This is a picture for a brief story I wrote from the perspective of a boy named John's sister

I can't look back on December 12th, 2003 without crying. I knew that John was hurting, but I never thought he would take his own life. It was about five o'clock in the evening. Our stepdad was drunk again. He beat John every night and mum did nothing about it. But this time, John couldn't take it anymore. He ran out the door with tears in his eyes. I followed after him. I looked for what I though was about an hour before I spotted him. In the one place he had feared his whole life. I knew he didn't see falling as something to be feared anymore. But more of an escape from the unbearable pain he was forced to endure. I ran through the bushes to stop him. Bit as I arrived, There was no longer anyone standing on the edge of the cave. I felt like going down with him, but I knew he would never have wanted to be the cause of my death. I walked home and said nothing to mum. I cried all night and sleep didn't come. Now every night I have the same dream. The dream of John emerging from that abyss and returning home. But as I awaken, the realisation strikes me, John was gone, and he wasn't coming back. It is now December 12th, 2008. The fifth year after John's death. This is the last thing I will write ever. I am going to see John.