After I Lost Camden

The world was supposed to keep going. At least, that’s what I told myself, and that’s what everyone else told me too. But for me, it felt like it abruptly hit the breaks after Camden died.

He saved my life. I know that. I mean, it’s hard to deny that when I have a vivid image of his body collapsing, blood everywhere, after taking a bullet for me permanently etched into my memory. Everyone knew that Simon Simone was seeking to kill me. We were rival authors in every way you could imagine. Something about him never sat right with me, and it never sat right with Camden either. He was strange and had said enough stuff online about me to raise red flags. Still, no one quite expected it when he pulled up to the bowling alley Camden and I were at late on a Friday night. He pulled out his gun and fired before I could even really register what was happening. It clicked faster in Camden’s brain. He jumped in front of me, and his body jerked in a way that was completely unnatural before crumpling to the floor. Simon ran. I called 911 with shaking hands and I tried to do anything and everything to stop the bleeding.

I remember not being able to find a pulse, screaming for help as blood pooled around Camden’s broken body. It was too late by the time anyone got there. Camden was dead, having sacrificed himself so I could live. I should have been grateful that he did that for me. And while part of me was grateful, a larger part of me was angry. Angry that he was dead. Angry at Simon. Angry at myself for needing saving. Angry at the world for taking him from me. That was not how the world was supposed to work, I thought.

The first week after Camden died, everything was numb. I couldn’t really think. I called him twice on the first day and then got confused after he didn’t answer, only to remember. My roommate Jeremy had to remind me to change and shower when I got home because I was still wearing the clothes coated in Camden’s blood. It didn’t feel real. I didn’t really sleep because every time I closed my eyes I saw him. I don’t really remember that week. Everything was kind of a blur, to be honest. I kept wondering why he decided to do what he did. No one said he had to. No one would have been surprised if Simon had killed me. More people were upset that Camden died than they would have been if I died. He wasn’t supposed to die. It still didn’t feel real. How could a person be there one day and not the next? How could one not even think before taking a bullet for a friend?

***

The funeral was the worst day of my life. It happened exactly thirteen days after Camden died. Quite an unlucky number if you asked me. An unlucky number to represent how unlucky he had been and how lucky (or perhaps unlucky) I had been. It was fitting if you asked me.

Everyone talked about how kind and loving Camden had been. How he was a good friend to the end and would do anything for the people he cared about. How he didn’t deserve what happened to him. When it was my turn to speak, I stood in front of everyone, my hands shaking so badly I had to put the microphone on a stand instead of holding it because I was scared I would drop it. “Camden was the best friend I ever had,” I started, voice trembling. “He once joked that he would take a bullet for me if that was how he would have to prove that he was loyal. I laughed. Look where we are now.” The room was quiet except for soft sniffles. “I should be the one laying in that casket instead, but Camden loved me too much. I don’t really know how to live in a world without my best friend, but I’ll try to honor his life with mine since he gave his for me.” I broke after that. Silent sobs that wracked my body so much so that my dad had to come up and get me off the stage.

People murmured comforts to Camden’s family and me as they left the chapel. Several people told me that it wasn’t my fault. Others told me to keep living because Camden would have wanted me to. Others told me that the grief would get better with time. I didn’t really believe them. Not because I didn’t want to, but because I was drowning.

***

Two weeks after the funeral, I was still haunted by nightmares of Camden’s death. I moved into my own tiny apartment because I couldn’t stand living with Jeremy any more. His life kept moving on; mine didn’t. My life stopped the day I lost Camden, and I wasn’t sure if it would ever start again. Everyone else’s lives kept going while mine had come to a screeching halt. I knew I should try to live again. At my core, I knew that. But it’s hard to live after losing your best friend. I felt like Camden’s death had been in vain when I remained stuck, but I didn’t know how to make myself start going again. I wasn’t sure if there was a way to start going again.

***

It wasn’t until nearly eight months after Camden died that I finally started to live again. I picked up my pen for the first time in who knows how long. I didn’t write much, only enough to realize that somewhere deep inside of the hurt there was still life. The life Camden had died to protect. Before I knew it, I was writing and writing and writing. About Camden. About myself. About anything and everything. For the first time in eight months, I felt alive again. I had forgotten what it felt like to write.

Camden had always loved to read my writing. He used to make me promise that one day I would write about him because he was sure that it would make him famous. I always told him that I wasn’t so sure about that, but one day I would write about him. After he died, I thought that dream would disappear, but nine months later, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. He was the best friend I could ever have hoped for. Why wouldn’t I write about him and the sacrifice he made so that I could live? So I picked up my pen and started writing, “The world was supposed to keep going. At least, that’s what I told myself, and that’s what everyone else told me too. But for me, it felt like it abruptly hit the breaks after Camden died…”