Eight old men are dying behind a curtain in Brendan’s hospital ward. What they’re dying of I can’t say. But they’re dying. You can smell it. Sometimes I go over and talk to them, but they never say anything back. I go anyway, because I can’t just sit here and stare at Brendan all day. It’s too boring.
Right now I’m on Brendan’s side of the curtain. Like the song that says whose suicide are you on? I’m on Brendan’s. And he is a suicide. Well, almost a suicide. The doctor told us he took a very bad beating and drank a lot of Drano and that he’s going to be comatose for a while. He doesn’t know if Brendan got beat up and then drank the Drano, or if he drank the Drano and then got beat up. I’m pretty sure I know the guy who did the beating, and I wouldn’t put it past him to wail on a suicided body. But there’s no proof, and Brendan isn’t likely to tell us, since the only noise he can make is a fart.
Brendan really does look like hell, with his bruised face and purple eye sockets and breathing tubes and IVs. The nurse shaved off his mohawk so they could drill a hole in his head and relieve the brain swelling, and now you can see all these old tattoos where his hair used to be. They look like a five-year-old drew them—little skulls and stars and a heart that’s cracked in half. Continue Reading »