The #life Of Hugo September 2 1997 Today I started school again. Well, I hate it very much. Just like all the other kids I suppose. The bell rang in my ears throughout the hall, and suddenly there was a rush of people pushing and shoving. I just stood there, took a deep breath and fought through the massive swarm of year elevens. My first class was English and my teacher is Miss Pizzianio but everyone calls her pizza. She moved here from Italy a year ago and she is the most lovely teacher, very beautiful and not just on the outside; She has big green eyes and long silky brunette hair. Today she wore a red jumper with a black skirt imprinted with little hearts. I asked my sister if all teachers were this lovely but she said they aren't so I guess I'm pretty lucky to have her as a teacher. She is quite young probably 23 is my guess but the boys in my class only care about one thing. Unfortunately. The rest of the classes were a drag. All my other teachers are old and shrivelled. Mum asked if I made any friends today. I said that I hadn't because that's the truth. I asked dad what for dinner and he said to ask mum so I did and she says she doesn't know but it will probably be a chickeny stew of some sort. My sister hates chicken stew when she was little apparently (my uncle swears by it) she threw it up all over the little boy next door. There must be an element of truth in that because when it is told every Christmas, mum always looks shifty and goes in the kitchen pretending that she has something to take out the oven. I'm going downstairs to watch top of the pops. It is currently my favourite programme. Love, Hugo

The #life Of Hugo July 17th 1997 Dear W.i.l., I have decided to call you that because it is shorter than saying "whoever is listening". It was a month ago since I first wrote to you, and I have to tell you it is still summer in which time I have been alone for all of it. I haven't been at school since Sam's death. Since...that day. The fight. The bridge. I am still having therapy and my therapist said to try to not think about it, but as winter draws nearer, it's becoming increasingly hard to forget. Sam was alive last year, sat on my bed, can't remember what we talked about of course. All seems so distant now. Lately I have noticed that Annie has been treating me more respectfully since it happened. I guess she's just being kind although I tell her I'm fine but she follows mums lead of bringing me tea in my room. I can tell she's sick of it. I can see it in her eyes, although she won't admit it in front of mum because she knows she will get told off for acting so mean to the "poor boy who's just lost his best friend". That's the type of thing adults say to other adults when your like eight and they don't want you to know who or what they're talking about. Even though mum says "Hugo, I know your fourteen, but your still my baby boy." Then she would hug me and I would breathe in the comforting smell of her musty perfume mixed with the scent of cooking. She wore that perfume before Sam... for a while she carried the scent of cigarette smoke until things started to get better and I came home from hospital, then we were alright. I need a friend even though I don't have any anymore. Sam's gone, and after that none of my other friends wanted to know me anymore. In September, I will start school and I will write then, but for now I have to go to the hospital for a health check. Mums calling. Love, Hugo

The #life Of Hugo June 13 1997 Dear Whoever is listening, it has been 3 months since it happened. At first I had to have therapy because mum said I turned strange. I have learnt to block out those thoughts just like I blocked everyone else out. Once it happened I stayed in my room a lot - I didn't want to go out. I spent a lot of time in hospital until one day in April, Sam's dad visited me and told me the funeral was on the 23rd. He also told my parents in case I forgot. That's when things started to get better. I had never been to a funeral before, it was a bright morning of April 23rd. I remember I cried endlessly until I never thought I'd be happy again. Luckily mum cradled me like a baby in the church as I flooded her lap with tears. Dad was not there as always, mum said he left us when I was very young so I've never really known him, although in my head he's always been fat with a moustache and pointy brown shoes. Mum said he was a lovely man but she felt motionless the day he left her, a bit how I felt at Sam's funeral. Sam was always fun to be around with his quirky nature, I remember he always wore one stripy coloured sock and one grey sock so the teachers couldn't tell him off for not wearing any grey socks at all. He made me laugh but sometimes, when we were around others he would go all quiet and frown as if he were thinking hard, yet if you tried to talk to him he would not reply. Just like I was at Sam's funeral. It was cold outside when they lowered the black box into the ground, yet I felt peaceful and for the first time in months, I smiled. It was then I knew that things were going to get better, despite the tearful faces surrounding me. That evening I came out of my room the first time and sat with my mum and my sister Annie. She has very slender fingers I noticed as she flicked through the channels on TV. She's 17 and she gets a lot of male attention at her school, (which I will go to this year because there was enough space for me for the past two years) although she never has a boyfriend nowadays because she says she has "high standards". She decided this after her first boyfriend, Smarmy Joe. They dated for about a month until he cheated on her with some girl called Susan in the year above. He said that Annie wasn't mature enough for him even though they were the same age. I've never dated anyone, but when the time comes, I too will ensure I have high standards on the basis I don't want to end up with someone like Smarmy Joe. I have written this to tell you how I am getting on, since Sam died. Love, Hugo