Finding Nero

I often sigh with relief when a conversational assailant has concluded their vile forced-niceties and either continued on their merry, capitalist way or have otherwise turned 90 to 180 degrees from the tears manifesting in my eyes as a formal smile is banished forever more; my ashen face spared from shattering under the force of its own dishonesty.

“I’m good, thanks” we say, stifling the molten disgust within and thus neglecting to both itemise and indeed verbalise our very own 99 problems, of which a bitch may be 97 or none depending on the degree of societal liberty one has been granted and whether the refrigerator is stocked sufficiently with gelatinous goods and something caustic to wash it all down with.

Quite where this “black dog” materialises from remains a mystery, as does the legitimacy of its genuine-leather collar.

A melodic, subversive tune is now emanating from your SoundBlaster-16 as I tell you that we have all been affected by suicide at some point.

It matters not whether you crawled from the charcoaled bowels of your crack-häus through swathes of cadavers and snacks to discover that Kurt was now the tortured conductor of the choir-invisible, not to mention finding Aunt Beryl swinging from her garter after another Bingo defeat, or being accosted by the grim tale of Uncle Gus who elected to have an ibuprofen-soufflé followed by a nap crowned by a plastic shroud rather than facing the paedophilia charges. Again.

Outside of the fortuitous 1% life is a merciless, grinding, awful cunt at the best of times and simply unbearable for the rest of it – anyone who states otherwise is either a liar or a lunatic-at-large, both of which are preferable to meeting this horror at two-paces with the most vulnerable portion of your colon exposed.

Before the diversionary release of budget Cabernet Sauvignon was readily attainable, I often found myself romanticising the notion of taking my own life on a sunny afternoon before the ogre whom spat me from his scrotal-bag arrived home, and obviously only upon cessation of another mandatory 16:00 screening of The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air.

Many times I wandered into the jaws of the suburban garage acting as the forgotten cock-ring of my place of residence; a desire to forego the inevitable disappointment of another day ablaze in my juvenile mind.

The handgun that allegedly didn’t exist in bespoke ogre’s military-trunk now made flesh in my young hand, my youthful mind began to race; bullets pre-packaged like death-candy imploring me to ingest but one with ballistic force.

Many was the time I would stare into the infinite black of its iron-eye whilst my index finger gently straddled the trigger; one brief twitch away from an eternal sleep that would never be pillaged by a Top 100 FM Radio wake-up call at 7:29 am ever again.

The mental permutations that enter one’s mind in considering such actions range from the devastating to the ridiculous; an imagination folding upon itself as the impossibility of visualising entry into an eternal silent void becomes more and more pronounced by the moment – a myopic minds’-eye.

Visions of remorseful peers and family members laced my daydreams; novel compliments cascading from profoundly lamenting mouths as tears flowed in lieu of the senseless agony of it all.

My beautified corpse hence set to remain in the thrall of a fresh-faced slumber forevermore.

Suicide is often said to be the coward’s way out, however a certain grit and resolve must be required to undertake this final absolution due to the deep stigma and crushing finality associated with even attempting such an act – whether mired in faith, morality or experience – let alone not achieving this objective and hence living out the rest of your days entrenched in patronisation and pity from those who now view you merely as a basket-case or project-child.

Luciano was a precocious boy – vibrant, cheeky, wonderfully peculiar and obscenely irreverent at all times; the very antithesis of traditional societal views related to mental-illness and seemingly devoid of notable self-harm indicators.

Our first union occurred at a suburban tram-stop one afternoon – my status as the new boy all too obvious to this slick, wild-faced lothario who exuded fierce confidence and whom welcomed me into his burgeoning life; a profound generosity of spirit manifested for the first of many times, although this was obviously unappreciated at this juncture.

Over the years I grew to value you as a “good-time” boy; always the life of the party and the epicentre of entertainment to a throng of admiring peers, the likes of whom would never admit to your incandescent value, but rather ridicule you as a lout and loud-mouth when in actuality you were the rarest and most beautiful of things – a character. I was one such penis.

Introspection remained as foreign a concept as regular bathing and the flavour of female mouths to this teen-microbe, and yet I was acutely aware of the difficulties you had faced throughout your young life.

Your parents divorced when you were but a young boy, which unfortunately complicated your home life; the absence of your older brother greatly exacerbated your mother’s stifling dependence on you to fulfil the role as both companion and confidant, draining your energies greatly in the process.

I knew of the difficulties you experienced with your father, both in his physical and emotional absence at crucial junctures, in addition to his unwillingness to assist with your future ambitions of designing your own fashion apparel which hurt you far more than you ever could display to any of us.

Life disappointed you greatly, Luciano.

10:00 – 18:00 at the corporate clothing store you worked at did not satisfy you on any level, although you maintained a brave persona for the most part.

Young women were an ever-present in your life, and it finally seemed that you had found someone to commit to, although the chasm between the relationship you spoke of and that which materialised before us appeared to be far greater than you would divulge.

Your mind was always elsewhere, revelling in better times in a much better place – namely the country of your birth, Italy, and not suburban Australia which grew more and more ugly, grey and disparate by the moment.

Like many others, I viewed your charming insecurities through the prism of juvenility, never once considering that these may have been fuelled by great internal anguish and deep disaffection with the world around you.

Tales of leaving this hell-hole, bolting a spoiler onto your automobile and your intended future conquests were readily dismissed and decried behind your back without any though whatsoever as to their origin and the future implications of such things, but revisiting these artefacts brings me violently to the realisation that I failed you as a friend.

Saturday 12/08/2006 began as any other for the vast majority of the barnacles encrusted upon this irrevocably marooned hull.

Birds shat and chirped with gay abandon, nuclear-families smiled in unison at the breakfast table as talkback radio padded-out the ambience of their sickening love, and I thusly dozed happily in my filthy bed – the aroma of pizza, budget lager and countless vigorous masturbations hanging in the stagnant air of my dormitory from the night before.

I am awoken suddenly by two familiar young men at my door, although they are as peculiar to me as the Mormons I barbecued on Saturday last due to the conspicuous absence of Prime-Meridian hours displayed on my clock-radio.

“What the fluff do they want?” grunts my multi-addled brain.

“Luch killed himself” are the first words I hear as the door opens, and these are met with an awkward smile and a request for elaboration due to the fact that April 1 is now somewhere in the ether and there is nothing funny about mornings unless they signify the end of a 68-hour crack-binge.

The young man before me explains that Luciano has taken his own life via automobile-asphyxiation the night before, and I am reduced to staring helplessly at the cement before me for what seems like an eternity before we agree to reconvene later that day.

My hazed state thankfully allows me to pass out once more for a few hours until the true horror of the day kicks me square in the mouth and I begin to liaise with a close friend and several other acquaintances, including visiting one such acquaintance at his place of employment with this news to which this action was deemed the ‘growing of balls’, not to mention one other whom made the sage observation that “Luch killed himself; that’s pretty bad”.

Thanks. For. That.

Mensa awaits.

The coming days are a toxic mixture of despair, confusion and speculation as we all ponder whether we bore mention in your suicide-note; the most devastating experience being a collective visit to your mother’s place with countless others and having nothing more to say than “I’m sorry” before scurrying away like a crab on meth.

The realisation of ones’ own mortality is the most technical roundhouse of all, and my very own split my hideous face at your viewing.

There you lay, an artificial calm etched on your face with trinkets from your brief life surrounding you in your coffin that offered absolutely no insight into your humanity or struggle.

Hollywood itself can only offer so much insight into tragedy before Adam Sandler forces his next piece of shit into the most malleable section of your oesophagus until this is joined by bespoke piece of shit’s sequel and you suffocate on the foul taste of cash, hence I was ill-prepared for this situation.

As I gazed down on you, gripped by the realisation that this was to be the last moment we shared, I desperately attempted to verbalise something meaningful as I gently stroked your hair, but could only grunt a trite platitude thanking you for being my chum.

A cold wooden pew cradled my posterior shortly thereafter whilst token guests stared blankly at token photographs from your time here, and then suddenly I found myself on the street with cigarette in hand watching you vanish forever in the caboose of a hearse – our relationship now consigned to memory and your bronzed body consigned to dust.

Reflecting on all of this several years later, I am further sickened by the revelation that I never truly knew you, and this blade is plunged further into my heart in reliving the fact that we weren't on speaking terms when you exited, stage left, due to a petty grievance.

As ever, so much is left unsaid, and so many regrets remain as I have relived countless scenarios in your company, wondering if different courses of action may have either prolonged or truncated your well-being along with those of others.

I will remain forever thankful for one particular evening when we did truly connect, if only upon this one occasion.

A typically boozy night concluded with you sitting shotgun in my 80’s wreck as I whisked you home like so many nights previous, although your usual braggadocio and mirth was curiously replaced by a solemn vulnerability as you discussed some of your worldly troubles, including the ruminations of an unusual intra-sexual experience that had left you feeling conflicted when in actuality it should have spiced your young life.

This was but one mysterious aspect of your composition as a person, and a secret you kept closely guarded much like the revelation that you were taking Anti-Depressants and were, by extension, in the midst of receiving counselling for considerable time which was all veiled by your exuberant persona.

Perspective is oftentimes a great ally in times of despair, hence I am always drawn to my own mother’s saying that one must always have something – ANYTHING – to look forward to in this sweltering fiend of a life, however minute.

It matters not if the tyre-factory binned you two weeks before Christmas, Bill – the football’s on tonight, there’s a sixer chilling in the fridge, your wife  is off to play Craps with Bethlyn, Shana and Kristy having left a pot-roast in the oven for you, and Wayne will be rapping on your chamber door at 1800 hours precisely.

Oh, you have cancer, Todd? Yeah, that does eat several bags of dicks, however think of all of the exciting drugs you’ll have access to, plus the fact that you can finally do what you like including quitting that god-awful job at long last and finally – FLUFFING FINALLY – telling every single amoeba that has caused you grief exactly how you feel about them without any reprisals whatsoever.

I’m sorry to hear that your girlfriend has been cheating on you with the buff lifeguard, Jose. I’m not sorry, however, about the masses of free-time you now have at your disposal, nor the sheer opportunity now thrust upon you to meet actual people, elope to another state/country/enclave, write that novel told from the perspective of your throbbing penis and what it means in socio-economic terms; not to mention the infinite LOL’s you can rejoice in when bespoke harlot miscarries Mr Buff’s bogan child, or otherwise fails in every other regard whilst you continue to blossom like the cheeky flower you are.

You had so much potential, Luciano.

If only you had elected to have a double Jack Daniel’s, or a seismic masturbation on that fateful night instead of reclining in your Toyota for one last time, you could now be one of the pricks we are subjected to on a reality-television programme, a greased back-up dancer for any popstar-du jour assaulting our ears and touring the world, or perhaps a cravat-wearing artiste frowning upon us all and our Philistine-ways, pausing only briefly to readjust your money-clip and sigh elegantly.

I saw you once in a dream – you were absolutely gorgeous and as happy as I prefer to remember you.

Our eyes met for what felt like an age, until finally I uttered “I’m sorry”.

A sweet smile spread across your luminous face, and I awoke to a serene morning; an intangible calm within.

Should I have this opportunity again, I will not dare to ask “why?”, nor “whom?” nor “how?” – I will simply embrace you and hope that I never wake again xx