Indie Boy from my Creative Writing class had killed himself. I'm not sure how I found out this news, but I remember seeing him, dead, eyes wide open, lying on the floor of one of the classrooms in the English building. I wanted to be sad, but I was completely in disbelief.
The only people who seemed concerned about his death were the others in my writing class. We all gathered around his corpse and gasped in shock. The suicide seemed to have happened earlier -- days ago, maybe -- but no one had done anything about his body. My instuctor had to fill out an official form stating the reason for his death. He had to put Indie Boy into a category that would explain his reason for killing himself. The cateogies were specific stereotypes, such as "jock who is closet homosexual" and "computer nerd." For Indie Boy, my instructor checked, "coffee shop intellectual who needed more friends." And that was the official reason for his death.
We all stood around, looking down at his body, continually saying that he had seemed so happy and full of life, and that he was the last person in the class we would have picked to kill himself.
