the night before maff’s suicide
Delphine Lecompte

of course i miss maff,he introduced me to dave gahan’s convulsively yet sensually twisting bare-chested body and to frog races and to eating glass and to saving wounded pigeons and to weeding hoes and to snorting crushed valium and to friendship,i try to tell people how pure and innocent he was,but all them bourgeois cunts can see is his self-harm,his coke addiction,his—admittedly quite impressive—criminal record and his spiteful suicide notes to his father and to the world at large,but if them cunts had a father who raped and punched and threatened them for twenty years on end,maybe they’d understand why some suicide notes have to be spiteful,it takes guts and intelligence not to give in to those bourgeois values when you’re staring into the face of death,it takes guts and intelligence to keep up the spite until the end,but we did not fucking bond over spite,and we were hardly bonnie and clyde,even if we did some fair mugging and murdering during our passionate friendship,we were both skinny fucked-up orphans longing for one decent christmas,not longing,fucking demanding one decent christmas,we were gonna make it happen,the two of us,one decent christmas before slitting our wrists and jumping into the sea,hand in hand;i knitted a red scarf for my tender fucked-up orphan lover and i spent the whole of november listening to “silent night” and writing wry christmas carols,i was feeling pretty fucking mellow,oh i even wrote my father a letter asking him if he could forgive me for having raped me,and i did not once headbutt my mother when i bumped into her in the cold cruel crowded streets and the serpent slapped me and punched me relentlessly every time we bumped into each other but all i could think of was maff and london and all those lights and i wondered if he would finally let me suck his cock on christmas,we called each other every day and i made fun of his sentimental outbursts,cos i really thought he was the mellow one,i never really knew that it was the prospect of suicide rather than christmas that was making him so fucking mellow,the night before christmas eve i got a phone call from maff’s father:“maff’s dead.”MAFF'S DEAD???MAFF'S DAD???is this some cruel twisted joke,you pervy bastard???but it wasn’t,my impatient orphan lover could not face up to one fucking decent christmas,or maybe the decent christmas obsession had always been mine,not his,cos maff really only wanted to die,and i only really wanted to spend christmas with him and suck his cock;maff left us—his friends,relatives,social workers and idols—an impressive amount of suicide notes,all of them were spiteful and unforgiving,all of them but mine.

best wishes,

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