Chapter 2

Talking about Edward is the same as throwing salt and lemon over an open wound. Even after so many years, I can still remember the fragrance of your perfume, the way your hair looked silky to the touch, and the sound of your deep laugh. I can remember how difficult it was to make him feel ashamed, and that it was rare times I noticed him blushing, although I can say with conviction that no one would look more beautiful than Edward when he was ashamed, because of a little color on his face always made him very beautiful, although black was his favorite color and his hair and clothes made the pale color of his

Talking about Edward hurts me like a bruise that a mother's kiss can't cure. Remembering its magnitude and charisma leaves me in such a state of torpor that anyone could say that everything has just happened. It was years ago. It was at a time when people did not do awareness or suicide prevention campaigns. It was at a time when the numbers increased, that the authorities realized that common diseases killed less quietly than depression. Still like that. It hurts as if it were today. Like a war wound; bloody, deep, and unexpected. Add a little alcohol to this wound and you have a complete shot of pain and despair. But because this is the only way to never let the memory of this man fall into oblivion, I will bear the consequences of taking this dose.

Edward was born in a big city but lived in a small and selfish neighborhood. Our city was divided between the side of the rich and tycoons; people who did not show the slightest interest in the problems and dilemmas of the less favored side. And the side of the poor and hardworking; those who woke up early and arrived late, and those who thought that the rich had perfect lives and would give everything to have been born on the right side of the city. Some people are born with the privilege of never envying the life of another, but I believe that even you, my friend, can say that someday you have ever thought that a rich person had his dream life, without knowing all the mental, emotional, or even interpersonal problems that that person faced in his day-to-day life. That was no different in my city. Edward, however, was one of the people who never envied what was not his.

I need to abuse the moments we had together again because not everything from Edward's past is an open book for me. I can't say for sure if he has never been bullied at school. His house did not have portraits of his childhood, but after his death, after his house was pawned by the government - since I was not his legal heir and there was no family member to complain about her - they released some photos to the press, and a freckled little boy with a crooked smile always appeared next to a woman with short hair and a suffering appearance. Edward never told me if he ever tried to go to college.

He never said if he ever had goals beyond a quiet life. Although I can assume that he wanted to get to know the world. I can say this because Edward was always a free spirit, and had the impression that he only belonged to that city to do the same for the memory of his mother, as I do now for his. Don't let it fall into oblivion.

All the residents of your street knew how to tell when Pastor Weasley's youngest daughter was kissing the next street d**ler, but they were the kind who never heard the request for help from the woman who was beaten by her husband in the front house. They didn't even listen to the glass ceiling itself - saying this I'm referring to their sins - cracking into millions of pieces by their heads every time they made malicious comments about the teenagers who wore short and tight clothes.

Edward resided in the third house from left to right and did not boast a green lawn and a perfectly white fence in his garden. It was a place cluttered by time, falling apart as you can say in more pimp dialects, with peeled plaster and wooden doors eaten by termites in the corners, although everything was very clean and organized in its interior. He liked simplicity and was lazy when it came to pleasing the grafted neighbors, so he kept his mania for cleanliness and perfection only for those who needed to see it.

Edward liked to discover the small details in each individual who crossed his path. He didn't have to ask if they were okay, he felt when the answer was negative. He didn't bow his head when passing by a homeless person, because he more than anyone always knew what it was like to be a loner in search of a foundation.

Edward had too big a heart for that selfish neighborhood, and it's a shame that no one paid attention to his gloomy and secret customs. Because I know that he could have changed the world with his willpower and wisdom, however, he was too cautious in any action taken, and would rather lose a piece of his compassion a thousand times than get involved in the problems of others.

Following the narrow sidewalk of his curious neighborhood, Edward walked his routine path to work. The black locks of his rebellious hair tangled the straps of the backpack he carried on his shoulders. There were rumors that he hadn't trimmed the wires since he was a thorny and angry teenager.

But I must say that this did not make him less manly, on the contrary, Edward carried an ideal physique for a man who practiced walks in the mornings and exercised on weekends on a small sports court. Saying this, I want to say that he had muscles in a thin and beautiful body, nothing so exaggerated, but nothing less interesting to look at more than once. And the hair that reached the height of its shoulder blades only intensifies the veracity of its obscure beauty.

In advance, I apologize if for some carelessness you come across a promiscuous adjective made to describe my morbid fascination with this man. Of course, I could blame the stars and say that calling Edward absurdly hot is a weakness of my sign; scorpion - just the most daring of all astrology - but if you don't believe in Horoscope and the like, I may sound like a naughty liar. So, just ignore my excesses and understand that Edward was a man who didn't look at himself just once.

Thinking about Edward makes me reflect on how much it must hurt to be remembered when everything that was best inside us has been lost for a long time. Because, among us, people have the annoying mania of turning the dead into bled saints, pure of sins. But they forget that during the life of these same saints, they never spared themselves from criticizing and offending any choice they made. They never cared about "Good morning" and "Hello!" That these sad and lonely people gave him. They never paid attention to the fact that failing to respond or giving a quick and rhetorical response, could spoil the day of these people.

Today you will find campaigns and websites that inform you how you should treat depressive, but before, in the times when this story takes place, there is no such thing. The people were cold. No matter the culture, the religion, the level of proximity... People simply were not interested in finding ways to save each other's lives. That has only changed these days.

You can already imagine how devastated I feel for not having any excuse to justify Edward's sadness. But, again enjoying my honesty, I must confess that no explanation justified the perpetual sadness of that man. I can't bring justifications for what he did. I can't try to explain how your head worked. If something went wrong at some point in your childhood, that's what triggered all these problems. I would be lying, trying to fill this letter with scientific or psychological advice, when I don't understand any of this.

They once said in a documentary that some of us only need a while after a failure, but that others are not looking for a provisional solution, but an end point for what should happen in their lives. Edward was not weak, nor cowardly, much less fearful. He just dared to choose an end point for his story, because he wanted to put an end to the decadence of his depression.