Censored But Desensitised

I was worried at first,
That I wouldn’t know,
What to do, or say, or act,
Without a clearcut definition to
Plummet under.
But I know the rules now.
Don’t speak unless spoken to.
Don’t show any sign I know you when
Others are around.
Don’t make a sound. Don’t cry aloud.
Don’t think. Don’t talk. Don’t feel.
Under No Circumstances get attached, or trust, or love.
I am not always happy, yet I stay.
You confuse me.
Censored but desensitised.
Bound by your smiles,
Gagged by your compliments,
I willingly suffer the sweetest pain I’ve ever felt.
I put my foot into the bear trap,
I hold my heart out to the thief,
I hand the knife to the murderer.
I remain by your side like a pet,
Doing tricks for treats and
Begging for scraps under the table.
You’re like that kid from the nursery rhyme,
The one with the curl.
When you’re good, you’re very very good,
But when you’re bad, you’re
Although it hurts to say,
Cripples me to admit,
The good is what makes you so horrid.
I lived for you.
I craved your attention.
I survived on your affection.
Every time,
Every God damn time,
I think you heal me when
You trace my fingers or kiss my forehead or hold me tight.
But then you reopen the wounds when you
Brush me off, or shut me out, or shoot me down.
Soon there will be no more blood to give.
Soon I will have no more love to give.
Soon I will be nothing but scars.

Friendship: URL Vs. IRL

So, recently I’ve been having a problem that I never thought I would have to worry about. Ever. I’ve worried about cancer, shark attacks, hurricanes; you name it, I’ve tried to come up with a plan for it. I’ve wondered about every possible situation that could ever occur to me, and yet this one never even crossed my mind…

I have too many friends. Well, that’s what they seem to think.

You see, all throughout my life, I have been able to count my close friends on my fingers, most of the time I only needed one hand- if that. But ever since I left secondary school, I have made so many more lovely new friends that share my ideologies, my interests, my hopes and dreams. The only issue is trying to bring my old friends and my new friends together.

It seems as though I spend all of my time trying to figure out who to sit with and who to talk to; and when I do choose someone, I’m forever weaving in and out of tables to make sure I say hello to everybody. I’m in masses of group chats trying to introduce everyone to the people I think they will get along with; and yet I have had countless snide remarks from my old friends about wanting to sit with my new friends. I’ve had complaints that I’m ditching them, and jokes about how surprised they are that I, of all people, made friends. Ironic, huh? Your friends not thinking you have the capability to make friends.

I’m writing this to ask that if you have ever done this to someone- if you’ve ever guilt tripped someone for being sociable, or made them feel bad for talking to someone that isn’t you- you cut it out. It’s selfish, it’s manipulative, and it’s unfair.

This isn’t Facebook, or Tumblr, or Snapchat, this is real life. There are no limits on how many friends I can have, or how often I say things, or how long I take to say them. I love all of my friends equally, and I have tried, I really have, to incorporate everybody into my life equally.

I have enough room in my life for all of you. I can listen to your problems, and give you hugs, and talk about that new song you like, because that’s what friends do. Believe me, I grew up in a big family, I have room to love a lot of people.

If our friendship has suffered, it’s not because I have more friends now, it’s because I decided to put the same amount of effort into the friendship as the other person does. I shouldn’t have to start the conversation all the time, and how to you expect me to keep it going when you send a one word response? It’s hard, and it’s tiring, and I don’t think I can do it anymore. I’m tired of the constant stream of jokes about how weird it is that I have friends- all it achieves is making me self conscious about how you feel about me.

So if you go to a different college, or don’t share any study periods with me, or you aren’t in my tutor, it doesn’t mean that we can’t stay friends. I don’t believe in ‘out with the old, in with the new’ I believe in ‘The more the merrier’, and I think you might find that if you gave my new friends a chance, they would become your friends too. They’re trying to get to know you, they really are.

Please give them a chance.

I love you all so much <3
Kiki xx

An Open Letter To An Old Friend.

You’ll never read this, you’re just a stranger now. Well, I don’t know, maybe you forgot to unfollow.

Anyway, this is my way of saying goodbye; closure, if you will. It hurt me, so much, when you disappeared. To have someone so important to you decide you’re not worthy of their time… it is gut-wrenching, soul-sucking, whatever you want to call it- at the end of the day it hurts like nothings else. But the worst part was that you didn’t tell me.

You talked to me, texted me, ate lunch with me, and then cut me out on the same day. 

You didn’t even have the courtesy to tell me why. After four years, do I not at least deserve that much? It drove me crazy, trying to work out what I did that was so bad that you made me Public Enemy #1. I would call people up at random hours of the day asking if you’d mentioned anything, if I’d accidentally said something to offend you, or insulted you in some way without knowing? I lost my mind, pulling my hair out, sobbing into my pillow at night because I missed you and I hated myself for making you hate me.

But now I realise that it’s not my fault. It’s yours. They told me that you didn’t actually have a reason, that you did it because your girlfriend told you to. I mean, it’s common knowledge that she doesn’t like me, she doesn’t exactly hide it- I tried for three years to make her like me, and for what? Lies and rumours spread about me (Which I have since been told, so you can thank her for me). Luckily I don’t have to deal with her anymore. I realise now that I don’t actually want her to like me, I just don’t care (which, by the way, feels awesome)! So if you want to live under your girlfriend’s thumb, good for you! I’m sure you can find some friends that will put up with it.

They don’t believe me, you know. They think that this is ‘just one of our arguments’ and we’ll be ‘back to normal in no time’. But not this time. This time I’m done. What they don’t know is that I’ve deleted your number, your texts; I’ve unfollowed and unsubscribed; deleted all of the pictures on my phone and laptop. I can’t keep doing this again and again, and I don’t think I want to. What’s the point of staying loyal to someone who can’t decide if they like you or not? It’s like keeping a pet dog that keeps biting you and biting you, again and again. I’d say I don’t resent you for changing, but I do. it cut deep, what you did. It tore me apart completely. My family became so tired of me being upset all the time that any time they hear your name, they fly into a it of rage. The same goes for a few of my friends too; well, our friends I suppose. I get so anxious that you’ll say something nasty to me in front of them and they won’t know what to do.

The chances are, when I make a few more friends, I won’t stick around for long. I won’t make a fuss, I won’t try to bring anyone with me; they’ll probably want to stick with you anyway. But I’ll be okay. Because the thought of you doesn’t hurt me anymore. At most it makes me want to sigh and shake my head.

So that’s closure, yeah?


See ya sucker.

Confessions of a PDA Sibling

First thing’s first; I want to make it clear that I am not writing this to educate you on PDA. I know nothing about it whatsoever and I refuse to learn about it- but I’ll get to that in a minute. However, I will put a link in the bottom so that if you should wish to educate yourself on the matter, you will have the tools in which to do so.

I am also not writing this to inform you how it feels to have PDA. I do not have it, and any of my behavioural issues stem from a condition called “being a spoilt brat”. (Just in case it’s not obvious, that’s not a real condition and should not be taken seriously… I don’t mean to offend anyone).

I’m writing this to tell you what it’s like to be related to/live with someone with PDA. Well actually, I’m writing this because it’s important to my mama, and my brother; and because I’m tired. Of being the only one who has to be a teenager and deal with this, of being angry all the time, of hurting my brother’s feelings because we can’t get along.

I may have exaggerated when I said I know nothing whatsoever about PDA. Mama tells me titbits about it all the time and she thinks that I don’t listen to her, but they’re there in my head. I just don’t let on that I’m listening; because if I do that, she’ll want to get me involved- take me to conferences and talks, having family heart to hearts, joining groups on Facebook. Quite frankly, she’s lucky I’m doing this.

Please don’t think I’m a bad person who doesn’t care about her brother’s condition, because I do. I really, really do. But this is new to me. Growing up, my brother was just a bad little boy who threw tantrums to get what he wanted; and I hated him. I know that my mama’s reading this right now and is disappointed/ angry with me for saying that I hated my brother, but the fact is that I did. I really, truly loathed him. As much as I’m ashamed to say it, every time I looked at him, I just felt this ball of anger and disgust. I would refer to him as “half a brother too many” to my friends, and they would either be appalled with me or tell me that their sibling was worse. None of them understood just how much I actually meant it when we said we hated our siblings. I knew it wasn’t natural, to despise a sibling that much. I should know- I have seven in total, and I didn’t feel this with any of them.
Back then, before he was diagnosed with anything- even before the dyslexia and dyspraxia- I just saw him as this leech that followed you around and got whatever he wanted with a snap or his fingers or a stamp of his feet. He would cry all the time, and as someone who gets stress related headaches, that’s not a particular quality you can tolerate. He was the reason I couldn’t talk about my friends in detail, or bring home a party bag; because whatever I had, he wanted, and I had to share. I could never go out with my friends without bringing my little brother along. It wasn’t that I didn’t want him around, it was that they didn’t, and I would be torn between choosing friends or family on a daily basis. I also couldn’t hang onto a hobby before he dive-bombed in and claimed it for himself. Lego? His. Ukelele? I had lessons for a year with my school and yet he owns one. Fashion design? Now a potential career for him. I can’t even remember which hobbies I actually enjoy and which I started just to have something to myself. It’s a hard enough job doing that with multiples siblings; even without one that has PDA.  I began to enjoy complicated psychological horror films because my brother couldn’t understand the plotlines. Reading, I became obsessed with, because he was dyslexic and couldn’t keep up. Netball, because it’s a ‘girls’ sport’ and he has too much pride to be seen playing it.

Reading this, you’re probably thinking that I was jealous; and you’re right. I still am. I can’t help it. The definition of jealousy is ‘the fear that someone will take what you have for themselves’ and that’s all my brother has ever done.
The reason I don’t want to learn about PDA is because I don’t want to understand it. If I understand PDA, I will empathise with my brother; and if I do that, then all of the hate I had for my brother will transfer onto me. All of the anger and the jealousy will become guilt and regret, and I don’t know if I can handle that. It was so easy to just blame my brother for everything- for example, if I get bad results from my recent GCSEs, I could blame the bad grades on lack of focus during revision, deriving from his outbursts. But if his actions aren’t his fault, then I’m just the girl who grew up resenting her little brother for something that’s out of his control. It would literally be like hating a wheelchair user for not being able to walk up the stairs. Because that’s what PDA is, it’s a disability that prevents him from doing everyday things that we take for granted. I would hate myself more than I ever hated him, and call me selfish, but I don’t want to hate myself. I don’t want to look in the mirror knowing that I’m a bad person.

I realise that I’m not painting a particularly nice picture of myself; but I’m not trying to make myself look good, I’m trying to be honest.

I do try to be a good sister to him, I swear. I would protect him with my life; he’s my brother, of course I would. Sometimes he goes to the local park by himself because no-one wants to come outside with him, so I’ll go along behind with a Frisbee or a football. When he used to have nightmares, I would let him sleep at the other end of my bed so he wouldn’t have to go all the way downstairs to wake mama. On Saturday mornings I used to read to him with my finger running below the words so he could feel like he was reading at the same pace. I once reprimanded an entire classroom full of kids in his year at school because I was in the art room (their tutor room) at lunch prepping some GCSE coursework and they were badmouthing him (clearly too busy to realise that the girl they’d seen talking to him earlier that has the same surname as his written on her art folder just happens to be his sister).

Sometimes my brother can be a really sweet kid. But more often than not, there is no distinguishable difference between the kid and the condition. He’s boisterous all the time, whether we’re getting along or not. He has no sense of priority- he will sit at his computer until he needs to run to the toilet, or is about to pass out from lack of food/drink. He tells lies, and somehow believes them. He seems to make up conversations or pretend some were never held to get his own way. He can cry on demand to act like you hurt him- sometimes even hitting himself so a mark will show up. He has no concept of saving up- he wants to spend his money as soon as he gets it, and complains when he only has enough for little things. He has this knack of twisting situations to suit him. More often than not, I end up in my bedroom just to get away. I’ll sit down on the sofa, and he kicks up a fuss because I’m in his seat. If he comes home from school and I’m watching television, he complains because I’ve been watching it all day and it should be his turn; and yet if it’s the other way around, he’ll just say that it’s not fair for me

There is just so much guilt and resentment involved with PDA. You can either have one or the other, or both, but you never go a day without experiencing one. Say you come home with a good grade. If your parents make a big deal out of it and you feel proud of yourself; the person with PDA feels bad and gets discouraged. That would be when you feel guilt. If your parents play it down so that the person with PDA doesn’t feel bad about themselves, you feel like it’s not important to them, and you feel resentment. That’s the first thing everyone should know about it. Not what causes it, not how many people it affects; the first thing people should know is that for the people who have it and their families, there are no good days. It’s a lose-lose situation no matter what you do. No matter how well you deal with the outburst, someone is always going to be upset. It might be the child with PDA, it might be the scorned sibling, it might be the mother or father who despite their best efforts, get dirty looks from other parents. You just have to wait it out and hope that you stay in contact when you grow up.

My mama thinks that I don’t notice the way other people look her when my brother has an outburst, or the way she gets close to tears when it’s been a long day and my brother just will not go to bed. She had to defer from University for a year because she couldn’t cope with the stress. She had to put her dream on hold because she couldn’t handle the pressure of looking after a hormonal fourteen year old boy with PDA and a stressed sixteen year old girl doing her GCSEs. She lasted a lot longer than I would in her situation. Both my brother and I take our problems out on our mother, we always have. I know we shouldn’t, but it seems as though it’s just one of the things that mothers are there for- fixing your problems that is. Then when they can’t, you just don’t know what to do, so you get upset.

This is all over the place, I know, but there’s just so much to say about it; and once you start it all just comes spilling out.

I don’t know where to go from here, if I’m honest. I suppose I ought to apologise to my mama, I don’t think this is quite what she wanted when she said I should show people how it feels. I don’t mean to insult my brother at all; as frustrating as it is to live with him sometimes, he’s still my brother and I love him.

The main thing I want you to realise though, is that PDA works both ways. That sounds completely ridiculous I know, but to me, my brother had everything, and it wasn’t fair. Now I know that he thinks the same thing about me. I’m told that he doesn’t understand me and the mannerisms that show my emotions, but the fact is, I don’t understand those things about him either. Where I might walk out when I’m angry and need to calm down, he’ll stay close to the person he’s angry at. When I’m told no, I might sigh or roll my eyes, whereas he’ll cover his ears and pretend that nothing was said.

People with PDA have a completely different language, both physically and verbally. I think that if enough people become aware of its existence, maybe that language can be learnt and everyone will be able to sigh with relief in the knowledge that there is a reason for this.

I don’t think there’s anything else for me to say, except that I’m terrified that it will turn out I’m the only sibling feeling this after all. If I am, then I’m sorry, I have no idea what’s wrong with me. If I’m not, then I’m so sorry that you’re going through this too, I know how hard it can be.

Just try not to feel selfish, okay? Because although we don’t have PDA, it is hard for us too.

Good luck.

The promised link: http://www.pdasociety.org.uk/

A Thousand Words About Me.

So for a while now I’ve been noticing that sometimes when I mention something about me, a couple of my friends look like I’ve announced that I have cancer healing nipples or an allergy to oxygen. So I thought I would write exactly one thousand words made up of whatever random facts about myself that pop into my head. So here you are I guess!

I have freckles under my eyes that are hidden by my glasses. I fall over when I laugh too hard. I have a scar on my middle finger where I cut myself open on a can of diet coke, and another on my other middle finger from picking up broken glass. My brothers call me “thistle” with a lisp because I got hit in the face with a football when I was younger, knocking my front tooth out and pushing me into a patch of thistles. I hate people touching my neck unless we’re very close. I’m terrified of being outside in the dark. Of being alone. Of not knowing where I’m going. Of forgetting. Of being forgotten. I’ve never believed in Santa Claus, and I’ve never liked Christmas. Despite this, I love tinsel, and stuffing, and wrapping presents. I sometimes still suck my thumb when I’m scared. I become cuddly when I’m sleepy and normal coca cola makes me hyper. I had imaginary friends when I was younger. I talk to myself. When I’m stressed, my hair falls out in clumps and my nose bleeds. I wear a lot of makeup because I don’t like how small my eyes are, or how much I resemble my dad. I get nightmares so bad I wake up screaming and I have anxiety attacks remembering them. I talk in french in my sleep, apparently having an argument with someone that to this day no-one can name. I like songs that make me feel strong emotions, no matter how terrible they seem to other people. I dance like a little kid when I’m washing up or cooking the dinner. I have tiny burn scars on my legs where my little brother jumped up on me while I had a pan of oil in my hand. Since then, nothing seems to make me jump. I want two Giant African Land Snails called Bilbo and Bobo. I desperately want a beagle. I love spending money on other people because it makes me feel good. I clean when I’m nervous. Pasta makes me sick. I’m allergic to kiwis. I can’t stand the smell of Haribo. I get headaches so bad they make me cry. I hate being picked up. I can’t stand to be touched by people I don’t know very well. I’m quiet when you first meet me and so very loud when you get to know me. I am obsessed with curly hair. I love brown hair and brown eyes. I blush very easily and giggle when I like someone. I cry when my favourite characters die or show character development. I have three memory boxes filled to the brim. My favourite meal is a roast dinner with trifle for pudding. My ideal date would be a movie marathon and take out. I detest anything unnecessarily fancy. I prefer to wear odd socks. I have three tattoos planned when I’m older. When I was five, I chose the names Callan, Coral-lily, Noah, and Jean-Marie for my future kids. I want to have twins when I’m older. I don’t want to have kids until I’m at least 26. I always wanted a baby sister. I can’t swim. I learnt to ride a bike when I was 10. I fall in love with the sound of people’s voices. The majority of my celebrity crushes are way too old for me. I love to cook. My favourite thing to cook is Korma. I love Indian food. I have eleven niblings, and seven siblings. My younger brother hit me on the nose with a tennis racket when we were very little, and the plaster made me look like a duck for a week. I was literally dropped on my head as a baby, fracturing my skull. I have two streaks in my hair behind my right ear; one black and one white. I tell people I want to dye my hair blue. In reality I want to dye it dark brown. I hate the way my face looks without glasses. I’m a Hufflepuff with Gryffindor pyjamas. I shout when I’m a little bit angry, and get quiet when I’m very angry. I’m terrible at Mario Kart, but surprisingly okay at Guitar Hero. I love it when people explain plot points they’re passionate about to me. I have seven notebooks full of old poetry. I hate hot weather but love the beach. The scariest memory I have is of my older brother having an asthma attack when he was seven. I was taken screaming out of the room because I thought the paramedics were hurting him. Ever since, oxygen masks freak me out. I have the unfortunate habit of developing crushes on my closest friends. I hate change. I go running three times a week but remain horrendously out of shape. I love to sit upside down on the sofa, watching TV in my pyjamas. I don’t know what I identify as when it comes to religion. I know absolutely nothing about politics. Or taxes. Or getting a job. Or renting a flat. Irish accents are my favourite. I’m obsessed with Dan Howell, but my favourite YouTuber is Shane Dawson. The majority of my friends are guys. As a result of this, I get called a slut all the time. I hate being told who to date more than anything else on this earth. My grades are way more important to me than they should be. I love rock climbing. I used to be terrified of heights. I want to share a flat with my best friends when I’m older. I want to take a gap year and tour the UK in a campervan. The only other country I’ve been to is Wales. I’ve never been on a plane, and I don’t own a passport. I use the words ‘dork’,’nerd’, ‘loser’, and ‘nugget’ affectionately. I like people who get passionate about fandoms. I love to make playlists for every occasion. My full birth name is Khiana Lillian Courtney Fountain.

I’m Sorry.

This is suddenly very relevant again, so….

x KikiWantsHerCookie x

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry that we hadn’t met sooner.
I’m sorry that we didn’t get on straight away.
I’m sorry that you flicked me with washing up water.
I’m sorry that we argued in class.

I’m sorry that it took me six months to forgive you
I’m sorry that it took me two more months to sit near you.
I’m sorry that it took me another month to talk to you.
I’m sorry that it took me yet another month to consider you my friend.

I’m sorry that I didn’t always laugh at your jokes.
I’m sorry that I didn’t always get your references.
I’m sorry that I didn’t always agree with your opinions.
I’m sorry that I didn’t always understand you.

I’m sorry for the arguments we had.
I’m sorry for the insults we threw at each other.
I’m sorry for the pain we caused.
I’m sorry for New Year’s.


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I found this in my drafts from a few weeks ago, so I suppose I ought to upload it x


Hey guys!
So… I know I haven’t uploaded in a while, but I’ve got a lot of stuff going on right now, and I’ve just had no inspiration lately. I hope you can forgive me!

Anyway, today is #DearMe, and I wanted a bit of  that action ;)
So here is my letter to my younger self.

Hey li’l Keeks,
D’you remember your first day at primary school? You were too scared to get on the bus for the first time, so you walked 1.3 miles to get there instead. Not bad for a four year old I guess :)
I remember it so vividly, it was the first time I was allowed along the Track. It’s strange to think that now I know it better than the back of my hand, but back then it was so new. 

The trees arching way overhead; so high that even when I was reaching up on my tippy-toes with my fingers outstretched they seemed as far away as the moon. The multicoloured leaves swirling down, foreshadowing the beginning of Autumn; later I would realise just how much I love it. Twirling and skipping and laughing, with my little red satchel in hand; jumping over the seemingly gigantic tree roots as if they were wooden mountains.

It was my first adventure, and I loved it.

D’you remember your favourite teachers as they were when you first met them? Mrs Roberts, Miss Murphy, Mrs Stillman? They helped you so much. Now we have Miss Cotton, Mrs Hickman, Mr. Locke; and we’ve learned so much more than you could possibly imagine.

D’you remember playing house with Lucy, India and Bradley? That was fun. It was so much simpler making friends back then; You just ask them their name and whether they like ducks.

D’you remember Lydia? We still miss her like crazy, it wasn’t fair that she had to go. We still remember the way she smelled like strawberries, and her little mini mouse ears always plonked on top of her own black pigtails. We still remember playing in the sandpit together and holding the toilet door shut for each other (we were so scared of being locked in!) I’m not sure exactly what has or hasn’t happened, but I hope she’s happy wherever she is.

D’you remember Bridget? It’s thanks to her that we can read braille, or at least we used to be able to. I haven’t had to read anything in braille since she left the school. We miss the letters she used to type for us on her little burgundy typewriter; I wish we’d kept one to put into our memory box. I wish we’d spent more time with her too, teaching her to play football with her jingly, luminous yellow ball.

D’you remember jumping from tree stump to tree stump and scraping your shins?
D’you remember climbing the trees when the teacher on lunchtime duty
D’you remember being proud of the scratches on your arms, the scabs on your knees or elbows,  and the bruises on your legs? It meant fun, excitement, and adventure. 

We still have adventures every day, L’il Keeks; and it’s all because of your friends. Yep, believe it or not, we’re in a friendship group. We belong in a group of friends. Some of which are reading this right now and will probably feel bad for hurrying you to write this post ;)

But it’s okay, we secretly (well, not so secretly anymore) like being hurried to write things for the blog, because it means we’re not the only ones who care about it. It’s really nice being cared about, by the way; but you’ll learn that soon.
As stupid as is sounds? Don’t be afraid of being afraid. Sometimes it’s when you’re at your weakest point that you find your strength, and if you don’t, the people around you will bring it out.

Until next time Li’l Keeks x

Maybe Just Maybe

Maybe we’re destined for greatness.
Maybe it’s fate.
Maybe, no matter how hard we try, we’ll never stray away from our chosen paths.
Maybe we’re just running the tracks.
Maybe it’s karma.
Maybe when we smile, others frown, and vice versa.
Maybe happiness comes at a price.
Maybe it’s just another page in the story.
Maybe we only get so many smiles.
Maybe the ink is running out.
Maybe the page will end without a final word.
Maybe the chapter will finish without an epilogue.
Maybe we’ll cry out for help.
Maybe we’ll keep our sorrows bottled.
Maybe we’ll stare into the darkness, waiting for our eyes to adjust.
Maybe the rage will overcome us.
Maybe the fear will swallow us whole.
Maybe we’ll break.
Maybe we’ll shatter everything until only shards are left.
Maybe we’ll be numb.
Maybe we’ll just be empty.
Maybe, no matter how hard we try, we’ll fail to feel anything.
Maybe we’ll scream until our throats are raw.
Maybe someone will hear us?
Maybe we’re only good enough when we’re gone.
Maybe we’re more than the letters stamped over our future.
Maybe we’ll die with marks on our wrists.
Maybe we’ll perish with burns on our necks.
Maybe we’ll be free when the last pill is swallowed.
Maybe I’ll kiss your tears away.
Maybe I’ll grab your hand and cling on tight.
Maybe I’ll smile enough for both of us, until you find yours again.
Maybe I’ll hug you until you’re whole again.
Maybe you’ll remember how amazing you are.

“What’s the most important lesson you’ve learned in life?”

Recently I discovered that someone I cared about had passed away. Life is really bloody short. He didn’t even get to become an adult, and it’s not fair, it’s really really not fair.

So you take that person you love and you treat them like god damned royalty, you hear me? You might be angry at them, or upset with them, or hurt by them, but in hindsight, does any of it really matter? You are so lucky to have them, and one day you might not, so be thankful for every precious second you have with them. Take every smile, and laugh, and tear, and angry word you can lay your hands on and cherish every single one like it’s your last. Because one day you can’t get any more, and there’s nothing you can do about it. Poof, gone. That’s life. I understand it now, and Jesus Christ I wish I didn’t.

Shaun, you didn’t deserve this. You didn’t deserve to be unhappy, you didn’t deserve for your life to bee so short.
I won’t forget, okay?
I promise.
I promise I won’t forget the way you treated my brother and I exactly the same way you treated Hayden and Lewis; or the way you protected me like a little sister; or sneaked food from the kitchen for Lewis and I when I stayed for dinner. I won’t forget the way you showed me how to climb trees; or how you taught me how to abseil after I was too scared to do it at Calshot; or how you made me face my fears because otherwise “life wasn’t any fun”. I won’t forget the time you cleaned up my elbow when I fell in the playground; or when we made you get your face painted at the petting zoo and you came back with camouflage paint; or the days out to Intech when you taught Lewis and I about gravity and suction and tornadoes and  photosynthesis.
I was always a tiny bit afraid of you, if I’m honest. You did things the second the idea came into your head, and you never waited around. You had confidence and bravery, and that terrified me. You were the living embodiment of a “glint in the eye”. When you jumped from one tree branch to another one well over four feet away and somehow manage to land it, or build a conservatory for your house “just because”, or swung upside down from the opening of your attic to make us jump- you were always doing things and not just saying them, and I was always in awe.
I think my favourite memories of you will always be the journeys to Intech in my dad’s burgundy seven-seater. It was the only thing that really belonged to us, the family car. There was always my dad and your mum in the front, then it alternated between you, Keelan and Hayden in the normal seats with Lewis and me in the back; or you, me and Lewis in the normal seats and Hayden and Keelan in the back. That was the thing about you. Even though we all wanted to sit in the “super awesome secret” back seats, you always sat in the middle and never caused a fuss. You were literally ‘The Middle Kid’. Hayden was in Keelan’s year, Lewis was in my year, and you were in the year between. But, see, you were never the odd one out. Most kids like that would be on their own, but you managed to be both mine and Keelan’s friend. I have so much respect for you for that. You never picked one or the other, you always treated us both equally.
But anyway.
We would always go to Intech in the summer holidays. There was no question about it. “Intech With The Howcrofts” became a yearly event and I loved it. So much. We had ice poles on the journey over; the blue ones to make our tongues change colour. D’you remember that time Hayden asked if you could eat plastic and we all tried to eat the ice pole wrappers? We were so stupid… but we were kids. Happy kids, too.
What went wrong?
We would get to Intech and clamber out of the car, whooping and screaming. Then we all climbed up onto the car roof and dangled our legs in front of the windshield while our parents paid for the parking. Looking back now, I don’t see how all five of us fit up there; if I remember rightly, I sat on Keelan’s lap and Lew sat on Hayden’s, with you in the middle (see my point?).
I’m never going to have the chance to go to Intech with the Howcroft trio again.
There are so many memories formulating in my mind right now, and they have been since I found out. But while trying to write this post, I realised that I didn’t want to talk about them anymore. I don’t want them to be written in words; Words could never give the feelings and the sensations and the friendship justice. I want them to stay preserved inside my head until my turn comes. Because it’s not right. It’s not right that our memories should stay after we do. I used to want to make a mark on the Earth and be remembered, but now I’m not so sure.
People like Shakespeare and Socrates and Da Vinci- we say we remember them but we don’t. We don’t remember them at all. We never saw their work, or told them to keep going when they were giving up. We appreciate them, sure, but they are not remembered. There’s no-one left to remember them. You see, when people die, they don’t just become dust in the Earth. They become legends, fables, stories of adventures and life lessons to be learned.
And that’s okay.
I miss you, Shaun. I promise I won’t forget.
Your ol’ Buddy,
Khiana x