I don't want to talk about it.

I mean, I'm here, all right, fine you got me, oooo big whooop, but I don't want to talk about it. I had to help kill someone close to me today, for both our own goods. Yeah, the right thing to do for us both was to shoot him and put him out of our combined misery. It doesn't make it any goddamned easier.

I don't want to talk about it. But I have a fresh beer and I'm only half in the bag and, frankly, I'm fucking pissed at the universe right now. So I'll talk. Just know that I don't want to.

My friend, see, he wasn't a big drinker or drug taker or anything. Naw, his whole thing, it wasn't straight edge or anything whacked-out like that, but he was just into his own shit. We hung out a lot, he didn't bitch about my drinking, and I didn't bitch about his making me drink alone, and we got along.

The guy helped me work out some issues with my writing. You know, he didn't ghost me or nothing, but he knew where it was at and helped show me a path. Then, get this, he calls up some friends and invites them over one night. Just calls them over while I'm writing something in his kitchen.

So fine, I'm a bit pissed, but it’s his house, right? I was just doing chores to help keep the place looking good while he helped me with my word shitting. Still, it felt kinda rude. I was creating here, man, you got that? Where'd he get off?

Whatever. Look, see, the point is that he invited these fucked up guys over and made us all sit down and acted like we were some sort of therapy group or some shit. No lie, he had been helping a lot of other folks out in the same way, but I didn't see them doing the damned dishes. Whatever.

No, it worked out all right. I mean some of them were fucked up and stormed off 'cause they had too much of their own baggage and whatnot, but after a bit the rest of us we found out we liked working together.

Not together so much as in the same room. The drinks ran free and clear and the smoke was thick. It was a moment. One of those great periods of short time you call home. Or something.

So we left, and no one really said anything too formal, but we all started to drift back to his place and meet up again. To write. We didn't play cards, we didn't watch movies, we would just meet up in this one guy's house and drink and smoke and write. And somehow I did the dishes. What was up with the dishes? I only wish I could tell you, but I got nothing.

Recently I heard a rattle in his chest when he called me at the bar. It wasn't too bad, but it weren't too right either, get me? We talked, the others weren't there, and it was like that first night. He showed me some other secrets he had, but I knew he had also shared them everyone the same way. I wasn't gonna get fooled a second time thinking I was unique in any of this mess. Still, it was a nice gesture.

But when I asked about that rattle he shrugged and said that sometimes you only get so much time. And he asked for help. No, I didn't shoot him in the head, or help him braid a noose, or anything like that.

I just agreed to help him set a date and make sure he was left alone to decide the final things for himself. Who the fuck am I to decide, right? But he did it. I knew he would. I heard the shots, and felt like I pulled the trigger myself.

It was the right time. I'll always miss him, but this beer here, this one is dulling the pain nicely again. For now. Until the next, right? He was the lucky one. He got to choose. Me? I don't get to choose. I just get to come down here and hammer this shit out and not want to talk about it but spill my shit all over the rug for you anyway. I don't have a choice.

What's worse? I like it that way.