wanted to talk. I felt uncomfortable leaving him alone when I knew he was struggling with something. When he didn't answer like six of my texts, poignant irritation rose i

carried it, but I never used it because he got mad at me one time, saying that he didn't want me to invite myself

bag in the hallway and knocked on Nate's door. It never closed fully and the old 'keep out' sign hung crooked along with ripped remains of different pieces of art that he had taped on there and then tore down. I put my ear against it and when I didn't hear anything, I worried about if he had wanted to take a nap or something. I would be disturbing him. I decided to text him one more time and when I heard his phone buzz, I stubbornly pushed myself in. It was one of those doo

y, waiting for him to wake up and yell at me. When he didn't, I opened the curtain and then dropped to my knees, landing in

g hand, I bravely touched his cold skin. I knew he was close to dead, if he wasn't dead already. When a woman answered my call, hopeless tears streamed down

I was waiting for him to look up and hug me back or move his fingers or blink. I wanted to tell him it was going to be alright. I wanted him to move, to do something,

here too late. She told me they were sending an ambulance, but it didn't matter, because I was too late. My breathing was coming out like sobs and

y stomach felt like it was full of ice. My breaths came in short sobs and my eyes leaked, ruthlessly. I felt destroyed a

register what he was saying or screaming. Suddenly the room was full of strangers and I was pulled away by several different pairs of gloved hands.

hed them take the body away. How could he do that to me? My su

ed, confused voice ask

mething. I wasn't sure if he was mad about the people in his house or upset about his son. The next few hours went by in a blur of tears and chaos. The police asked me a few questions that I was surprised I could answer and my