Two Fridays ago I hung out with a bunch of my friends. Most of them got absolutely wasted, while I, as the only totally sober person, observed them from the sidelines. Though I wasn’t drunk like the rest of them, I still had tons of fun, (mainly because they’re hilarious when they’re drunk).
At one time, a little past midnight, 3 of the guys decided in their drunkenness that they were gonna leave the rest of us, (we were 5 left), to go see another guy that’s also in my class.
They were all like; We’ll be right back, we know were he is, don’t worry we’ll come back, just stay here. I of course didn’t take their drunk words as some that should be listened to, so I knew they weren’t gonna return.
So as soon as they’d left, the rest of us, (mainly me and another dude), started coaxing one of our friends, let’s call him Simon, into going home. He really, really didn’t want to though, and it took a lot of time, empty promises and lies to get him to walk inside his home and close the door. Me and the other, guy who’d also followed Simon home, started to go back to the place we’d been, so we could collect all the empty bottles and stuff, so we didn’t leave a complete mess behind.
We were both pretty relived that we’d finally gotten Simon to go home and we were just saying that to each other when we heard someone running up from behind us. And guess what?
It was goddamn Simon.
I wasn’t mad at him, but I was just a bit annoyed. I’d been so close to being able to go home and sleep.
It turned out that all he wanted to do was talk. And it got depressing as hell, like seriously, at one point I was so close to letting a tear fall.
He talked about his father who’d recently passed away, (I’d been at his funeral), how sad and lonely he was, how much he wanted to die and even went as far as telling me that he owned a knife.
I knew he was sad and needed someone to talk to, but I’d never imagined it being this bad. I felt so sorry for him, (I still do), and I spent around 30 minutes talking to him about it, consoling him and being all therapist-like, trying my best to make sure that when he got home, he’d go straight to bed, and not to his grave.
I told him how proud his dad would be if he made it through life, and lived a lot longer than he’d done himself, and how he’d someday be able to look back at all the memories created with him, and not just be filled with sorrow but also with happiness.
He was so drunk, so all he did was listen and hug me.
All I did was talk and worry about him, while hoping that he’d remember my words the following day, or at least some of them.
The next attempt we took at following Simon home was a success, (we even got him to lock the door after him!), and later when I was finally in my bed, there was even a text in the group chat, saying he was okay.
That made me feel a bit better, but I still fell asleep with an odd feeling in my stomach.
I’d just really like that the next funeral I go to, won’t be his.