Incomplete, so I guess he's still alive

I'm in tears. Absolute tears. (it's in the bin down the street, with banana peels and apple cores)

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Edgar was a bothered man.
His mother loved him, his sister disliked his face, his aunt cried when he was born, and his father was dead. When he was seven, his first best friend was found strangled under her front porch. Her mother was found a few days later in an old room down the street with half her face missing. Edgar had always wondered where the other half went.
A few days before going into middle school, Edgar’s Aunt set up a meeting with a therapist for him. This was when his mother had gone away to live with Uncle Arthur for a year. She never explained why, but Edgar had gotten used to it by then. His doctor’s name was Mitch, and he liked to talk about softball, and if Edgar was any good at it. He happened to be, and Mitch ended up teaching him more about techniques than helping him forget about his best friend. Edgar didn’t mind that much though, because they got to go to the park every Thursday and sometimes Mitch would bring him to his house and let him watch old movies with him. He was Edgar’s second best friend.
Becky was the name of Edgar’s first kiss. He liked her because she chewed bubble gum and wore skirts and bangles and knew how to dance. She liked him because he was pretty okay looking, and not a nerd, and she got bored a lot. When they kissed it was all right—not great, but not unpleasant either. Their relationship was an excuse to go out on Friday nights and catch the adrenaline of hiding under the bleachers with a hundred people standing above them. Just when Edgar was getting used to the wetness of her tongue, her father was transferred and she moved almost without saying goodbye. He felt surprisingly empty.
The year before graduating, Edgar discovered archery. He found that when concentrating, he could focus on a certain point and let everything else go dark. His trainer, Jack, praised him for this apparent gift he had, and rewarded him with free lessons on weekends. Sometimes Jack would have to fix Edgar’s stance or the way he was holding his bow, and when he guided his body Edgar could feel the callouses on his hands. They never said it, but he knew Jack was his third best friend.
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