Cracked Friendships

A choice to cloud your judgement is redundant.

We were awoken by a paramedic the next morning. She was standing next to a slouched Fernweh who wore a deathly grimace and pale skin. The paramedic was far from her natural habitat, surrounded by dirty backpacks, crumpled sleeping bags, escargot remains and smoking embers.

I snapped to alertness - Fernweh wasn't one to make acquaintances with medical personnel. He hated hospitals - their presence, their power, the people who worked for them, the people who suffered in them. He'd always told me that he'd rather die than check into a medical facility, so I was more than worried about how he was doing.

"I've got to take this guy to the hospital."

The paramedic's words, like icicles, solidified my fears. We hadn't known Scrib had hit Fernweh that hard. His slaps, while sting-worthy, hadn't seemed too powerful. I was even more blown away that Fern was accepting the help. He must have been in a bad state.

The paramedic had found Fern wandering Toronto Island by himself, wheezing like a malfunctioning grandpa, and had done a quick checkup. Her resulting assumption was that his sternum was cracked, broken by an intense blow. The entire group glanced at Scrib (undoubtedly invoking curiosity within the paramedic) but said nothing. Scrib didn't so much as blink.

After the paramedic hauled Fernweh away, we packed up our stuff and started a largely silent walk back towards the ferry terminal. Scrib's face slowly fell into a fearful grimace. Was it fear for Fernweh's safety? Or a fear that he'd stepped over the line and lost some good friends? Perhaps (and more likely) he was afraid of the demons that hibernated within his soul, scratching the surface, craving fresh air and howling to be set free.

 A line had, indeed, been crossed. The line had been crossed so far that it couldn't even be seen - but we could not be too enraged. Fernweh and I had known that this would happen - Scrib was our friend, and we loved him. That being said, we knew the repercussive effects of drinking with him, and we stood by him in that - but Fernweh had been unwise to drink four litres of wine with him. Like juggling dynamite over a bonfire, things could take a turn for the worse.

Along the way, somehow we decided to drop more acid (Scrib exempt) but we figured we'd get back to Toronto, check up on Fernweh in the hospital, and grab a case of beer beforehand.

After a short ferry ride and another stint of Hades' generosity (he'd already supplied acid and our ferry tickets) we had a case of beer in our hands. We hustled towards the hospital, but Scrib declined to journey the entire way. His words were laced with regret, but he spoke no word of apology and said he'd wait for us at the park. Hades decided to join him. Squanch and I left the case of beer with them and brought three - one for each of us and one to smuggle in for Fernweh.

He wasn't at the hospital. The nurse said he hadn't been registered; she called the other hospital and he wasn't there either. I assumed he'd either used a fake name or was still in E.R., so we figured we'd check back tomorrow - hopefully he'd be out by then.

We slammed his beer on the way back to the park, a cheer to battles lost and futures won.