Burning Grief, chapter 1
My name is Billie. Billie Joe Armstrong, to be exact. I would not be surprised if you asked me why I was looking so glum 2 days after my best friend's birthday. I'll answer you with a poem:
My best friend is dead.
He shot himself in the head.
As I sit here and cry,
I'll ask myself why,
I wonder if he's happy he's dead.
Tre Cool wasn't always suicidal. Actually, if he was, he hardly ever showed it. He always had bright blue eyes, this shirt that said 'I can count to 4 in repeat, I'm a drummer.', and these annoying khakis. But the thing that confuses me the most is that he always had a smile on his face. Never a frown, never pursed lips. Always a smile.
Which brings me to the utter confusion of walking out of a funeral home on December 11, 2005, after burying him. I walked through my front door to find a note on my kitchen table. I struggled to open it, and there, before my own eyes, was Tre's messy handwriting.
Dear Billie Joe,
Before my death on my birthday, I wanted to get something off my chest, but I couldn't do it. Not in front of Adrienne and the kids.
You are an angel to me, Billie Joe Armstrong. The air I used to breathe, the land I used to walk on. No matter what came up between me and some girl, you were there to make me feel better. Your unruly black hair and piercing hazel-green eyes were all I needed to see every day. But I knew I couldn't have you, and that knowledge is what causes me to lie in the dirt this minute.
I never got to say goodbye properly. But now that I have the chance to say it, I love you, Bill. I love you.
Goodbye forever,
Tre
That was it. Tears stung my eyes as I remembered the burning passion I once had for him. I missed the electric blue eyes that had once been so joyful, the personality that could light up a room. I wanted my Tre back. But I guess you don't realize something you could have had until it's too late.
My best friend is dead.
He shot himself in the head.
As I sit here and cry,
I'll ask myself why,
I wonder if he's happy he's dead.
Tre Cool wasn't always suicidal. Actually, if he was, he hardly ever showed it. He always had bright blue eyes, this shirt that said 'I can count to 4 in repeat, I'm a drummer.', and these annoying khakis. But the thing that confuses me the most is that he always had a smile on his face. Never a frown, never pursed lips. Always a smile.
Which brings me to the utter confusion of walking out of a funeral home on December 11, 2005, after burying him. I walked through my front door to find a note on my kitchen table. I struggled to open it, and there, before my own eyes, was Tre's messy handwriting.
Dear Billie Joe,
Before my death on my birthday, I wanted to get something off my chest, but I couldn't do it. Not in front of Adrienne and the kids.
You are an angel to me, Billie Joe Armstrong. The air I used to breathe, the land I used to walk on. No matter what came up between me and some girl, you were there to make me feel better. Your unruly black hair and piercing hazel-green eyes were all I needed to see every day. But I knew I couldn't have you, and that knowledge is what causes me to lie in the dirt this minute.
I never got to say goodbye properly. But now that I have the chance to say it, I love you, Bill. I love you.
Goodbye forever,
Tre
That was it. Tears stung my eyes as I remembered the burning passion I once had for him. I missed the electric blue eyes that had once been so joyful, the personality that could light up a room. I wanted my Tre back. But I guess you don't realize something you could have had until it's too late.
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