You Aren't David I haven't even READ I Am David! I only heard of it once in primary school. Please forgive me.
David is dead. David is dead and you killed him.
Looking back, the whole thing had really started a few years ago, when you first got to know him. But those years were nothing particularly special. They were just a vague blur of girls and brands of alcohol and those teenage parties that David dragged you to.
Like the one at Fiona’s, which you're both going to this evening. Of course, you’ve got homework to do, but it’s only a couple of pages. You'll be back by about 10 – or 12, or 1, whatever – and you like to fool yourself into thinking that you work best under pressure. And Emily Stephens is going, which has instantly reduced any reason not to go to inconsequential dust. So you're going, and so is David.
You like being with David. Mostly because he’s more popular than you ever were (and probably ever will be), but he also manages to be pretty nice when he wants to be. Especially when there’s anyone female within earshot. You also secretly hope David's charm with the girls will rub off on you eventually. But for now, when you see that hot girl that you've both been giving looks to walk your way, you know she'll always be talking to David. You’ll barely get a word in edgeways, and your words will nearly always fall flat.
The atmosphere here is that of the usual parties thrown by teenagers. Music is being played at a volume loud enough to induce deafness a few feet away (as much to annoy the neighbours than for anything to do with enjoying the music), large amounts of alcohol are being passed around, and people are trying to eat each other's faces. Hey, everyone seemed to have collectively decided a few years ago. We're teenagers now. The world is our oyster and we don't care what anyone thinks of us! We can do whatever we want! Let's really rebel; let's do something new. Let's get drunk, grow our hair long and try to get off with each other. Take that, society!
But David likes this sort of thing, and when it really comes to it so do you, albeit in some guilty, hedonistic sort of way. So you go along with it all. Like David, you laugh along with what Drunk Guy X just did to the bathroom. Like David, you drink huge amounts of alcohol, just to get drunk. And like David, you throw up huge amounts of alcohol, too. But that will come later. For now, you just laugh along with everyone and do whatever David wants to do in the hope that someday someone will notice you while you're hiding behind him. You shut up, attempt to forget your numerous problems, and try to enjoy yourself as much as he is.
And now Emily's here. You just saw her walk through the door. So did David - he's been watching the door slyly for some time now, checking the identity of anyone female just in case it’s her. You know David has feelings for her, and as it's a lot more obvious David knows you do too. But neither of you mind much, and you’ve made it clear that David can have her. Emily has always liked David a lot more anyway, so she’ll be happier - which is, as you try to convince yourself, all that really matters.
"Hey, Emily!" you shout across the room. She doesn't seem to hear you.
"Emily!" shouts David, and now she hears, and comes over.
David leads the conversation, of course; he makes the odd innuendo joke, and starts a long discussion about a bunch of popular rock groups. You keep quiet – you’ve only ever heard of them through David. After a while, you hazard a few mildly amusing remarks, and it only cramps David's style a little, so you stay in the conversation. This is good enough - you even make her laugh once. That perfect face of hers has broken into a smile, and it’s all because of you. That must mean something, right? Right?
Of course not. David instantly takes over and expands on the joke, making her laugh even more, and you've lost her again. For a second you thought she was looking right at you, right into you, looking beyond the poser trying to be David, and seeing you for the person you really are, but no. Her attention's back on him. It'll always be on him.
Time keeps flowing, as does the alcohol. Soon you’re drunk, and David’s drunk - and Emily’s drunk, too. This will help things along a bit, what with David losing a lot of his charm after too much alcohol. He stammers and slurs his speech, if he speaks at all, and you - or rather the drunken you - is left desperately trying to move things along without messing things up too much. This plan was David's idea, and it works rather well. At least, it doesn’t fail completely. Most of the time. But it seems to be working, and soon the three of you are going upstairs to be together in private. Emily's not as drunk as you'd like but it'll probably be enough.
You pick a door at random and check the bed’s empty – very loudly. Emily doesn't seem to mind you coming in (that has to mean something, right?), so you sit down with her. You and David look into Emily's eyes; Emily looks into David's.
And David doesn't say anything. You wait, but he’s still silent. It's up to you now to think of something. A compliment, a general remark, anything. "You look great,” you venture, slurring your speech.
She nods. She knows this. "An you look great too," she slurs back, referring to both of you, of course. She must be referring to both of you. Another silence. "So," she says, trying to make some kind of thought pass through her alcohol-ridden consciousness. "Do you... like me, then?"
"'Course," you both reply, in unison.
"No." she says, trying to think clearly. "I mean... er. I mean, really. Like me." As incoherent as this is, you get her point. You ponder the subject for a while, attempting to think clearly through your mind’s dark curtain of drink.
"Er..." you falter. And David falters. Come on, you scream at him, mentally. Do something! But David doesn’t do anything. He has nothing to say.
And she knows. "You don't." she says. She's thinking. Worse, she’s thinking sensibly – you didn't get her drunk enough, you should have waited longer, you- "You don’t, do you? Thish is nothin’ but lu- lusht to you, isn’t it? Nothing more." She sits for a while, looking at the wall. The both of you rack your brains for something to say, but David is helpless, and you’re useless. As always, you’re useless, completely and utterly fucking useless. "Forget thish," she finally decides. "I'm going back downstairs."
She goes, but you wait for a while, sitting on the edge of the bed and trying to will the door to open again. “Fuck,” says David, using the extent of his drunken vocabulary. “Fucking… fucking fuck.”
You and David try to pick up some shred of your dignity, but you can't really think straight enough, so you just leave, mumbling something about homework and trying to avoid meeting anyone’s eye on the way out. Later, it would turn out that you missed the wallpaper in the bathroom being flushed down the toilet and Gordon Jensen setting the hedge on fire. But you wouldn't have enjoyed it anyway. Maybe David would have, but not you. Not really.
You walk all the way home, through the glowing sodium maze of the suburban streets at night and ambling through pointless little shortcuts through patches of trees, deep in thought.
And now you kill him. Now, finally, David dies.
It was a tough decision, but in the end it was either going to be you or him. So, it’s ended up being David. You'll find a way to dispose of his remains later; what matters now is that you make sure he is completely, irreversibly, finally dead. Make sure that he’ll never speak again, make sure that he'll never be seen again, and make especially sure that he'll never try to get his hands down some poor drunk girl's top again.
Maybe after a while you might have been able to learn something from him, to learn how to actually be David instead of just learning how to copy him, but you’re not David. You never were and you never would have been. David never even existed, at least not in any meaningful way. David was just a myth, some collection of vague stereotypes and prejudices that everyone else agreed applied to him – someone who all the girls liked and who set all the trends and who always knew the right thing to say. Oh, everyone loved David. Except you, because you knew him best - you invented him, after all, back when you were just You and not Him And You. You've pretended to be him for five years, and what has it got you? Six cans of beer hidden in your bedroom and Emily Stephens, neither of which you ever really fancied. Only David did.
And now David is gone.