a couple of weeks ago, a friend of mine overdosed. he was an addict, of so many things, and we hadn't been as close as we were after my mental fuckery, breakdown and subsequent decision to try to rein in my addictions. time was, he would call me when he needed to and we got fucked up together- maybe not just fucked up, maybe more accurately we validated each other's suicide attempts, gave them the legitimacy of good times and chasing peaks, swallowing too much, shooting too much only in search of the high. and if that didn't work we'd fuck our self-hatred out on each other (every, every time.)
i got out of it with only the barest of scars, ugly lines across my stomach and thighs and forearms that i tore out with fingernails when i needed something to put me outside my head. he wasn't so lucky.
he died on halloween, waiting for his ex-girlfriend to come back from the costume party she'd gone to. nothing about it makes sense; we don't even celebrate halloween here. the coroner's report called his death accidental but he knew his doses. at best, he took the purposefully irresponsible risk most of us (all of us, his friends, me, all of those left behind, me, me, fucking me over and over) have taken with too much because you need it right at that minute and can't think of the consequences. at worst, he did it on purpose, he killed himself.
i'm not sure which is worse, really.
i don't have innocent memories of him to be sad over. what i have is high-fucked images and flesh memory. i knew him best high and with that i could describe the patois of his heartbeat. i could tell you about his desperation and the sourness of his sweat, could run down exactly what would make him come (on pills, on powder, on syrup, how to push his body so far that even the drugs were swept out under my body), describe the shape of him on my tongue and give you the twitch of his thighs when i ran my tongue around the head of his cock.
his grandmother found him, slumped over his keyboard with his face smashed and broken so badly they couldn't call a cause of death for days. he went out bloody, just like he wanted, but not grand.
i just hope, choking on it, desperate for breath, fingernails dug bloody in my skin, i hope that he went painless, that it didn't hurt, that at least in the end it didn't hurt.
i realise now that i probably didn't know him well but maybe i knew him as well as anybody else did. there's a closeness that comes from that kind of shared addiction. i probably knew him better than his family but that means fuck all in the sober days. i'm not sure he ever knew that i was his friend, even sober. i regret that. i regret it. i regret it. i regret that i wasn't a better friend. he deserved more than he had and he deserved more than i gave him.
i'm not foolish enough to think i could have turned him around, not arrogant enough, but maybe i could have done something. maybe he didn't have to go out that way. not like that. not like that.
i miss him, all the time i miss him and i regret, i regret.