The End of Samson

So troubled, his mind, his urges. Just when it is all so well, it crumbles. I was afraid when he said he was home, left a no good town two hours away. My questions weren’t answered, always in piecemeal with him. A puzzle pieced story that takes days to get, extract from him the more he becomes at ease. I thought perhaps this time it wasn’t so bad.

Thursday night, I’ve painted with light, and I’m having a lite meal at a Mexican restaurant when he calls. Two days since I have heard from him, since I saw his face though I’ve called. Relapses scare me. It’s so easy for him to slip quick on that deep slope. I say meet me at the house in an hour. Ten minutes late, and he’s upset with me, why can’t I be on time?! Since when has it mattered? How about all the times he’s never showed up, never called, gotten lost in China doll’s house on the Phosphate? And he’s upset about my punctuality? We bicker, this is odd, what strange things for friends to argue about. I leave the room, sit at my computer, and wait, but nothing. He says I’m acting as a child, and I say how much older is he by not returning my calls for two days because I had upset him earlier in the week. I don’t understand the beginnings of this fight.

He didn’t start the job, I should have known then where those two days had gone to, but I didn’t push him. I was accused of thinking the worst happens. He leaves.

The next morning, at my cubicle, sleepy eyed and barely coherent, I received an automated call about a suspicious transaction on one of my credit cards. And then I knew. What he had done. Why he picked a fight so he’d have reason to leave.

Fool. Such a fool. A card that I don’t even keep on my person, and he knew. I called home and asked for the abandoned wallet of cards to be looked through. It was the only one gone. Samson, what has become of you?

I called him. Voicemail. I called his mother. She said he wasn’t home, that he came in the night before for a quick shower before leaving, before my house, no sight of him since. He has fallen again. Relapse. What house of ills does he slumber in now?

In all the years, the struggles, never has he trespassed against me like this. I’ve picked him up in the early morning hours, his eyes bloodshot, veins laced, shooing away crack whores and making threats to call police if he didn’t come with me. I’ve climbed through a window, bruised my body, in order to take him to rehab only to be told he didn’t feel up to going that day.  I have fed his belly and opened my pocket during each attempt at rehabilitation. So why steal from me? The person who has exceeded the bounds of loyal and love for him all this time.

I called again. Voicemail. This is what he would later hear: “Did you not think Chase would call me? Did you not think I’d ask someone to look in the wallet? I never want to see you again. I never want to talk to you again. You no longer exist.”

The end of Samson in my life. Ten years of friendship severed, all for a ten dollar fill up at a Kangaroo gas station.

It doesn’t matter the meager amount. It’s about trust, respect. Such sacred elements of any relationship. To break them is like desacralizing sacred ground. I am loyal until the end, and he has brought the end to fruition.

After I hung up, I cried, standing deep into the car lot so as not to be found, hiding between Silverados. Betrayal. Such a pain in my heart. Samson, you have slaughtered this friendship, its death on your hands.

Sleep on these thoughts. Hear my words. You don’t exist to me anymore. I want it to echo in your conscious, you don’t exist. Let it break your heart like you have mine. Let its ruin plague your mind. Forget me like I will forever desire to forget you.

This entry was published on September 21, 2008 at 3:29 am. It’s filed under Psychology, Sociology and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

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