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okay so my best friend breanna had a friend named grey, i cant remember if i had met him or not, and she has yet to reply to me if i did or not(i barley get to see breanna any more) any way this is grey's story bree knew alot about him and so she wrote this. what do you guys think should she make it a book or no?

My name is Grey. I guess you can say I have no last name. I was born on June 13, 1994 to my mother, Lisa Jonson and my father, Tim Wesley. They were never married. My mother died shortly after giving birth to me. She was very frail woman and child-birth only made her worse. My father was grief-stricken when she died, and never once looked after me, so child services took me away from him when I was nine months old. Since I was neglected, I was really sick when they took me and I developed a fatal life-long disease. Luckily, I got better after a lot of treatment and nourishment. (Tubes and needles in my body helped) Since then, I've been living in different foster homes all my life. I'm fifteen years old now, and time's running out to get adopted. I never got my hopes up that someone would want me. I'm very should I say, strange. People have said I have a weird personality.
I have bright green eyes and very light blonde hair. Though most say it looks white. Some, including myself, would say I'm in decent shape. I work out almost every day of the week; I keep active, even playing several sports. But I've never felt like one of the team. I suppose it's my fault own though. Besides the fact that I move before the season is up most times. (State keeps moving me around from foster home to foster home) Also, because I'm quiet and I don't talk at school much anymore, I've long given up making friends. I have my reasons; I've moved to a different place almost every semester of school, (sometimes every quarter or every other week) I try to only introduce myself when asked, and don't get too involved with people. I've never finished a whole year at one school before. I've been asked to dances, on dates, to parties. But that usually leads to knowing people too well. I don't like saying goodbye. And I've only ever had two real friends in my life. Jake and Bree.
Jake is a great friend who I've known since forth grade. I met him in Lancaster. He stayed in touch even if I was in San Francisco. Jake has a huge house and a backyard with a half pipe and a pool. His parents are nice; they let me stay over when some of my foster parents were simply just crazy. Jake's room is the size of the house I'm currently living in, with a flat screen T.V and designer skateboards covering the walls on racks. Another thing, Jake is blind, yet he is still smarter than any other kid I have ever met.
I met Bree in second grade. She was so friendly and she helped me try to fit in. Sadly, I had to leave a month in. I didn't see her again until I was fourteen. It was one day at my new town's Target that I happened to see her. I was hoping to buy a new lens for my camera and she was shopping for CD's. When I saw her I immediately recognized her. I asked her if her name was Bree. I was correct, and then I told her who I was. She didn't remember right away, but after I told her our tales of our friendship, she told me she'd remembered my hair and my eyes. After that day, we talked on the internet a lot, even using web cams sometimes too, whenever my foster parents had one. She told me about her life, and I realized that we had a lot in common. We became best friends again.


Memories:
During the summer, I move almost every two to three weeks. So that's the season I hate the most. I feel like I'm being juggled by a bunch of clowns (the clowns being the state). I'm just an "it" that they can throw around because they don't want to spend too much money to let me stay in one place for a long while.
It's a good thing I have several hobbies to keep me busy. Such as photography, painting, skateboarding, and exploring. I love to take pictures of the places I go, hence, the exploring. In the few things that I own, I own a digital camera, a skateboard, a few painting supplies. Of course I own different sizes of paintbrushes and a couple photo albums.
What's sad to me is: everything I own fits into one medium-sized suitcase. I have two pairs of shorts, three pairs of pants, three short-sleeved shirts, and one long sleeved shirt. (I recently noticed I grew out of a pair of pants and a long-sleeved shirt, so that's why I have less than before now.) I also own underwear and socks, enough for a week. You can imagine how frustrating it is to do laundry every few days.
I was beat up and kicked around a lot for being the new kid when I was a child, so that was my motivation in learning several forms of martial arts. I learned how to defend myself, and how to endure a hit. But to this day, I've had a broken nose, three broken ankles, two broken ribs, a broken wrist, a fractured elbow, a dislocated shoulder, and a fractured collarbone. Mostly all of that was from the other kids at the foster homes I've been in. But I did more damage to them usually.
You know, the only house I've lived in that I ever liked was owned by a young couple in Thousand Oaks, southern California. I was about seven at the time. They were so kind to me and they bought me my first skateboard. After some months, I thought they were going to adopt me. I was foolish back then, of course. The young couple got worried that they were rushing into family life too early with too little money. Especially with my illness, and they'd have to pay for my medications. I bet that's what scared away every potential full-time parent I've ever had. The fact that I had a disease that would eventually kill me and it's that reason that my medication costs so much. They're just little pills, but they're keeping me alive longer. If I didn't take them at least once in a forty-eight hour time frame, I would either seizure and possibly die, or go into a coma and die. Either way, I will eventually die at a young age. Even with the pills and some occasional shots, I'm going to die at around thirty years old, if that. But who really trusts doctor's estimates anyways?
Anyway, when I was about thirteen, I was sent to a foster home in San Francisco. There were ten kids already living there; six boys and four girls. Most of them were about five or six years old. But there were two boys that were older than me. They loved to pick on all the younger kids and abuse them if they rebelled. When I got to the house they immediately started their verbal form of abuse. I silently waited until they ran out of insults, then I walked away. They saw me later that day in the backyard painting and knocked over my paints. Then, they pushed me out of my chair and tried to kick me. I say "tried" because when they tried, I caught their feet and tripped them. So I got up and calmly and politely asked them to leave me alone. This seemed to anger them further, and they insisted on trying to punch me. I dodged and blocked them because I didn't want to hurt them. I knew why they were doing this. They were expressing their anger towards everyone because they couldn't toward the parents who left them behind. So, I asked them why they wanted to harm me, and they said it was fun hurting people. I calmly told them; thanks, but no thanks and basically told them to "back off", but in a nicer way. They left me alone for the rest of my month there.
One semester in middle school, about seventh grade, I was sent to a foster home that had mostly children under six or seven. It was in an area around Pomona. The people running it looked like drug dealers or drug users. They were poor and barely had enough money to feed all the children. So I pitched in whenever I could. (By then, I had two part-time jobs; walking dogs and babysitting.) But once I found out those people who were running it were using their own income to purchase marihuana, I went to the store and bought the food for the kids myself. I was at that place for about two months and it kept getting worse and worse. I was usually the only one looking after the children because the foster parents were usually in the basement doing who-knows-what. Those kids were such great kids. They always treated me nicely and they listened politely. When I left, I wished I could take them with me.

When I was about six, at another foster home, an old lady was taking care of me. Her son Steve, around twenty-five, was living there with us and he hated me. I have no clue as to why, because I never did anything to him. But he loved to push me around; especially when his mother wasn't around. Once, he even shoved my head against the stove. I had a horrible black eye, but thank God the stove wasn't turned on. When his mother came home that day, Steve told her I fell because I was running around in the house. I was scolded and sent to my room with an ice pack to "think about my consequence for my actions."

Ending: I am Bree
Until the very end of his life, Grey was a very caring, compassionate, and inspiring person. He loved to make me laugh. Whenever he saw someone in trouble or an animal hurt, he would help them to the best of his ability.
Grey had so much strength to carry on despite his life's hardships. He found the strength in me, as well. Grey had the ability to shine the light on any situation, just like he could bring light into any room with him. His artwork was amazing. It looked as if painted by angels. Grey also knew just when to take a picture. He could capture a moment in time better than paid professionals.
Grey's favorite thing to do at the beginning and end of each day was to sit on a roof and watch the sunrise/sunset.

When he called me from a pay phone the night he died, I had a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. He told me he'd run away and was in L.A. trying to find a way out of the directionless life he was leading. I tried to tell him he could lead a better life as soon as he turned eighteen, but he told me he couldn't wait any longer to be free. He swore then, telling me he forgot his pills. At the time, I didn't know about his fatal condition. He told me he would go into a coma or have a seizure if he didn't take another pill in less than seven hours. I yelled and cried for him to go back or go to a hospital, (he lived in northern California then.) he said forget it, he'd go down his own way, without the pills. He said he wanted a natural death, not one hooked up to wires and tubes. He said he wanted to end his life not like he started it.
He hung up, and I folded over crying on the floor.
Grey called back again, a few hours later, and he said he was in the hospital. Someone found him lying on the street and drove him there. He said he was in a daze probably from withdrawal symptoms, and he told me to listen carefully.
His last words to me were: "Remember me; I have no one else; just remember me and I'll never truly die. Even if my body is not in this world; the story of me and my life can live on, in you. I love you. Never forget that."
In the end, he didn't die the way he wanted. He died hooked up to wires and laying in a hospital bed. Jake told me his funeral was a short one, and the words said for him at the service were vague and really could be said about anyone who dies.
I still remember Grey. And I will keep my promise. He will live on through me. But his death haunts my dreams.

Agreed. Short story/book time, please.

thats depressing. it sounds like something from chicken soup for the soul