September 13, 2012
Tony was the one we went to when there was trouble. We didn’t like to go there, but there were times when we didn’t have a choice. When we got there he was expecting us, he knew we were coming. His girlfriend Liz was with him. She spoke in a French accent, though she wasn’t French and didn’t know anyone who was. She performed the part of a French maid in a community theatre production and decided she liked the accent. This was before she moved to this area. When she got here, nobody knew that she didn’t really have an accent and she wasn’t really from France. I know because I fucked her, but Tony doesn’t know that I fucked her. I know he doesn’t because if he did, I’d be dead now. Tony doesn’t know about her fake accent either.
Tony’s neighborhood was more like a village and it was the strangest place, it was in the middle of the city and just didn’t belong. It was out of place but just as treacherous. Gangs avoided the area because it didn’t make any sense to them. That’s how I made sense of it anyway.
We went to Tony because my friend Dave sells pot for him. Dave’s dogs ate pounds of the pot he was supposed to sell, so he doesn’t have the money to give Tony’s higher up. My friend is the lowest of the low middle man, Tony’s next up, then his higher up, then who knows how many middle men make the chain. We don’t have the money or the pot, only dead dogs. Tony loans Dave the money and he’s all cool and nice and full of shit. If Dave doesn’t pay back, Tony will have some other guy break a limb at a time until he does. Tony says he has no control over what will happen, but he says that with a smile and he’s lying.
Just by being there we have to guarantee that he’ll pay back. Even if he has to borrow the money from us because we won’t break his legs. That’s what friends are for. Friends are for not breaking each other’s legs.
I found a letter from Kathy that she wrote before she killed herself. She didn’t write it to me though I wish she would have because I would have done something. She wrote it to Morgan and Morgan passed it on to me after her death. I think Morgan felt guilty and didn’t want it in her possession anymore but she was too superstitious to throw it away. I didn’t go to the funeral or wake because I was living in Florida at the time and didn’t have any money to make the trip back home. Morgan also passed her guilt onto me while passing along the letter.
This is the letter:
I acted so tough and strong. I dealt with it and used whatever power I had within me to maintain myself, to keep at least a small part of who I am. So that when it would end, and I always knew somewhere within that it would, I held onto that part so I would not lose myself completely. I put out energy as if I was becoming somehow more and more powerful through all the chaos and abuse, yet inside I was a child. Lost and frightened. Sad and lonely. Violated, terrified, hurt, and abused. Not knowing why. Not understanding why someone would want to hurt me so badly. Particularly someone I gave so much love to. Wasn’t I special? Wasn’t I special enough for Justin to truly love me as much as he claimed to? Instead for all the love he claimed to feel, I received his pain. And now I feel it all as well I suffer from my own.
It must be painful as a spirit to know how many human lives were destroyed by the taking of your own mortal existence.
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