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I had a best friend named Quinn.
I didn't like him very much, to be completely honest. He confused me in ways I couldn't understand, so I pushed him away from me in every way I could. I bullied him; beat him up so much I couldn't recall the amount of times I did. He was so insignificant to me that I ignored him every day, and feigned ignorance when I saw bruises on him that weren't from me or my friends.
Even so, I knew. Deep down I knew what was happening whenever he went back to that house. There's so many things I wish I could take back, but I try not to think about it anymore.
I saw the way he looked at me. Every time I caught him staring with those round eyes he sometimes got, he'd looked at me like I hung the stars— like I was some divine being that he so desperately needed to understand.
I don't get it.
I don't know why he looked at me that way. I wish I found out before he left. Maybe then I would've actually understood him, and loved him in the same way he loved me.
The first time I asked him about it, he cried. It was such a stupid question, yet he got all teary-eyed, and tried to hide it behind his fists. He never did get around to answering my questions, but that's just how he was.
He viewed everything as a huge invasion of privacy; questions, worries, conversations. That's how I remember him. Quinn was anti-social, definitely, and quickly cut off anyone that tried to get close. Except me.
I remember the first day we met like it was yesterday. I had just moved to America, and I didn't have any other friends at the time— well, real friends. Most kids just wanted to hear me talk, since I spoke differently than they did. Quinn didn't speak at all, and he could barely say my name correctly. Some kids were picking on him, and I remembered what my Mom had always told me.
"The weak people of this world don't defend themselves for many reasons," I remember her saying, "but it's mostly because they think they're completely incapable of making a difference."
Or something along those lines, anyways. She always spoke in dumb riddles.
Even so, Quinn wasn't weak— not really. He just looked it.
He was capable, and independent, and had way too huge a personality. Sometimes he just doubted himself.
He spoke Spanish perfectly fine, and ended up with an accent from me. Even when I started to hide my accent, he never hid his. He never told me why, but it was probably some sappy shit he didn't have the confidence to say.
He never had confidence, at least not around me. A lot of people mistook his silence and chronic hatred of everyone as an ego thing, but it never really was. He was just way too awkward around everyone. Every time he opened his mouth he tripped over words.
Sometimes I wish I wasn't different. I lay awake at night sometimes wondering what my life would be like if he just pushed me away like he did everyone else. Would I have been more mature? Would I have known better then to take the things around me for granted?
I think he was a killer. A murderer.
My Father always gets mad at me for talking about Quinn, but I think that's just because it reminds him of my Uncle.
"You only remember the good parts, Michael," he scolds, "quit thinking about him."
I get what he means. Whenever I think about the bad parts of Quinn, like him being a cold-blooded killer, all I can think about is how he understood me. Even when he learned I was a killer, he held me in his arms like everything was going to be fine— like the world I carefully made wasn't crumbling around me.
The people around me started steadily disappearing a few years ago. Not too many people that it gave authorities a clue, but enough to catch my attention.
Lynn, Cherry, Jake, Austin, Isabelle.
All I've heard about their deaths are rumors, and nothing from Quinn himself— but I know better than that. The happy gleam in his starry eyes whenever I tried to bring it up. He brushed it off every time, mumbling about how they weren't good people anyway.
That Quinn, the Quinn that wasn't my best-friend, I don't need to remember.
There was a large difference between my best friend and the boy I kissed in dark corridors. I can't place it, but something was different.
The Quinn I miss, and mourn deeply, was the one who was there when I needed him.
The Quinn who laughed at my dumb jokes, the Quinn who pulled his hair out over algebra homework, the Quinn who sprayed me with the hose in his backyard when I got too annoying.
I miss my best friend every day. I miss all my friends. I miss everyone I've lost, and everyone I took for granted one too many times.
Even now, at 18 years old, sitting in my dark bedroom writing to someone deep underground, I wonder.
If I had made just one right decision, would he have stayed with me? Just one more day?
Would he have made it to my birthday?
Maybe, just maybe, if I had convinced my Father to take him in, or even Clarice, would he have made it? If I had actually asked him how he was, what was wrong, why he looked so down, why those scars were on his face.. anything.
Did he not realize how much I need him?
I need Quinn every day. I need him when I'm struggling to write an essay, I need him when I want someone to hang out with, I need him when I need a hug, I need him when I lay awake at night, I need him every second of every day without him.
I need him next to me, graduating along-side me.
I don't know how I'm going to walk that stage alone. I never imagined my senior year to be so bleak. Growing up, I thought I'd have Quinn right next to me— smiling awkwardly at the camera, but looking at me like I was his whole world.
I miss that look so, so much. I'd give anything to just have him look at me one last time.
I can't stand it anymore. Every time I close my eyes, all I can see are the people I've left— why does he have to be among them?
My little brother, Elizabeth, my Mother, all my friends.
He should've stayed with me. I could've helped him. I needed to help him.
Quinn, you had the brightest smile out of everyone I knew. It made me so angry, to know I admired you in that way— I wanted to beat it right off your face because of how it made me feel. Your eyes were beautiful, and I could've spent hours just staring into them. They reminded me so much of my Mothers, and made me feel warmer than a fire ever could. I miss the way you lit up every time the teacher complimented your stories.
You always doubted yourself. Why? You knew best out of everyone you were amazing when it came to writing. Every time I showed you something of mine you grimaced. You were such an asshole sometimes, y'know? You wouldn't ever hesitate to tell me off, or tell me to quit doing something. You were always right.
I wanted to trace the scars on your face so bad, as if it would erase where they came from. I wanted to tell you it was all okay, that I was sorry I didn't comfort you when your Mom died, or when your sister went missing. The day I lost Elizabeth, all I could think about was how I could've stopped her. Did you think that way?
I'm so sorry. You had your entire life ahead of you. You would've made a great artist, or maybe author— you never did tell me what you wanted to be. Did you know what you were going to do? Had you made up your mind?
I'm sure you did. You never second guessed yourself.
Goodbye, Quinn. I'm sorry I never told you someone loved you more than the entire universe.
