That Selfish Asshole

This was supposed to be an ode but given that I suck in poetry and the bitch didn't deserve an ode, I went for prose. The usual. My domain. Written in my signature foul language.

She's my friend, my first. She was physically big with a rotten temper hidden underneath an anxious calm. She spent most of her life worrying what others thought of her, so she exerted an unnecessary amount of effort pleasing everyone she met. She made it a point to always be a rainbow in somebody else's cloud. She wanted everyone to be happy so they won't think any less of her and her flabby, ugly physique. She never tried convincing herself that she's beautiful in her own way. She was just a clown that brought what most would consider band-aid happiness. She was okay with that because it gave her a sense of purpose. But underneath that jester-of-the-court default facade she maintains was a competitive, power-hungry motherfucker who thinks she's better than everybody else. In a way, I can't blame her. She's never really had anyone before me and all that time alone she spent feeding her mind what knowledge she can get her hands on. She was mindblowingly intelligent, I'd give her that, with incredible insight on basically everything. She had a heart coupled with that brilliance too, at one point. Everyone loved her for it and she drank it all up. At that point, she was almost convinced that she is more powerful that she ever dared imagine and she strained under the pressure of the hovering desire for rightfully earned self-importance. She decided she'd pretend not to know she's the best of the best while deep in her heart, she swelled with supreme pride.

She was constantly coming up with mad ideas that she knew she couldn't even finish. She'd always been good with starting shit but she sucked at finishing them. This is what frustrated me. She was a diamond in the rough, all right, but she always left behind something for others to finish. She has focus the size of a goldfish's attention span. It went on for a while and then everything she built started crumbling around her. She started blaming me for not pushing her, for just watching her fall. That struck a nerve. I finally gave her tough love.

But nothing changed. If anything, things just got worse.

She started ditching her responsibilities and everyone that came with them. Even when physically present where she should be, she's still far away, immersed in a world only she could find and navigate. She started operating on autopilot and it scared the hell out of me. Sometimes, she would knock on my door in the middle of the night begging for an audience. Though under a lot of unimaginable stress, she never lost a pound. That constant glimmer of joy and pride was suddenly gone though. Her eyebrows are now permanently contorted in clashed lines that scream anxiety. She refused to cry. Not her thing.

One night, she barged in and started talking about "ending it all." I immediately lost my cool and started pounding her with the same tough love words. In the middle of all of it, I broke down and started telling her all the stuff she's used to—that she's amazing, that she has the power to be that ultimate game-changer, that she is important. She stared at me with frighteningly blank eyes and smiled.

"I don't know what this feeling is. I'm not tired but I'm not excited either."

As she looked around finding the right adjective, I started trembling.

"Just empty," she blurted out.

For first time, I saw tears run down her cheeks from her eyes that are now wide open with all hell trying to break loose from behind. I wrapped my arms around her and told her something I never thought I would.

"I love you. Please hang in there. You'll be all right."

"Just empty," she repeated as her huge frame started shaking. It took a minute for me to realize that she was humorlessly laughing. I let go and watched her sag to the floor, staring and laughing at nothing as tears flooded her face. I watched as the brilliance that once defined her left her small, chinky eyes. I watched as she suffered her slow, agonizing slip into madness.

I watched.

For some reason, I woke up the next morning with her sitting at the foot of my bed. She was smiling. She looked fine.

"I'm sorry," was all she could say.

Before I could ask her if she's okay now, she stood up and left the room. I sat speechless on my bed when a syringe caught my eye. Then a thud.

That selfish asshole.