A friend in need

He had passed out drunk again.

Jude woke up, feeling like his intestines were being dragged out of his anus. He felt dizzy, he wanted to throw up, and he had a killer migraine.

He staggered off the couch and half-ran, half-stumbled his way to the bathroom, but he was too late. He threw up a few seconds too early, splattering vomit all over the shower curtains and the bathroom floor. But it was ok, really. The whole house was a mess, anyway. The white bathroom tiles were greying for lack of cleaning, and  a thick layer of grime had accumulated on the sink and the toilet for the same reason. The medicine cabinet was open and pills -in all shapes and sizes- were scattered all over. Spent tubes of toothpaste were all over the floor and he was out of soap. What was a bit of extra vomit? It wasn't his first time, and it wouldn't be his last.

He disgusted himself.

He opened the hot water tap, but it wasn't working. He hadn't paid his gas bills. It was the middle of December and it was freezing, but he put the stopper in the bathroom sink, filled it with cold water, and plunged his head into it. In spite of the cold, he felt instantly better. He dried his face and hair with a towel that was so dirty it was impossible to determine its original colour, and threw it on the floor to remind himself to get it laundered. He laughed inwardly. Yeah, right.

 He looked up, and his rugged, tired face stared back at him from the bathroom mirror. To say that he did not look good was an understatement. His face was more lined than he'd ever seen it; he had dark patches under his eyes; his head seemed a lot balder than he'd remembered; and his blue eyes looked duller and emptier than what he imagined a corpse's eyes would look like. "Meh." He thought. It's not like anyone cares, anyway.

He loathed himself.

He tore his face away from the bathroom mirror, and walked aimlessly out of the bathroom. Was it day or night? He had no idea. The curtains were all closed, all the clocks lied to him because he'd neglected to change their batteries, and his cell phone was buried somewhere and the only way he'd find it was if someone were to call him, but no one ever did. He'd already given up on trying to call his cell from his home phone because he'd also neglected to pay the phone bill.

He went back to the couch, where he sank into a pseudo-comfortable position. His laptop was propped up on a pillow on the floor. The two bills he bothered to pay were his electricity and internet bills. And water. You really can't live without water, he didn't have a choice.

The living room was in a slightly worse shape than his bathroom. The television was in a million pieces all over the floor. A memento of his anger two weeks ago. There were shards of glass there as well, but he couldn't remember where they came from. Discarded candy wrappers, empty scotch bottles and junk food left overs littered the floor, and there were so many empty bottles of pain killers and sleeping pills that it was hard to actually see said floor. His only coffee table was smashed (Ah, that's where the glass came from) and the baseball bat that did the damage was still on the floor next to the former coffee table, bits of glass sticking out of it. The only place he had left to sleep on was the couch. And the bedroom, of course. But he wasn't gonna go there.

He scanned the miserable excuse for a living room for any sign of a scotch bottle that still had some in it, but to no avail. He had to get up and go to the kitchen.

To call it a kitchen was a bit of an overstatement. There was a fridge, some silverware on a wooden counter, and a broken stove. He opened the fridge, which was completely empty save for a 6-pack of beer. After a brief inner conflict, he changed his mind. He needed something stronger. Now where had he left those again? "Ah". He thought.

The bedroom.

The bedroom was the only room in the house that wasn't destroyed. Far from it. In fact, it was the only room in the house that had functioning furniture. The room wasn't clean, of course. No one other than him had been in the house for months, and he'd be damned if he was caught cleaning up his own mess. No, the room was dirty, but it was very tidy. The floor was clear of choking hazards -as opposed to the rest of the house- the bed was made and the night-stand only carried a bed-side lamp and a water bottle.

He walked straight to the closet, where his dwindling supply of scotch was kept. He still had four bottles left. He'd have to restock. And soon.

With a bottle in his left hand and a bottle in his right, he was leaving the room when his eyes caught something. Of course. The letter.

Unimpeded, memories came rushing back. Memories of his long-forgotten past.

He was a successful writer with many published works, once. He was famous, he was rich, he had a lot of friends and no lack of girls. He was living the dream, right?

He was. But then he got that letter.

He was a narcissist. A very lovable narcissist, true, but a narcissist nonetheless. His obsessive need to sabotage himself, coupled with his self-hatred and his undeniable love for himself was always driving everyone he cared about away, but they always stuck with him through thick and thin. Their support never wavered.

But this was different. This was real.

His family tried to stick with him. They honestly tried to keep him out of his miserable bubble of self-pity. But what could they do? All he did was spend all day at home in his sweats and eat junk food and drink himself to oblivion. They tried to reason with him. They tried to get him professional help. But he just wouldn't talk. He was shut off to the world, wasting away in his bed until it was time to pass out and face a new day in the morning. They couldn't understand why he was doing this.

He hated them for it. And he hated himself even more.

His girlfriend had originally thought she was the only one who could save him from this. But she couldn't. No matter what she did, no matter how long she sat there crying her eyes out, begging him to open up, he'd just guzzle down another bottle and throw up or pass out. She thought he didn't care. She thought he was selfish for not sharing his burdens with her. Because he wouldn't talk to her.

She was very right. And very wrong.

His friends tried jokingly kidnapping him out of the house. He wasn't having any of it. They tried to force him.  he broke someone's arm. Whose? He couldn't recall. All that mattered was that he'd stay home. He wanted to stay alone. No one should spend time with him. No one should suffer through this. This was his problem.

No one should ever know.

His friends came back later. They tried again, and again. Even the guy whose arm he broke. What was wrong with him? Why did he deny them the privilege of being there when he needed them? Why couldn't he remember his friend's name-the one whose arm he broke? They were all faces. None of it mattered. None of it ever did.

Even his agent and his publisher came over and tried to talk him out of it. But they just wanted to leech off his brilliance. They just wanted to make more money. They didn't care. And if they did, he certainly didn't. If he didn't care about driving his family, friends, and girlfriend away, he wasn't gonna lose any sleep over those two parasites.

But he did care..

He put the bottles on the floor, picked up the letter, and read it again.

Dear Mr. Jude,

The MRI results came back. They're positive. I'm sorry.

Sincerely,
Dr. Walker.


One small letter for Jude. One giant step for cancer.

Everyone knows the five stages of grief; Denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance.

He spent the first week after receiving the letter spending time with his friends and family, trying to leave them a good memory of him. He tied up all the loose ends, made his peace with everyone, and had all his contracts fulfilled or voided.

But he didn't tell anyone. No one should ever know.

Then came the anger. Hence, his destroyed house.

Then came bargaining. But there was really nothing to bargain for. He had terminal, inoperable pancreatic cancer. In its advanced stages too, no less. But he had to try. He'd originally opted not to undergo chemotherapy, but he tried a course. It was agony. All it did was get him to lose a lot of hair. He told his doctor where he could stick his IV, and he left. What was it gonna buy him, anyway? Three more years of constant pain?

All what was left for him was depression.

He started driving everyone away. He wanted them all to hate him. He wanted them all to give up on him. He wanted to be alone. But not just for their sakes.. He wanted to feel grieved-for. He figured if he'd have to die, he'd want to go knowing that his friends and family would know that he had their best interest at heart and that he'd driven them away for a reason. Not just because he was a self-centred, selfish narcissist who hated himself too much to see people care for him and loved himself too much to see pity in their eyes.

When he came to that realization, he suddenly couldn't take it any more. If you had less than two months to live, you made the best of them. You didn't wait for someone to come save you from yourself because if you weren't willing to do that, no one else would ever be.

He took a shower, put on clean clothes, and went out to make amends. To tell those he cared about how much he loved them and how much he'd miss them.

Because sometimes you had to be selfish enough to let others be there for you. Or selfless, depends how you look at it.

A "friend in need is a friend indeed" also works the other way around.

A friend indeed sometimes just has to be selfless enough to let his friends be there for him, in his need.