I don’t understand why
Haven’t heard from the Devil in months. That worries me because he’s one of the few people in the world I think of as a friend.
How odd, to have a friend you call the Devil.
We’re friends because we see the world in the same way.
Me: Why me?
Him: (shrugging) Because you can separate signal from noise.
Him: As you get older, you’re realize that most people can’t.
On July 14th, I felt compelled to reach out to this fella named Luciano Anthony.
What a name. Picture a super-built, really good-looking guy that was brilliant and you’d be picturing Luciano. He looked like a dude named Luciano Anthony.
(I also just found out that he went by Luciano Bianco as well – I only ever knew him as Luciano Anthony).
We were never close but he always said hi to me at the gym and was never anything but the nicest fella. He was covered in tats so I immediately made some judgments about him. All wrong.
He had a masters degree in Biotechnology from Johns Hopkins and worked as a science engineer. He did woodwork on the side.
Quiet and thoughtful, he was a beast on the mats. I remembered that I liked rolling with him because he always kept his gear clean.
Anywho, Luciano posted something random that night. It seemed out of sorts for what I knew of him.
I’m so fucking clever, you see.
So, I wrote him. I was probably drinking.
He was struggling with some demons. As a friend of the Devil, I know demons. In fact, I knew these particular demons he was struggling with. They’re old hated companions of mine as well.
Him: (afterwards) Sorry if that’s too straightforward. Don’t have much family or friends so I tend to word vomit.
Me: No. That’s fine. When I say I understand, I really do. And more.
The last thing I said to him was, “I get it. If you’re in heed [sic] of someone to vent to, lemme know.”
That was it. Even though I knew something was wrong, I thought, I did my part. I reached out. I patted myself on the back. And I went back to my life. And I didn’t reach out to him again.
He killed himself exactly a week later. I didn’t know until today.
In ironies of ironies, I just wrote about depression and suicide in my last entry.
In the past four years, I’ve known six – now seven – people that died; I loved two of them completely. Luciano was the only one that took his own life.
I knew there was something wrong but I didn’t follow-up.
I get it. What could I have done? With him, with Alison? But what’s the point of hearing signal if nothing changes, if it doesn’t make a fucking difference anyway?
His mom posted that he died on Facebook. That’s how I found out. Fucking hell. No parent should have to do anything like that.
Like I said, a mother’s love for her child is like nothing else.
I think the same thing I always think whenever I hear about someone as good and as talented as Luciano dying – doubly so when it’s suicide – why?
For all my cleverness, I’ll never understand why. I suppose I don’t really want to. He was only 29. To me, that’s just a kid. What a fucking waste of a good soul.
Goodnight, Luciano. I’m so sorry you suffered and felt like you had to go.
I hope you found your peace.
Location: Pier 84, talking about Luciano with Chad
Mood: not good
Music: Didn’t get to sleep that night till the morning came (Spotify)
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