R.I.P... by BazookoJones
I did nothing anybody hasn’t done before. Not in my line of work. Ten fifths of Vodka and a bottle of Vicodin in 5 days will give ya a nickname. It will get you a therapist. Once a week, forever, until you find God.
The IV in my arm, the nurses all hunkered over, the doctor telling my wife, I’m going to make it. I’m going to make it. My God. What’s a guy to do? The Doctor tells her I need to ease up. My heart will explode. My liver is shot. Check it off the list. Check. Check. Check.
Then come Dudley. Dudley feels the time has come to swallow that balloon. Dudley feels it’s time to swallow that charcoal. I’m awake. This baffles them. I say I am no amateur. They laugh. Laughter is the best medicine. My heart heaves and the black death in my mouth says I’m alive. Alive and well. Much too alive and kicking. Alive and unbelievably unthankful. A legacy isn't an easy thing to string together. Life gets in the way. Something’s never go as planned, sometimes you have to save a life before you destroys it. My heart stops. That beep. That’s my heart. Flat line. Four nurses and a doctor over me and they shock me. Clear. I bounce off the bed and they do it again. They do it five times, until that beep blips. I’m alive. Oh so alive. Alive and kicking. I hate to see their faces when I am back here next week. Next week, I’ll take more drastic measures. Next week, forget booze, something in a needle. Short, quick, efficient. Fact is this is my fourth attempt. I am a “case.” Literally. A case, a number, a name. That’s my life. My wife, my college sweetheart, she left me twice. This will be the final time. I am no good for her. See. She deserves better and I love her too much to stick her with me. No woman should sign up for that gig. If she knew what flowed inside, what I thought, she’d left the country by now. But her heart, it’s big. Huge. I can’t take it. She’s killing me with love, kindness and I can’t inflict her with my disease. She needs someone pure, of strong fiber, someone that makes her laugh. Oh that laugh. She has it in spades.
Two nurses left now, monitoring the monitor. My blips are beeping, seemingly alive. But I’m dead. They just don’t know it yet. Tomorrow, when we vow to live proper, rectify out old selves, put the past behind us and move forward, then when we have gotten back from church I will fill a needle with heroine. No morphine. I’m going out with a bang. All the great ones do. My music, the **** on the radio, I’ve sold out. I am ****. Always been. Tomorrow, when I’m on the up and up I’ll be down and out. Literally. My music will live on, but my body, this weakened spirit, this toiled love, this cannot go on.
In room 401. An overnight stay. What will they say when I tell them, I am a social case/rock star. Two years ago I was on food stamps, now I eat fifty dollar lobster tails I never ever pay for. My legend. My love. She deserves better. Tomorrow when I vow to her I’ll never leave her, not her, not the kids, when I am practicing in the basement, when she is long asleep, so will I. Sleep. Eternal. Forever. I will be legend.
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