“Grrr,I’m Niklaus Mikaelson and I’m gonna rip you all apart!” growled Otto with his teeth bared.
I laughed hysterically. That was the sign that our friend was drunk. He really did look scary when he got this way. But for the people who knew his calm sober self, this was drama. It was just another episode of ‘Otto the drunk is blotto again’. I’d laugh at how he’d go around the room feeling like an ‘original’ vampire, grabbing wrists. Then he’d lunge his face at someone’s neck, mouth wide open and attempt to ‘suck out their blood’ because he was ‘a famished beast that’s lived a thousand years’. His diction was always precise. Always grand.
If he got them, the person would cringe in pain for Otto’s teeth were pretty sharp. More often than not, he got himself beat for acting creepy. Then I’d burst into a laugh only the world’s best comedians can give you.
But now Otto’s gone. Gone for good. Forever. Never to return. And it’s all my fault.
Instead of telling my friend he was an alcoholic nearing his death, I cheered him on to the finish line. Maybe I should have sent him to rehab or done something, anything. But no, I’d thought He’s a grown ass man who can handle himself. Oh how I was wrong.
Instead of helping him, I laughed at him. I watched him march to the gallows with a smile on my face. I helped lift him up to the platform. I let him hang the rope around his neck. I failed my friend.
Instead of taking him to church, I’d drop him at the bar and pick him up after he’d got wasted. I failed my friend.
Instead of stopping him from drink driving, I’d made him believe he was in a racing video game. When the cops had stopped us, I’d paid the bribe to keep him out of jail. Maybe jail would have scared the life into him. But no, I’d thought real friends ain’t snitches. Now I know I wasn’t even a real friend to start with.
Instead of taking him home before he’d had one too many, I’d waited for the 8th bottle to be drained. I’d wait like women wait for the next episode of a telenovela. It was always after the 8th bottle that he’d become a ‘vampire’ in his own eyes. The ‘Otto the drunk is blotto again’ episode would begin and I, I who claimed to be a friend, would watch in delight. I failed my friend.
Instead of letting him know he was closing in on an early death, I’d let him believe he was an immortal mystical creature baying for blood. I failed my friend.
Well, I wasn’t there when the car he was driving, drunk as a fish, crashed. All the five drunkards in that blue Renault SUV died immediately. But where was I? In church. There I was, ‘praising God’ while Otto was getting himself all wasted. I’m such a hypocrite.
I should probably stock up a pile of bibles and rosaries and crucifixes ready for Otto’s ghost to haunt me. He was, after all, a ‘vampire’. Maybe I’ll be able to apologise, but what good will that do. He’s gone.
Goodbye dear friend. Goodbye Otto. A toast to you. A toast…to Niklaus.
We can’t mourn the people we loved and lost forever. At some point life has to go on without them. The best we can do is try as hard as we can to make sure nobody else passes on because we made the same mistake. We owe them that.
That’s because someday we’ll meet. I sure hope it will be in heaven.
PS: Otto is a fictional character. However, much of what I’ve written, is taken from actual incidents.
Me and my Big Mouth! 