your full name felt bitter on my lips. "Brooke..." I whispered, "Brooke..."

And here I am, at your funeral, saying this to all of the people who loved you, baby. They love you still. And I love you, Brooke, babe. And I hoped you would have waited until I was ready for you to go. But it's okay, honey, you have fun up where you went. I don't know if there's a life after death, but you'll make the most of it. Don't forget me, okay, baby?

This is a fictional story.


The End

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