We were standing in the queue for some food and I asked him how he was doing. He was wearing pyjamas, with an anorak over the top. One of his wrists was bandaged. He said he was good. Said he was in rehab and he’d run away, but he was going back again that afternoon to get better, finally.
He died that weekend, haunted by life like an evil spirit. They took too many pills, him and his friend eating them like the proverbial Smarties, high after high. It’s weird to think about him trying to hold those tiny pills in his damaged hands with the missing fingers. He told me it was a punishment because he had blabbed, but never gave any more details. Wasn’t good on details. And meanwhile everything tumbling down.
Said he liked meeting me, as we talked in the queue. And he had really enjoyed writing the poems, but now wasn’t the time for writing.
He said was one of those people you can never trust, he warned me of it himself, like not eating rotten fruit. I kept feeling that there a subtext to the whole conversation but couldn’t figure it out and now he’s dead.
Who was it put him in rags? Who inserted the homeless heart? Lots of stories, from third parties. Like how he and his missus were so scared of their crazy dog they had to leave their flat and fed it meat through the letterbox until they were evicted. The flat full of shit, neighbours complaining, dog even more insane than before.
Now he’s dead and I wonder if anything could’ve stopped it happening, or if he’d gone too far astray from the pack.
