It was the sound of the shattered glass that foreshadowed the moments to come, when everything I knew, my world, and my being would shatter too.

Never again have I been able to stomach sweet things since that night. That night when the delightful, lingering taste of the sweet dessert and tannic wine on my tongue soon turned to ash. I had seen that shade first—a shade of cherry bright red like the color of freshly spilled blood. 

From its fragmented vessel, the wine had spilled out. It forged a red path through the white dining cloth. Upon that once pure linen laid three bodies, two of them being my parents. 

No matter how much I screamed. No matter how much I cried. No matter how much I begged God, life still had left my parents' eyes. 

That was the moment I hated God. I blame him for bringing such suffering to me. I blame him for leaving me, to live with this emptiness for the rest of my forsaken life.

Then there was you, my dearest friend.

They all blame your parents for killing mine. And it was not like it was a baseless accusation.

I was there.

I saw with my own eyes how all three of them were poisoned. I saw how both your parents were left unscathed.

And the most damning evidence: the poisoned wine all three of them drank, was found in your parent’s possession. 

How could I have known it was all a lie?

If only I had known. No. If only I had listened to you that wretched night. It was raining so hard outside and the sound of thunder filled the air.

It was as if the storm knew of the coming disaster.

For the first time since my parents died, I had finally allowed your presence before me. You came to me, crushed and brokenhearted. 

The news had not reached me yet. 

You told me about your parents and how they were found dead. The investigators concluded they had taken their lives, yet you didn’t believe them.

I should have been sad with you, I should have believed you. But I wasn’t listening to you anymore.

I was mad—no furious that they were gone, gone without facing any punishment. I felt robbed. I felt cheated. And it all turned into a blinding rage. 

Fueled by my grief, I hurled it all at you.

I saw your pain and it brought me joy. I saw your tears but they only dried up mine. I saw your suffering and I relished in it. Somehow—somewhere, in my twisted mind and shredded heart, I thought you deserved it. 

And you know what made me even angrier? What made me cross a line that should never have been crossed?

It was that light. That spark in your eyes that showed you were not entirely broken like me. I was indignant you still had your light, when I thought your parents were the reason mine went out. 

So I told you I hated you. And yes, I saw how you flinched back as if my words were physical blows. I saw that bit of light in your eyes dim.

And still. It wasn’t enough. 

I was hurting, my wounds were still fresh and my thirst for vengeance burned unquenched. So I crossed the line.

I told you: I wished you were dead. 

I did not care that you were so crushed. I did not care that your heart only yearned for your friend. I did not care that you wanted to bridge this chasm between us. 

I said those five words to you, too late to realize it was me that I hated. Too late to realize it was I, who I wished were dead.

And now, never again will I see your brilliant eyes. Whenever I'm reminded of the stunning shade, I am filled with misery.

I feel empty without your hugs. All the times I sobbed against your chest, it was your heartbeat and your warm voice that always soothed my pain away.

I miss your beautiful laughter, your life-giving words, your radiant smile. How brightly you always shined like nothing could ever take your light away.

I miss you.