My grandfather shockingly discovered his cold, lifeless body downstairs on the couch, next to the various packages of pills and syringes. I remember my dad making me sit on the chair in the quiet, sunlit living room. He whispered to me in a concerned voice, “Josh is dead.” Did I care at all? No. I was 11 years old at the time, and three years later his loss had finally hit me. I had not a single thought about Josh since I’d seen him last.

I descended the steep, creaky, wooden stairs leading me to the basement. I was going downstairs to listen to music on the TV. I sat in the same place where Josh’s cold body had been lying dead for hours, three years before. I put the TV on Spotify and clicked play on my favorite playlist. After one single song, my body had been struck by the weight of a semi-truck. The room went cold. I felt my life strip away from my body. I was then drowned in the memories I had with him. After three years I thought of him, the compassionate person he used to be. I thought for a while of all the times I had been near him. I stumbled my way down the hallway, to his room, dragging my fingers across the walls, blinded by teary eyes. I saw the place he used to live. I pictured him there, still there…but there was no movement; he wasn't there, and he would never be there again; he would never be anywhere again. I picked up his camo Bible and tried to read some of the notes left written on the crinkled pages. His scratchy written words sat on the bent pages; they were begging for God's help. Josh just wanted the strength to finally get clean. He wanted a better life for himself. It hit me harder because he was never able to have that. I never touched his Bible again; I left it there with new tear-stained pages.

I remember the scary times, Josh shrieking and shouting certain words through the hallway, and the intensity of the slamming doors sometimes horrified me. I remember specifically the time my Nana told him that the cops called. When he received that information, I witnessed the entire house shake as if it had just flipped over. He often left me confused about who he was. In my little kid mind, in those scary moments, I saw him as someone who didn't belong here.

I remember the time Josh killed my new kitten. I was going on a long car trip that day; Josh didn't want me getting hurt, so he trimmed the cat's nails…a little too far down. My kitten bled to death in my lap. I remember me almost hyperventilating and practically exploding into tears next to my mom who had my dead cat in her arms. I remember Josh coming to try to help with the cat because he felt so incredibly bad about what he had just done to his 9-year-old little cousin and the cat. With tears streaming from my face into a small puddle on the floor, I screamed at Josh to go away. My mom tried to explain to my tiny mind that Josh was just trying to help me; I started to understand. I went from a moment of hating Josh and never wanting to see him again to feeling sorry for him. I remember sliding crayon-filled, scribbly notes under his door telling him “I hate you” because he wouldn't feed my snake. I don't think I have ever regretted anything more than those notes and yelling at him about my cat... I know now that those notes most likely meant nothing to him and he probably got over the traumatic cat death quickly, but that doesn't make me stop regretting it. Not all of my thoughts about him were bad. I loved him, which is why I now have a gaping hole in my heart. He left me, without a warning, without a word.

Not everything he did was as traumatic as the event I mentioned. My favorite memory of him was the time he made a bonfire outside. Josh had a pet snake. His snake's name was Snakie and he handed her to me. I held Snakie as Josh picked up a Febreze can and asked if he could show me something cool. He then sprayed the flames from the fire, creating a makeshift blowtorch. My face lit up, both with happiness and warmth from the flames. After Josh's moment of immaturity, he turned, looked at me and said quietly, “I hope you know that Snakie loves you.” At the time, I didn't catch the hint, which made sense because I wasn't even ten years old yet. The day his death hit me, I rethought that simple moment, and I finally knew that he wasn't talking about Snakie; Josh had just told me that he loved me. The next thing I heard about him was that his body had been discovered dead on the couch downstairs, his cold, lifeless body.

The way I processed his death was shocking; I didn't care at all for the longest time. I was 14 when the hurt finally burst and spilled out all over me. I had a lot of things happen to me in my life that led me to the place I am in now. One of the biggest things that led me to me is this story. A month ago I was sitting in the empty, back room of my therapy building being told that something is wrong with me. I figured out I have manic depression. I have always had issues with my mental health. I know that losing Josh made everything more intense. Josh’s death dragged out the worst in me, and it will now affect me forever. He ripped a wound in my soul. I will never be able to repair it.