My hometown alcoholic has died. Now I know why he wasn't responding and why I had panic attacks for a week. The last thing I said to him was that I wanted to just be friends. He replied that maybe we could hang out or get dinner sometime. I gave that a cold thumbs up.
He called twice on my birthday but I didn't answer. I called back the very next day but no response. I thought he was angry at me. But I also worried if he overdosed, because he drank all day every day and nothing anyone said could ever get him to eat. I knew alcoholism would kill him, but I didn't know it would happen so soon.
He had covid a couple times, drank in crowded bars and never masked, so I didn't trust seeing him as much as he wanted. He kept asking me to go to thanksgiving and christmas with his family and I said no because I didn't want to die.
He was in poor health when I visited in August. I was worried about him, because he had lost so much weight and looked jaundiced from too much drinking. I got to hold him for the last time that day. We embraced all night. We shared a final bottle of mezcal and a kiss. Didn't know it would be the last time. He was only 42.
We once joked together about what I would do at his funeral. I said I would dress slutty and show up drunk and throw myself at his grave and act indecent in front of his grandma.
I feel like his death is my fault. He wanted me to be his girlfriend, I said no. Now he is dead. I am in shock. The last night I saw him, his roommate said, "Everyone is dying." This is the news I was afraid I'd find.
On our last evening together he said, "I think I will probably always love you." He brought me comfort.
Hello, grief. His two missed calls will haunt me for the rest of my life.
10:19 a.m. - 2022-10-24