I’ve been decadent and morbidly sordid for too long, overindulging in the moral and physical decay of whatever was left in me. Nothing mattered. And, above all, I didn’t matter. “Fuck me. Fuck me dead,” became some sort subconscious mantra; the soundtrack of my demise, playing on repeat. I drank to it. I laughed to it. I wept to it. And I woke up in cold, dark, lonely nights to the sound of it. Alone and in the company of strangers. Too many strangers.
I arrived to C’s place at around 1 AM. There was a guy at the door, smoking. “Do you need help?” he asked me in Danish, as I struggled to park my bike in front of the house. “No, I’m fine,” I replied in English, fighting with my bike’s lock. “You live here?” he asked then, so I finally looked at him. He was young and looked fairly drunk, with a cigarette in his mouth and some 90’s dance music blasting from his phone. “My girlfriend does,” I said, a bit annoyed. A tad drunk as well. “Are you having a party?” I asked, thinking my sleepover was gonna be ruined by the noise from the neighbors. “Nah, we are just having some drinks. We are being deployed to Afghanistan next week. We like to get together and relax before going there. They say it’s good to prevent PTSD, you know?” We looked at each other in silence. He had the face of a man who has seen things he cannot unsee. I could relate to that. Deeply. You can’t fuck around to exhaustion and go untouched by the atrocious things you’ve seen, said or done. “Go to your girlfriend,” he said, as if he could also feel the pain I carried with me. We shook hands and said goodnight. We could now return to our lives, so I walked to C’s door, knocked and kissed her sleepy face when she let me in. I felt lucky. The war was over and I was back home to her.