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Yeah, I made him top himself. What, that’s a crime? He did it for me. He was smiling. Look, you’re never going to understand me and him. We were kids together. He was a stuck-up little bastard. Never had to lift a finger. Pampered prince with his curly hair and his fancy clothes.
I always had it, though, you see? I was smarter than him. Been through the wringer. And his mum, what a bitch. He was terrified of her. Never touched him, wouldn’t talk to him, you know that posh shithead stuff. We didn’t go to the same schools or anything, but I was around and I had it. I knew how to make him happy. I’d do stuff for him. Spend time. Get him to do things he was scared to do. I’d dare him to nick his parents’ wine and he’d do it. We’d get drunk and he’d get – soppy I guess. I think he was lonely, so I fixed it for him. Made it go away.
Always.
Oh he wanted to do things with his life. Wanted to go out and make a difference or whatever. Stupid rich git. But he came back to me in the end. Always came back to his only friend. I mean, the queer bastard wanted to fuck me. I always knew that. But I wouldn’t give it to him and he was so scared to take what he wanted. Too shy.
I’d let him touch me a little bit. Or I’d give him a kiss, but closed mouths, you know? In the end we were living together. It’s fucked right? I’m his fucking soulmate, he can’t get enough of me, but I’m not bent so it’s not happening. I can only put up with so much, can’t I?
Well exactly. You can only put up with so much. We had separate bedrooms so I could still shag birds when I wanted to and didn’t get poked in the arse by him every morning. So I happened to be in his room one day and I found this little stack of cash. I had his cards and shit but I guess he was getting cash somewhere. Saving it up.
Look, you don’t understand. I’m the artist here. I’m the one with the brains, the imagination. He was getting fed up because I wouldn’t let him fuck me, so he was saving up to try and get away. Bastard!
Why couldn’t he admit it? That’s the thing. He couldn’t admit that I was the smart one. That I knew best. I did everything for him. He was so ungrateful.
So he was unhappy, and that’s a problem, right? So I fixed it, like I always did.
I never killed him. Didn’t lay a finger. What kind of life was that, though? See, we’d all be better off, wouldn’t we?
Because what’s the point of anything in this world? What’s the point of trying? Of trying to make anything better. Him trying to save up and go away from me. Humans in this reality are fucked, right? Only thing is to get away. Die here, wake up somewhere else. We’ll be spiritual beings and it won’t matter that I don’t want to suck his knob. He won’t have one to suck!
Makes me fucking sad. I care about people. I’m an empath, you know? But they’re all fucked and they don’t know it. Want to keep living, keep doing all their sad pointless shit, and they don’t see they’d all be better off if they did what he did. We’ve been talking about it for a few days now. We’ve been wrecks, him and I, about all this.
He loves it when I get emotional about other people. He came round eventually.
It’ll be better for both of us. When I die. I’m planning to, when I get the chance.
He’s happy now. He’s at peace, I’m sure. Fucking angel he was. Will have gone somewhere nice.
Fat bastard. You’ll need more people than that to lift him. I already tried.
Yeah, well I’m a Buddhist or some shit so like death isn’t real to me. I don’t consent to contract with you, blah, blah, blah. I didn’t do anything wrong.
He’s better off this way. I know what I’m doing.