My First Friend

If a person has half dreams, the sparkle of his eyes is dim, if he has no hope, the energy of people with low energy, the voice of hurt and angry people tremble.

How long have I known to understand these things, when did I start to understand people, to read their eyes? I wonder if it started with the emptiness inside me when my first friend died when I was in elementary school.

While everything was going on normally at school, one day Jack didn't come to school.

"He was sick, so they brought him to the doctor," said Henry in our class, which is his neighbor.

He always had a weakness and got tired quickly while playing games. But with our children's minds, we did not think that this could be a problem. Her beautiful face, covered by her curly blond hair, was always smiling. Likes to sit during most of the time

- He used to say I'm tired.

Our friendship with Jack started when we didn't know ourselves in our previous neighborhood. We grew up together because our mothers were friends when we were babies. He became my first friend. Then he was my first game, first fight and first reconciliation, first confidant and a whole lot of things for me.

Jack was diagnosed with lung cancer. They were treated, but there was no response to the treatments. I was coming back from school one day. My mother told me to come to Jack's that day. I was going there that day too. The front of Jack's door was packed. I saw my mother with Aunt Call beside her. She was crying and the little coffin appeared through the door. My bag fell from my shoulder, my heart started beating fast. I ran to my mother, she hugged me, she was crying too. looking at your face

I said where is Jack? - Jack became an angel, my mother said. I cried... We all drowned in pain together. Until tomorrow morning, I cried sometimes with my tears and sometimes with the pain flowing into my heart. I felt that there was an emptiness inside me. So my first wound that never healed was formed.

The emptiness inside me grew over time. The wounds grew over time. Every time I close my eyes, I remember Jack First and our games. The most painful scream was Jack's screams when he was in pain. They sounded the whirlpool of my life for years. They wouldn't let me into his room so that I wouldn't be affected. I realized this years later. I heard it anyway from the next room. My mother always went to support Aunt Call. He would bring me too. When he wasn't in pain, I would hold Jack's hand and tell him about the funny events at school. He, too, would laugh with his pale face. I would exaggerate what I said just to make him laugh. Sometimes I made it up. Still, there was always a pain in his eyes. Seeing the pain in her eyes, I became familiar with the pain. I realized that hope is a pathetic feeling in the helplessness of Aunt Neriman. I felt that my mother had turned into a ghost chasing after Aunt Neriman and embraced me with more love. At the age of 8, I learned what it is to live without hope.

Jack's death taught me to understand and live with people's emotions.

I'm tired. What makes me tired is not understanding people, but feeling with them what they feel in their gaze, hands and gestures, and living it with them. Even people I've never met.

I want to cry and sometimes laugh while standing in the middle of the street. This is what people make me feel, I'm not going crazy yet. I'm afraid of going crazy.

I think people feed their souls with what they learned in childhood. And this becomes the basis of their entire life. With Jack's death, I have been able to read and feel inside everyone, especially Aunt Call and my mother.

I want to get rid of it, but the emptiness, the memory of Jack's memory is my only feeling, does not allow it. And I live in that emptiness with the feelings of others without being otherwise.

The cleaner hasn't come for the last two weeks, and no one has rang the doorbell except the doorman.

The cleaner would come that day. I didn't go to work either, I took a day off and wanted to sleep that day. My head was heavy. I was restless and worried. At first, I felt like I could hear the sound of the walls.

I said ok I'm going crazy

When I turn my back, the photo of my mother and father speaks to me with my mother's advice, my father's reproaches. When I said that I was afraid, the bell rang. I opened the door, no one was there, I wanted to sleep, when I close my eyes, the memory of Asya and the screams do not stop. If I open my eyes, my childhood is crying on my bedside, I feel my mind getting blurred.

When I opened my eyes, I was in the hospital. By my bedside was my longtime friend Henry. The cleaning lady opened the door with her own key, I was unconscious. Henry found his number on my phone and called. He didn't call my family so they wouldn't be alarmed. Well done. Call told me all this at once. Then I talked to the doctor, it could be due to stress, I explained what I've been through. Childhood traumas can sometimes have such effects when there are triggers.

Two days before I passed out, I saw a small coffin while I was passing by the mosque. And everything recurred in my memory, I mean.

When a child dies, his mother also dies. earth their children, mothers

The sky dome covered it. Or your friends...

Childhood friendships, purity, our childhood, which grew up and did not sink into the mud, made a mark on our left side and in a corner of our soul. Understood. The trauma engraved in my soul with the death of my first friend and the coffin in the last photo that stuck in my heart will not go away.

Once again I understand little Jack that you will always be a living angel in my heart, mind and soul.