10.27.05 - 4:27 pm

hes dying.

there are pieces of him in little puddles on our driveway. on our back steps. little pieces of him in our bathroom sink.

hes pale. gaunt. dark circles under his eyes. he smells. he grunts. he hardly leaves his room. he eats eggs and pudding. he doesnt have the strength nor the stamina to even function as a member of this house. he drinks liquid vicodin from a huge orange bottle. hes gone through the whole thing in less than a week.

i saw him walking to class the other day. he looked so determined. like he had to get to his class before he passed out. died. nothing was going to stop him.

he looked like shit.

now hes returning to the doctor who maimed him in hopes of finally finishing what had been started. they really should just do it old west style. tie him to a chair, pour half a gallon of whiskey down his throat, have three guys hold him down while another man inserts a red hot poker down his throat....cauterizing the gaping wound. ending his misery.

and then later that day, slap him on the back real hard, share a few drinks and some hearty laughter.

"hahaha!" he would exclaim. fully healed.