'GOODBYE, DAVID!' it read.

I looked up at the blue banner that hung in tatters in front of the school's entrance. The letters appeared shriveled, riding the waves of the thin paper as it fluttered weakly in the wind. People crossed in and out of the gates from under it, paying no attention to the evidence of the tragedy that was David Rogers.

How could this go unnoticed and unjustified? David deserved to be avenged. And somebody had to do it for him.

The grey sky left no room for joy, yet people's faces were smothered in false smiles. I, for one, stayed true to the gloom of the afternoon and my own emotions. I was angered and frustrated, but most of all disheartened.

David meant so much to me. If I were in a dark place with no light whatsoever, David would represent that little spark of a fire or the distant beam of a flashlight amidst the swallowing darkness.

He was a special, special person. He didn't deserve to pass without leaving a lasting mark on this pitiful planet.

He deserved more - much more.

But I was much less than that. I had nothing of worth in my person whatsoever. All I had to give was my appreciation, my admiration... My affection.

But now that he was gone, I could no longer give him any of that.

So, as the small and insignificant piece of existence I was, I took a slow, thoughtful walk down the shadowed streets towards the town's cemetery... To see him.

His gravestone was not at all as extraordinary as him. It had no means of standing out among the hundreds of other boring gravestones, and the fact bothered me. If I were the person assigning him a stone, it would be the most original, heartfelt and outstanding gravestone to ever have stood for a dead man.

However, I wasn't that person. So, instead, I kneeled in front of the unexciting block of rock with my flooded eyes focused on the words engraved on it.

David Rogers
Died at the age of 16
A beloved son

And the greatest friend, mind you.

I scowled at the words, mocking the hands that had dared to carve such poor poetry on such a beautiful man's gravestone. Was that all he was?

I could write essays.

Books, even.

He could have his own Bible, if it were up to me.

But, he was gone. Anything of him created now, would be nothing but an utter fool's work. I am that fool.

I reached out and touched the rough, unpleasant surface of the stone. I closed my eyes.

I wished it was him.

End