"I don't like fucking you," he said as he shook me awake.
"And I hate your took in that dog."
Gus was found in a drainage ditch covered in fleas and ringworm. He was now on meds and sleeping in my living room.
"I was going to buy you a dog, a designer dog, a $1200 dog."
"But I love Gus."
"I don't care. I don't."
"I took 5 Ambien."
"Because you don't love me."
"What?!?" At this point I was wide awake. Crazy had served 9 years over-seas in the army, survived a childhood of abuse, and was dealing with PTSD.
"And I took six Benadryl." He started to cry and walked into the kitchen.
"Where are you going?!?" I screamed.
"I'm going to slit my wrists!!"
"I've also had a few shots of whiskey: half a bottle of whiskey. YOU DON'T LOVE ME. YOU HATE ME. EVERYONE HATES ME. I'M BETTER OFF DEAD!"
At that point I ran downstairs and knocked on my neighbors' apartment. It was 11 PM, but they were still up and said I had to call 911. When I went upstairs, Crazy was hiding. Hiding in my 900 SF apartment. I found him under my bed.
"You hate me," he said. "Mom hates me. Everyone hates me. I should die!" He held a carving knife in one hand and the empty bottle of Ambien in the other.
I left him there and from the hallway, texted Clark, my best guy friend from high school. 3 months prior he had moved 30 minutes away from me. "Come ASAP. I need you." That's all I said.
I went back into the apartment. Crazy was in the fetal position on the bathroom floor. "I took 8 Benadryl! And finished this Nyquil!," He said, as he held up empty containers. Tears ran down his face and he licked them up with his tongue.
The cops arrived. My neighbor came upstairs. I sat there, not sure what was happening. They told me to step out, then come back in, then step out again. They had so many questions.
"I'm sorry," the cops said. "It's your word against his. We can't take him in unless he's a threat to you or himself."
"But here's the empty Ambien bottle! And here's the the empty Benadryl!" I held up the bottles.
"But it's your word against his." Crazy was standing there, snot and tears running down his face. His eyes were red. "Maybe let us talk to him in private," the cop said. "Maybe his story will change."
I went and sat on the step. Two minutes later, Clark pulled up. He and I had been best friends for the past 10 years; he was a brother and a best friend. And never before in all our friendship was I so happy to see him. As soon as he was out out of his car, I was in his arms, sobbing, explaining what was happening.
"Let's go up," he said, "and see what the status is."
I held his hand so tight. Clark: my best friend, the person who cared about me most in the giant state of Texas.
Crazy was in handcuffs. Snott was running down his face and when he caught my eye, he looked at me with intense anger.
"Well, he's admitted to wanting to kill himself," the cop said. "We're going to take him to the ER."
Clark squeezed my hand.
"You never loved me," Crazy said.
"I only want you to be safe," I said to Crazy.
Crazy was taken away. Clark stayed up with me all night. We baked 6 loaves of bread and watched the sun come up with cups of hazelnut coffee.
2 months later, Clark was laid off and moved back to our hometown.