The very last time I saw him, I ran away and kept running. I was terrified and he was drunk and it was a small place and I was in a strange country and there was really, nowhere to run.
I called everyone I knew and they turned up, pulling him away from me, as he staggered threateningly forward, telling him to lay off. Someone else, a friend of friend, sent a car, and got me the hell out of there.
Before I left, I glared at him, angry, disgusted at this wreck of humanity who had dared woo me over the Internet, pretending to be what he wasn't, even more disgusted at myself for ignoring the glaring signs along the way, that Denzil was no more than a broken-down alcoholic.
"Why don't you kill yourself?" I suggested.
"Wessy?" he named his daughter, his eyes whisky-moist.
"She doesn't need you. I think you would be more useful to her, dead."
He wept. Piteously. I turned away. Icy.
And that was the last time I saw him.
I blocked his email addresses, so he wrote to a friend of mine:
"I've been ill in hospital. Jaundice. If Jenn would just write to me as a friend, let me know she cared at least a little, I would feel so much better."
My friend told me and I lost my temper. "Jaundice, isn't that related to the liver? His illness has nothing to do with me. He's a fucking alkie. Besides, why the hell would I want to make him feel better? I want him dead! If there was anything I could do to speed that process now, I'd do it in a shot."
My friend sighed. "It's not for you to decide if he lives or dies, Jenn."
"No, I suppose it isn't. Just don't try to lay a guilt trip on me, OK? It won't work because I don't give a flying fuck!"
Oh you, whom I've hated so terribly...
I got an email this morning from someone I met in India. Someone Denzil had introduced me to. He told me that the man had a heart attack on March 12 and died in Thailand. His body was cremated by his wife's family and sent back to Bombay. The mutual friend went on to add:
"Denzu was a gentle and sweet tempered soul. We all will miss this kind and nice friend."
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