His name was Justin. 23 and still drunk at 5 in the morning.
For some reason he had latched onto Ralph.
Ralph was my morning coffee buddy on the cruise. Ralph, who looked 60, but was 79 was a gregarious, affable, “Eyetalian”. Now retired and living in SoCal, Ralph and I had struck up a friendship of sorts. 2 ‘old farts’ who woke with the dawn and didn’t want to disturb their roommates. So, Ralph would wander up to the Lido deck, where he had found me on the 2nd day of the cruise, and plop down across from me and share tales of his life.
OY! Such stories. But, this is Justin’s story not Ralph’s.
Some gentleness is Ralph attracted strays like Justin … “wounded boys” … like me.
Ralph had invited Justin to sit with us. So, Justin sat and began to share the sorry story of his life. 23: a meth addict, pierced, tattooed, drunk, and a cutter. He showed us the tattoo, some of which he had placed to cover the self-inflicted cut scars.
Justin was a sensitive guy who like so many sensitive souls couldn’t cope with the pain inside. So, at age 11 he started drinking. At age 13, or so, he graduated to precription drugs, and ‘blow’. By, 17 it was cocaine and ecstacy. Then came meth!
Now, at 23, the graduate of several stays in rehab, he was dreaming the delusion that after this cruise he would join the US Marine Corp. Naively believing that the Marines provide the structure that he needed. The men of Semper Fi would “smarten up his sorry ass!”
Ralph knew better but didn’t tell Justin. Ralph was a Marine and served in the Korean War. Ralph knew, all too well, that the last person the Marines would want was Justin.
I think about Justin from time to time. And, wonder what became of him.
Is he dead? Or, still drunk?
The following poem is for Justin and those sensitive souls who like him cut themselves to free the pain.
Sadness has seeped
Into every pore.
Soaking the fibres
Of my body.
Permeating every
Cranny and nook
Of my
Body, Mind, Soul.
Driving my Spirit
To the Stygian
Depths
Of Despair.
Immersed in
The honey sweet
Slime of Melancholy,
The searing ache
Of emptiness
Fills my mouth
With
Almond bitterness.
The tantalizing aroma
Of
Death beckons.
And,
The razor calls
To me.
Its siren song
Promising surcease:
The razor’s touch
Is a gentle whispering
Burn,
As the crimson
Streams of blood
Drain away
The pain;
The goddamn fucking Pain,
That is ever
So much with me.
How can I resist?
How can I ignore
Her song?
And. Yet somehow
Simply Bathing,
Wallowing,
In the chocolate sweetness
Of her
Painful embrace,
Seems enough.
For now.
