i'll be ok

Danny.

I hate smartarse clients, and this one was no exception. Doctor/patient confidentially be fucking damned, his name was Danny Jones, and he’s a singer in some crappy pop band. I’m posting this to tell you all that he’s an absolute asshole. I’m a psychiatrist, and he came to me complaining he was having problems sleeping – standard case, I told him to lie down on my couch and relax his muscles.

“Even my bladder?”

Fucking smartarse.

“Do you need to go to the toilet before we start?”

“Nah, I’ll be ok.”

“Right, lie down and try to relax – close your eyes and take slow, deep breaths.”

A smile spread over his face. I knew his type, he was up to someth- oh fuck. There was a dark patch spreading on his jeans, and I could hear the pattering of drops from his jeans onto my leather couch,

The asshole.

I decided to continue the session as if I hadn’t noticed it, and within about fifteen minutes he was gently snoring on my now spoiled couch. Asshole.

Revenge.

I went to the bathroom upstairs from my office, and started running cold water in the bath. A quick trip to the kitchen got me some ice cubes which I dumped into the bath, and waited the few minutes until it was full. Back to my office and the asshole was still snoring comfortably in his own piss-puddle on my expensive sofa. I gently lifted him, wishing I had a clothes peg to block the stench from my nose, and carried him up to the bathroom. I held him at arms length over the bath, wishing he wasn’t so damn heavy, then dropped him. Water sploshed over the sides as he hit the water’s surface, soaking the trousers of my pinstripe suit. He spluttered as he awoke, and turned to me.

“Don’t fucking piss on my sofa, asshole.” I said.

Then I punched him.

He never came back.

Good fucking riddance. Asshole.

Dougie.

I bet he regrets those words now, as he eats his daily meal of raw meat and some freeze-dried vegetables. Maybe he regrets ever joining that band, I don’t care. I know he regrets ever meeting me. My name’s Davey, and I was the one he beat to become McFag’s bassist. It didn’t matter what I tried for, I was always labelled as “the guy who didn’t get into McFly” – I haven’t had a single fucking gig. But, I guess the joke’s on him now. The news of his disappearance died out about a month ago, and that fagband split apart within two weeks. No one really cared – there were a few teenies who committed suicide because of it, but that’s not exactly a loss to the world.

He’s rather pitiful really – took less than a week before he was as meek as a lamb. A few days without water and he accepted his life, and I’ve barely heard him utter a word since. I think he’s starting to go crazy – he’s started pretending that his shits are babies – I even saw him holding one up to his nipple yesterday, and start crying when he couldn’t make any milk for it. I half wonder if I should get him a pet – I did kind of prefer him when he knew why I was gloating.

A pet was how I got him, I just pretended I had iguanas I wanted to sell, he came round, I clubbed him over the head with my bass. A quick van ride while he was unconscious and he was safely ensconced in my basement. I’d remembered him saying once “It’ll be like a zoo, but better, because I’ll be in it.” Now, he’s in my zoo. The one and only exhibit.

I’m not especially cruel to him – he gets regular meals, a litter tray, has a nice lot of room to run around in, and I keep it heated. But nudity, uncooked food and having to drink from an oversize rabbit’s water bottle have their effect. He spent about six hours when he first woke up trying to break down the reinforced Perspex that keeps his run separated from my viewing area. He tried a hunger strike next but that wasn’t really a problem. I removed his water, and after a few days, he was begging to have it back. I made him wait another day, and since then he hasn’t given me any problems. I can hear him singing now – Just say I’ll, I’ll be ok.

No Dougie. You’ll never be ok.

Tom.

I never meant to be a prophet. But I never realised how wrong I’d got it. How hopeless things can be. Now they’re all gone, and I’m alone. Dougie disappeared nearly six months ago now. We tried to keep going, but Danny hadn’t been the same since he broke his nose, and he got in a row with Harry, I tried to help... it just went downhill. I can’t understand why he would leave me, and now Harry… oh god, Harry…

I can’t stand it here anymore now. I can’t go into the lounge without seeing the image of his body as I found it last week… they say he took an overdose of sleeping pills first, and that it probably didn’t hurt, but… Why did he do it? I know what he said, but…

I need someone to hold me. Hold me like Harry held me all those months. He’d just sit on the sofa, his arms wrapped around me while I cried on his shoulder. He was always there, always ready to take me in his arms and give me comfort whenever I needed it.

And now he’s gone. There’s no one to care. Danny didn’t even phone me. Didn’t offer to come and be with me. Didn’t even attend the fucking funeral for gods sakes. All for some petty little insult? How the hell did we go wrong? We were great friends, happy, laughing…

I don’t think anyone’s laughed in this house for about four months.

I don’t know how he could do it to me. I loved him. He said he loved me.

But he walked out.

I know I should keep… keep the light on. In case they find Dougie. But I know now – he’s not coming back. I’m all alone. And this… is just so much easier.

Harry.

I thought I’d really gone to heaven, but he’s tricky like that. I should have known I couldn’t go there, not as a suicide. This is hell. My personal hell. It’s not hot and firey, it’s just… I’m trapped. Like Dougie. But I can see out. I can see him in his cage, I can see Danny as he opens his Christmas presents, and I can see Tom as his body lies on the floor, slowly bleeding to death. My hell – to watch my friends die.

I know that he’s watching me. He’s always watching me. Like he’s watching everyone else. But I’ll never see him. I’ll never see anyone again. At least, not in any way I can interact with them. I just want to go back and do things over again. I know things now that I never did before. I know why Dougie disappeared, I know why what I said hurt Danny so much, and I know why Tom can’t cope without him.

I let Tom down.

And he’ll never know I’m sorry.

You don’t realise the consequences of your actions. You never realise how one thing affects another affects another… You see what effect your life had on people when you stand in the rain at your own funeral, watch the tears stream down the face of the one friend you had left. Of the friend who needed you most. Of the friend who lay slumped over your coffin even as everyone else left. Of the friend who’s about to experience hell first hand.

Of the friend who’s in a living hell. Of the friend who’s slowly losing his mind. Of the friend who’s been told you died, but can barely remember who you are as he gnaws on the carcass of a dead rat.

Of the friend who came late. Of the friend who tried to call but never knew the phone was off the hook. Of the friend who somehow never quite managed to ring the doorbell. Of the friend who even as he opens his presents, knows he’ll be dead within three months from a brain tumour.

I’m sorry.