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A Finality Of Happiness
I always wondered if dead people were happy. I guess not. I mean life is a beautiful whisper while death is a piercing, on going scream. Alive people are a whole different story. Take Peter for instance.
He fell in love. He sure as hell is happy. He'd better be happy. I'll make him happy. He should be happy. He deserves...he deserves to be happy. Happy...happy? Happy.
I forgot. I forgot. I forgot. I forgot what happiness is, or was, or whatever the hell. I don't know.
Bruce sold the art shop, he'd always wanted to get rid of that dump. He went to college. Finally. He got a degree in business. He hung it in his new office, and is so, so, so proud of it.
Bruce was proud of me too...
I'm sixteen years old. I'm short, thin, and pale as hell. My hair is sandy and my eyes are grey. My name is Anson Cameron. I have my G.E.D and two years ago all three of my siblings died.
Tressler, my youngest brother was eleven. Briley, my twin sister. And Hills, strong, capable, supposedly loving Hills, he was twenty-one.
Bruce and Peter are twenty-six. Bruce and Peter were my superheros. They were my only friends. But, that, that raw, pure, beautiful, strong, friendship we had fell apart. Forever. I don't talk to them anymore.
My final moment of happiness was when I said goodbye to them.
"It's not just that I don't need to be friends with you anymore, I don't want to. I can't want to."
"Anson," Peter had said "we want you."
"Yeah," Bruce had added, "really, honestly."
"Isn't it time I did what I wanted for a change?"
Then I'd walked out. That was two months ago, I haven't talked to them since. It took me a while to realize I didn't want that. It was an odd feeling before I realized I was used to getting what I want.