A Studentss Guide to First-Year Writing :: Personal Narrative Suicide Death

A Studentss Guide to First-Year WritingNow, and at the arcminute I was not with You I. Laurie is crying again, You are not with me, she says. Wait, Rae, dont move. I watch the silver image of the Virgin Mary on a swaying chain around her neck as she snaps the shutter to detain me in black and white. Laurie is the photographer of our niggling society Michael is the sculptor, Stacy and I are the painters, and George has had a thing for performance art lately. Were smoking cigarettes in the moldy bowling alley. George says Im bored of this- all of it. occasionals the same shit. We need to fucking do just ab out(p)thing before my jumble rots off. Laurie is quiet, but Mike shrugs his shoulders, What do you propose that we do, George? I dont know, rob a bank, be punk rock and spread some anarchy... man, I dont know, just anything. I look at Laurie. Shes quiet. I motion to the bathroom to take her from Georges little angst party. We stand together in the stall, so I kiss her and receive her hair and say, You okay, sweetie? Do you privation the truth? she asks. I motion and she replies, No, Rae, Im not okay. Im really rattling, very not okay. Im losing my shit over absolutely nothing... Rae, I just cant do it anymore. Ive heard Laurie care this before it makes my stomach go sharp and black because I want her to be okay. I need her to be okay. But she hurts so belatedly her depressions come in torrents. Her tears stream the Chanel foundation off of her cheeks into puddles on her black dress, all in such slow motion. She brings a feeding bottle from her bag, clicking and childproof, to her burgundy lips and then shares it with me. We return to the group with hydracodone breath, so that the rest of the day pass on be a senseless opiate dream. You are not with me. You are not with me. None of you. You stand around and let words drool out of your lips. You speak of punk rock and of anarchy, but you dont level(p) care... about anything. You don t raze care. You cant even see me crying. You say, Laurie, you okay, sweetie?