A letter to Billy - 1. Chapter 1

Billy,

I can't believe that you were sitting at my table Sunday morning, laughing at morons with me and Mick, and now, on Friday morning, you've been dead for almost 48 hours. I keep thinking that maybe I'll wake up, and the email I got yesterday afternoon, and the phone calls, texts and other messages will have all been a bad dream. I am so unbelievably angry with you, and at the same time, I am so incredibly sad that I won't get to see you again.

You broke both of the Mick's hearts, just so you know. I had to tell them both, and it tore me apart to do so. My Mick just collapsed onto the sofa and wailed for you, about how he loved you, and you were his friend, and how there was now nobody to talk him down when he got all stressed and freaked out over anything or nothing. And about how smart, and funny, and kind you were, and how goddamned beautiful. And I fucking hate you for doing that to him, my sweet, high strung, oh so breakable man. You fucking broke him, you selfish bastard, and I hate you for it.

I just don't understand what drives a healthy, mostly sober, mostly employed man with so much to live for, to pickup a fucking gun and put it to his head ad pull the trigger. I don't know now, and I probably never will, because rather than pick up the fucking phone, you pulled the trigger. I can't imagine what your dad is going through right now. He found you, you know. His oldest son, the one he favored most. That's what you gave him to remember. That and the guilt of owning the gun you used. He still hasn't spoken. Fuck you for that. He is a good man, and he didn't deserve that to be his last image of you.

As for me, I have never craved a shot of heroin more in my life than I do right now, even when I was detoxing the last time. I just want the world to disappear for a little while. The problem there is that I have finally built a life for myself, after all these years of struggling and fighting and fucking up and losing and failing. I finally have it together, and one of my best friends, the kindest, most gentle, generous soul I knew until I met Mick, fucking eats a bullet.

I bought a bottle of scotch for you when I heard the news. I haven't had the balls to open it yet. I feel like, if I do, that will make it all real, and I don't fucking want this to be real. I just can take this. Anything else, but not this. I know there wasn't anything we could have said, most likely, that would have changed your mind. I know that we did all we could to make sure you were happy, and safe. But it still feels like I failed the biggest test of my life, and other isn't anything I can do to make it better.

Right now, I am sitting by myself, in my garage, writing a shitty letter to a dead man, and I feel like I'm drowning. My husband is in our room, laying in the dark, drowning in his own way, and I don't know if I can fix either of us. Just so you know the truth, kiddo, I'll tell you one more time. We love you. Both of us, all of us, almost every person you ever met, loved you. I know that you and I figured out years ago that we were better friends than lovers, but i still had a special place for you in my heart, and now there is a giant hole there. I still love you, Billy, and I know Mick feels the same. I hope someday I can get past this huge knot of anger I have in my gut right now, so I can forgive you for quite literally blowing a hole in all out lives, but right now, this moment, all I can say is that I miss you, you fucking coward, and I am sad that I can't call and tell you all of this.

Love always,

Jeremy

Bill Farrell, April 11, 1989 --- July 24, 2013