A Sad Experience for Pierson

Everyone saw him as the class clown; we saw him as a really happy guy and everyone liked him.  This is not an exaggeration.  He had no enemies.  That’s why we were all so shocked.  We couldn’t believe the news when we hear about what happened.  I’ve heard that those who are comedic tend to have a form of sadness or hardship within.  A lot of the time it’s undetectable, covered up by the sense of humor and smiles.

I wasn’t very close to him.  We didn’t hang out and I never learned much about him.  He was always nice to me and made all of my classes feel lighter.  I looked forward to certain times of the day because I knew I would be entertained, learning but having fun.  He somehow managed to help me enjoy History, one of my least favorite classes.

I miss him but not the way you miss a close friend.  I miss him the way you miss seeing someone’s face every single day since you were five and then all of the sudden you never see it again.  When I look at the people who were close to him, my heart breaks.  My eyes immediately begin to tear and I somehow feel like it’s my fault.  What could I have done to help him?  Why didn’t I see the signs?  Were there any signs?  I can never know.

There’s a note but I (and even his close friends) are not allowed to see it.  This makes me feel angry but sad as well.  The police are keeping it as a form of evidence, so I’ve heard.  What does that even mean?  Everyone already knows what happened.  We want to know why!  We want to know what the poor boy wrote before he decided to take his own life!  Aren’t we allowed to be informed?  This is a question that stayed in my mind for months, unanswered.

“It will get easier.”  That’s a common phrase people hear when a traumatic event occurs.  Will it get easier?  I can’t be expected to regain my emotional strength within a reasonable amount of time, however long that is.  Everything gets better with time.  Does it though?  Will we all forget about his death and move on?  You never forget.  He is forever with us.  He is part of our class.

Red roses convey deep emotions.  They are used to express heartfelt regret and sorrow.  Yellow roses are a symbol of friendship and caring.  Fifty-six yellow roses surround one red one.  I had a bouquet sent to the funeral home to represent our class; to represent how meaningful his life was.  Pain.  People are empathetic and feel the pain of the family.  So we send them flowers.  “We hope these blossoming plants make you feel better.”  Don’t forget to cry.  Water the roses with your tears.

Should we attend the funeral all together?  Probably.  We can support each other.  Emotions are shown; there’s crying, falling from weakness, and an overflowing trashcan of tissues.  It all happened.  We embraced each other and for the first time sadness was shared throughout.  The understanding of the same feeling connected us, brought us closer.  Heads rested on shoulders, eyes became bloodshot, and the sound of sobbing echoed in my ears.  Looking around the only visual I had was the red faces containing puffy eyes, runny noses, and clear sorrow.

They cleaned him up nicely by covering the marks of death around his neck.  He looked peaceful but I wanted him to wake up.  In denial I wondered, “why is he sleeping in that coffin there?” “Time to wake up George.  We need you here.”  But he couldn’t.  I’m not religious, but I do believe that he will rest calmly wherever he ends up.

The people in authority at my school begin to worry about the students.  Grief counselors are brought in and we aren’t allowed to do anything to show our support for George’s family at our school.  It all has to do with how other people are affected.  Attention.  That’s why some people do it?  We placed a suicide awareness ribbon of purple and blue onto our t-shirts.  “We will win for you,” at least that’s what I was thinking.  As the high school pranced around during Whaler Day, it was only the junior class, my class, that destroyed in every event.  We were strong and together we won, beating another class that had won three straight years in a row, all for him.  For most this idea was probably subconscious but I was in awe and I loved it.

This essay is dedicated to George Butt’s family.  I was not one of his close friends but I simply wanted to display the emotions that surged through my head after I had found out about the incident and how his entire grade cared for him. He was someone who will forever be remembered for his jokes and presented happiness each and every day.