16th April 1996
What a complete waste of time. What a complete waste of space.
After managing to ignore His many messages on the answer phone successfully my housemate handed me the phone this morning and it was Him. He was being all cool and ‘nice’ and very un Him like. He wanted to meet up to sort out practicalities. My immediate reaction was to tell Him to f**k off, which I did. But then, when He phoned again, I had thought about it and realised a meeting would probably benefit me too. Time to say goodbye. Admit to the end of an era and go our separate ways, cliché, cliché, cliché. I hadn’t prepared for this as, to be honest, I hadn’t really expected to see Him again after confessing my recent Ben ‘sins’ to Him. I hadn’t really wanted to see Him after his final violent tantrum. It was with huge trepidation that I met Him at the Woody this afternoon.
It started in a civil manner, all small talk and pleasantries, and on reflection that is how it should have been left. Instead we had pint number two. An ill-judged second pint. There I was thinking it was going so well, thinking how dignified He was being, hoping that we may even stay friends. The sun and the Stella had obviously clouded my judgement because before we’d finished that second drink the melodrama had commenced.
Tears started rolling down his cheeks. A non-stop, silent river of tears. This was unlike any crying I had ever seen before. What the hell was wrong with Him? I mean fair enough feel sad but good God there is a limit. I didn’t feel sympathy for him, just shock at the state He was in. He wasn’t His usual angry default setting it was just these bloody tears. And they kept on coming. I was embarrassed, uncomfortable and wanted to escape. But as I tried to mumble an excuse and make a sharp exit He dropped an almighty,
“I really need to tell you something.” His tone was sinister and I could sense His desperation.
“I’ve started using heroin.” Big dramatic eyes, pregnant pause. a ‘take that one on the nose’ air about Him.
Bloody hell, I knew for a fact this was nonsense; a ridiculous, desperate attempt to shock me into sympathy. I couldn’t even try to play His stupid game. Did He really think that some bag o’ shite lie would make everything ok and make me crawl back to Him. He was on something but it was definitely not heroin.
I guessed He had been to see Trainspotting since walking out. The film had inspired this pathetic story. I yelled at Him very loudly in front of an audience of sunny, spring afternoon drinkers. He cried some more. I think they enjoyed the sideshow. I turned on my heel and was gone.
And this time I really, really was gone – leaving a shaking, bawling, manipulative Ex behind. And it felt bloody brilliant.
It’s 5 in the morning.
He tried to kill himself tonight.
Housemate James found him in the bath, slit wrists, overdose etc.
Harry had her Dad’s car so we drove him to casualty. I can’t believe it and cannot begin to describe how I feel.
We left him there about an hour ago, he was recovering but weak and pathetic, just a shadow.
F**king stupid idiot.