Makenna Kephart
Prof. Duraj
ENGL 220-02
20 November 2022
GIVE HEAVEN SOME HELL
I am not a very good Catholic. I don’t go to confession because I do not think I need to
tell a priest my sins and ask for forgiveness when I could talk to the big man myself. I hardly
ever go to mass without a push from my family or a friend, but that night I was a great Catholic.
That night I prayed the rosary harder than I had ever prayed before. I fell asleep on January 8th,
2020, with a heavy heart filled with hope because Cody was not dead.
Sometime during that long night, my rosary broke, and my heart broke right along with it.
My alarm sounded at 5:30 am, January 9th, 2020, and upon seeing the broken rosary, it took
everything in me to not to think of it as a bad omen. I dragged myself out of bed and down the
hallway. I then turned the corner and saw my mom sitting at the kitchen table, staring down at
her coffee.
She looked up at me, and I knew immediatelyーCody was dead. Before that terrible
silence had been broken, I knew Cody was dead. My mom looked at me the same way she
looked up at me when she had to tell me, at ten years old, that the neighbor’s kid across the street
had shot himself. It was the same look my mom had on her face when she told me, at twelve
years old, that her friend Heather had shot herself in the bathroom of their home. It was that same
fucking look on her face when she told me, at sixteen years old, that the football player that had
shot himself in the parking lot of the football stadium was my friend’s brother, Peyton. I hate that
look. That look haunts my dreams and breathes life into all of my ghosts.
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When my mom finally spoke the truth about what I already knew, I could not bring
myself to speak. At first, I could only shake my head “no.” My legs gave out, and I began to sink
to the floor. How could I be alive and standing when Cody was dead? My mom supported me,
lifted me off the floor, and held me while I cried. I was crying, and Cody was dead. I pulled
myself together and dragged myself to school. Surrounded by my friends, we all grieved
together. I cried through the movie that played in my first-period class and then spent the rest of
the day in the office, still crying. The tears didn’t stop for a while. Someone’s mom ordered
pizza, and we all ate silently, stopping crying barely long enough to not choke on the cheese.
Cody was dead, and I blamed myself for a long time. Things might have turned out
differently if I had just reached out to him again when he opened my text message without
answering. Cody and I talked almost every day. He took classes at the local community college
while attending high school because he wanted to get out of our town. He was so driven, so when
I found out he had been pulled out of school early for the day and did not answer my text, I did
not think anything of it. Cody was dead, and I should have thought something about it. I didn’t
want to bother him. How stupid is that? I was worried about being annoying; meanwhile, he was
hurting so badly that he shot himself behind his house.
After that day at school, life went on as normally as it could. I would find myself crying
in classes for no reason other than something someone had said brought back those harrowing
memories. Two days after Cody died, my best friend and I left a mutual friend's birthday party
early to pick up another friend and release balloons in Cody’s memory. The three of us solemnly
walked into the dollar tree and bought balloons and off-brand sharpies. We then drove to a
neighborhood park and wrote all over those balloons. I filled every blank space; by the time I
finished, the balloon was more marker than balloon left. When we got to the park, I forgot my
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phone inside the car and proceeded to walk up the hill with my friends. We stood crying and
embracing each other as we watched the balloons float up toward Heaven.
When we returned to the car, I saw that my phone had several missed calls from my dad
and mom, and my best friend also had missed calls from my dad. I called him back immediately,
and I don’t think I have ever heard my dad so worried. He told me he was in the car on the way
to where my location was showing. I didn’t understand his worry at the time or why he hugged
me so tightly when I got home, but I get it now. Cody was dead, and I wasn’t responding to calls
and texts. My dad’s mind went straight to the worst possible outcome, and I, blinded by my own
grief, didn’t see it.
Three months later and I was still blaming myself. I didn’t tell anyone how I felt because
I knew they would have told me there was nothing I could have done. Nothing a double text
would have stopped Cody from doing. I was and am not to blame. Some days it was harder to
believe that than others. Even now, there are days when self-doubt creeps into my mind to ruin
my peace, but I have better tools to deal with that darkness.
It was March 14th, 2020, the day after we found out the world was to shut down for two
weeks and then return to a new “normal''. This day my life flipped on its head for the second
time that year. It was my friend's birthday party, and she had a bonfire and lots of alcohol. I had
never been drunk before; in fact, I had never drank much before at all, but I was spending the
night, and my friends were drinking, so I thought, “Why the hell not?” I was having a great time.
I was laughing and talking to friends I hadn’t talked to in ages. Unfortunately for me, the high
came crashing down just as quickly as it had begun. I had drunk way too much, way too fast.
Every thought that popped into my mind came spewing out of my mouth like vomit. Those
thoughts eventually led me to Cody. Which led me to Cody being dead.
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Three months after Cody’s death, I found myself still broken when I had tried so hard to
prove that I was fine, and I broke down in tears in the middle of this party. I sat there, in a metal
patio chair next to the bonfire sobbing about how broken I was. I cried saying how I felt that I
should be over it by now. I cried and cried to my friends. I assumed they would agree that I
should have been fine, but instead they were so understanding and told me that grief was a
process and that my feelings were completely valid. When I woke up the next morning, I was
mortified, but it didn’t change the fact that I was not healed. I liked to pretend that I was fine, but
the truth was that I was not.
There are days even now, almost three years later, when it hurts like it was yesterday.
This year has reopened and rehealed wounds that I did not know needed revisiting. I have sobbed
uncontrollably on my couch reliving memories I have worked so hard to forget. I have written,
journaled, and reflected on this period in my life more than I did when I was going through it. I
was at the Morgan Wallen Dangerous Tour when HARDY decided to play his song “GIVE
HEAVEN SOME HELL;” immediately, I thought of Cody and how Cody was dead, but this
time I didn’t cry. Instead of breaking down, I smiled. My best friend and I wrapped our arms
around each other, turned our heads up to the sky, and sang that song to our angel up in the sky.
There are still days when it hits harder than most, but there are also more days when I can
look back on my friendship with Cody and smile. Cody is dead, but Cody’s memory is alive and
well living within my mind. I refuse to let him be another ghost that haunts my dreams. Cody is
dead, but he will breathe through me, he will graduate college through me, and I have already
told so many people his story that Cody finally made it out of that tiny little mountain town.
Cody lives in me, and I will not let him die for a second time. Cody is alive.