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sIdMy best friend's medication is about to run out, and it really scares me
The summer after I graduated, my best friend Linus and I decided to bid a definitive farewell to our childhood with a trip to the US.
It was something we had both talked about for a long time and had saved up money for.
A fairly generous contribution from my parents, who thought it would be good for us to get out and see the world, also helped us along.
After a few days of partying and sightseeing in New York, we continued our journey into the country.By the time we got to Nashville, we were tired of hitchhiking with shady truck drivers and rickety Greyhound buses, so we decided to buy a car.
Back then, it was fairly easy to buy an old, half-broken car for a dime, and in the end, we chose a 1961 Ford Ranchero. Blue, ugly as hell, and ready to fall apart at any moment. We loved it.
The feeling of freedom was immense as we drove along the southern roads, switching between country music stations and feeling the summer air rushing through the old Ford.
After a wild weekend partying in Memphis, we slowly realized that both time and money were running out. I was supposed to start my job at my dad's company in a few weeks, and Linus was due to start at a retirement home around the same time.
We looked at a map and decided to make one last trip with the Ranchero, heading down to New Orleans to experience the magic of Bourbon Street before heading home.
Getting out of Memphis proved more difficult than expected, the traffic jams made us both impatient and irritable, and sometime in the afternoon, we decided to take a detour southward – highway 49.
Although it turned out to be a good decision in terms of traffic, it didn't take long before darkness enveloped the car. Rain clouds hung heavy and a stifling, electric-charged air silenced us as a headache crept in.
Eventually, neither of us wanted to drive anymore, so we pulled off at a motel north of the town of Clarksdale, Mississippi. The pleasure of taking off our sweaty clothes, jumping into the shower, and then pouring a bourbon while the thunderstorm raged outside was very comforting. Linus and I sat on separate beds in the motel room, American TV playing in the background, a bottle between us, talking away for hours.
I still remember it as one of the most beautiful nights of my life.
After a few hours, the rain had eased and the clouds had cleared. We were both quite tipsy and felt a walk would do us good. The moon hung gigantic over the hills and woods of Mississippi, and its blue-white light gave a mystical yet secure feeling as we walked in the middle of the night.
By midnight, we reached a major crossroads and decided it was a good place to turn back. The night had turned chilly and our legs weren't as spry as we'd hoped.
About a hundred feet before the crossroads was a large information sign. The always curious Linus stopped to read while I took a moment to relieve myself a bit away.
When I returned, Linus looked at me with wide eyes.
"Do you know what this crossroads is?", he asked, barely containing his excitement.
"No", I replied. "Isn't it just a regular crossroads?"
"This is where Robert Johnson sold his soul to the Devil," Linus said, looking at the board once more.
A while later, Linus, who was very interested in music, had told me all he knew about blues icon Robert Johnson, who was said to have sold his soul to the Devil right here, at the crossroads north of Clarksdale.In exchange, Johnson was said to have been granted the gift to play guitar like a master. Johnson had become one of the real legends in music, even long after his death. Robert Johnson died at the age of 27 in 1938, probably from syphilis.
Before I could react, Linus had left my side and was now running towards the crossroads. His long legs marched over the summer-burned grass, in the moonlight, his figure looked almost dreamlike.The arkness laid heavy on the landscape, and it was impossible to see more than a few yards into the void. I constantly felt that we were being watched, that something was out there.I didn't want to stay, I just wanted to go back to the motel and sleep. The story of the Devil's crossroads had made me uneasy – I've always been quite timid, especially afraid of ghost stories.
Still, I followed my best friend.When arrived, Linus stood in the middle of the crossroads, arms outstretched and gaze turned upward.
"Come on!", he shouted, as if he saw something far above.
"Stop it, it's not funny", I tried, but Linus continued.
"I sell my soul! If only we can be best friends forever! If I can be his best friend forever, you have my soul". He laughed at his prank and twirled around, looking up.
Linus was in excellent spirits when we returned to the motel, and insisted that we sit down in the bar of the roadhouse next door.
We still had enough money to cover gas to New Orleans, plane tickets home, and a bit extra, so I figured it wouldn't hurt if we spent a few bucks on drinks. I was still a bit shaken from the event at the crossroads.
We played pool, talked to strangers. When Linus went outside to smoke with an older woman he had met, I noticed a man at the bar that I hadn't seen all night.
It was strange, as it was a small bar, and the same 10 or 15 people had been there the whole evening. But I couldn't remember seeing this man before. What really struck me was that he was staring straight at me – there was no doubt about it.
He wore a black suit, a white shirt with a blood-red tie, long black slicked-back hair, and a well-groomed beard that framed his pale face. But it was his eyes that really stood out. Deep, cold, black eyes, staring straight at me.
I tried to acknowledge him with a quick nod, the man smiled, got up, and approached me.
"I hope you know what you're getting into", the man said in a deep, almost trembling bass voice, in perfect Swedish.
I was taken aback by his words and couldn't utter a syllable. The man smiled again, reached into his jacket pocket, and took out a white pill bottle without a label, it rattled as he shook it demonstratively.
"He'll need these", the man said, handing me the bottle. I took it without saying anything, as if all my critical thinking had been blown away.
Accepting a bottle of pills from a stranger in the middle of the American countryside wasn't exactly what I had planned for the evening.
I looked down at the bottle, opened it, and saw that it was filled with small red pills. Hundreds of them.
When I looked up again, the bar counter was empty; the man had disappeared.
The rest of the trip went smoothly, we had an unforgettable weekend in New Orleans, sold the Ranchero for a few hundred dollars, and a few days later, we were back in Sweden.
**So. Why am I telling you this?**
Well, I've started having serious problems.
25 years have gone by since that summer in the US, and Linus is very ill. I didn't fully realize how bad his condition was until today.
The day started like most others; I woke up, had breakfast, kissed my children and wife goodbye, and drove to work. As usual, I handed over the car keys to Edward, who was waiting outside the building and greeted me.
I entered, said hi to the staff, and took the elevator to the 18th floor where I have my favorite office.
The morning went well; we planned a consulting trip to Dubai, I had a successful meeting with an investor for a new project, and then I had a nice lunch with the finance minister at a pretty decent restaurant in downtown Stockholm.
It was on my way back to the office when a notification on my mobile phone alerted me. "Linus's medication" was all the note from my calendar app said.
I sighed, having forgotten that it was today.
Perhaps I should clarify a few things since I haven't been completely honest in this story. Or more accurately, I've omitted a few details.
Firstly, I should mention that I have been very successful in life. Shortly after returning home, I got a job at my father's company, and when he passed away a few years later, I took over his stock portfolio, including majority shares in all the companies.
I made successful investments in factories in China, India, and South Africa and made profitable placements in real estate and commodities.
Call me old-fashioned, but I firmly believe that one has to put in the effort to get anywhere in this world and that every man is the master of his own destiny.
I've worked hard and made my way up on my own, and I deserve what I have achieved.
But none of that matters now that my best friend is ill. Seriously ill. He is like a brother to me, my family.
When I returned from lunch, I went up to my office, unlocked my safe, and took out Linus's medicine bottle. There were only a couple of red pills left.
I went back out to the elevator, used my special access card, and pressed the button for "Basement 2".
When the elevator doors opened, I was greeted by Dr. Vidström, who always had a smile on her face. She doesn't know the severity of the situation. She knows she can't truly help Linus, but she gets paid to do her best.
I walked through the corridor, past nurses and doctors nodding their greetings, down to the large glass doors at the end. The glass doors to Linus's room.
I then remembered the man with the black hair and beard.You ee, I haven't told you everything he said to me that evening.
When he handed me the pill bottle, he said in his clear, fluent Swedish, "He will need these. Give him one a month. I will grant your wish. As long as he lives, you will have what you desire. When he dies, his soul is mine, and our deal is over."
I approached the glass doors, saw doctors moving back and forth inside. I entered.
The room smelled of hand sanitizer and death. Then I saw the bed. I saw Linus.
He had lost even more weight since I last saw him, his pale skin taut over protruding bones, his face hollow and chalk-white around his enormous eyes.
Tubes were inserted into his thin blue veins, IV bags surrounded his bed. His mouth was open, revealing the few teeth he had left.His gaze met mine, and his lips formed a smile. I approached, genuinely moved by his reaction.
He had been sick and weak for a long time, but now my best friend looked like a corpse. With jerky movements, his chest rose and fell. I placed my hand on his cold, thin arm.
"My friend," he whispered.
"Linus, please, don't try to speak. You're weak."
He shook his head.
"You're my best friend. You take such good care of me. I'm so happy; you're my best friend in the whole world."
Seeing him in that state made me sick, and I remembered the night at the crossroads when the young, healthy, and strong Linus exclaimed "I'll sell my soul! Just so we can be best friends forever! If I can be his best friend forever, you can have my soul."
And I remembered how I had whispered, "Take his soul. Take it and give me everything I desire in return," while Linus laughed and twirled around.
I remembered the blue moonlight, the cool summer night in Mississippi so long ago.
Two pills left. That's two months. Then Linus will die. He's so weak, as if something is draining life from him. And what happens when he's gone? Will I also pass away? Will my life continue as before? What about my investments? My stock portfolio?
I'm genuinely concerned; I don't want anything to change. If you, the reader of this, have any advice for me on how to prepare, please let me know. I might share some of my success with you.
/All the best, Niclas
source
The summer after I graduated, my best friend Linus and I decided to bid a definitive farewell to our childhood with a trip to the US.
It was something we had both talked about for a long time and had saved up money for.
A fairly generous contribution from my parents, who thought it would be good for us to get out and see the world, also helped us along.
After a few days of partying and sightseeing in New York, we continued our journey into the country.By the time we got to Nashville, we were tired of hitchhiking with shady truck drivers and rickety Greyhound buses, so we decided to buy a car.
Back then, it was fairly easy to buy an old, half-broken car for a dime, and in the end, we chose a 1961 Ford Ranchero. Blue, ugly as hell, and ready to fall apart at any moment. We loved it.
The feeling of freedom was immense as we drove along the southern roads, switching between country music stations and feeling the summer air rushing through the old Ford.
After a wild weekend partying in Memphis, we slowly realized that both time and money were running out. I was supposed to start my job at my dad's company in a few weeks, and Linus was due to start at a retirement home around the same time.
We looked at a map and decided to make one last trip with the Ranchero, heading down to New Orleans to experience the magic of Bourbon Street before heading home.
Getting out of Memphis proved more difficult than expected, the traffic jams made us both impatient and irritable, and sometime in the afternoon, we decided to take a detour southward – highway 49.
Although it turned out to be a good decision in terms of traffic, it didn't take long before darkness enveloped the car. Rain clouds hung heavy and a stifling, electric-charged air silenced us as a headache crept in.
Eventually, neither of us wanted to drive anymore, so we pulled off at a motel north of the town of Clarksdale, Mississippi. The pleasure of taking off our sweaty clothes, jumping into the shower, and then pouring a bourbon while the thunderstorm raged outside was very comforting. Linus and I sat on separate beds in the motel room, American TV playing in the background, a bottle between us, talking away for hours.
I still remember it as one of the most beautiful nights of my life.
After a few hours, the rain had eased and the clouds had cleared. We were both quite tipsy and felt a walk would do us good. The moon hung gigantic over the hills and woods of Mississippi, and its blue-white light gave a mystical yet secure feeling as we walked in the middle of the night.
By midnight, we reached a major crossroads and decided it was a good place to turn back. The night had turned chilly and our legs weren't as spry as we'd hoped.
About a hundred feet before the crossroads was a large information sign. The always curious Linus stopped to read while I took a moment to relieve myself a bit away.
When I returned, Linus looked at me with wide eyes.
"Do you know what this crossroads is?", he asked, barely containing his excitement.
"No", I replied. "Isn't it just a regular crossroads?"
"This is where Robert Johnson sold his soul to the Devil," Linus said, looking at the board once more.
A while later, Linus, who was very interested in music, had told me all he knew about blues icon Robert Johnson, who was said to have sold his soul to the Devil right here, at the crossroads north of Clarksdale.In exchange, Johnson was said to have been granted the gift to play guitar like a master. Johnson had become one of the real legends in music, even long after his death. Robert Johnson died at the age of 27 in 1938, probably from syphilis.
Before I could react, Linus had left my side and was now running towards the crossroads. His long legs marched over the summer-burned grass, in the moonlight, his figure looked almost dreamlike.The arkness laid heavy on the landscape, and it was impossible to see more than a few yards into the void. I constantly felt that we were being watched, that something was out there.I didn't want to stay, I just wanted to go back to the motel and sleep. The story of the Devil's crossroads had made me uneasy – I've always been quite timid, especially afraid of ghost stories.
Still, I followed my best friend.When arrived, Linus stood in the middle of the crossroads, arms outstretched and gaze turned upward.
"Come on!", he shouted, as if he saw something far above.
"Stop it, it's not funny", I tried, but Linus continued.
"I sell my soul! If only we can be best friends forever! If I can be his best friend forever, you have my soul". He laughed at his prank and twirled around, looking up.
Linus was in excellent spirits when we returned to the motel, and insisted that we sit down in the bar of the roadhouse next door.
We still had enough money to cover gas to New Orleans, plane tickets home, and a bit extra, so I figured it wouldn't hurt if we spent a few bucks on drinks. I was still a bit shaken from the event at the crossroads.
We played pool, talked to strangers. When Linus went outside to smoke with an older woman he had met, I noticed a man at the bar that I hadn't seen all night.
It was strange, as it was a small bar, and the same 10 or 15 people had been there the whole evening. But I couldn't remember seeing this man before. What really struck me was that he was staring straight at me – there was no doubt about it.
He wore a black suit, a white shirt with a blood-red tie, long black slicked-back hair, and a well-groomed beard that framed his pale face. But it was his eyes that really stood out. Deep, cold, black eyes, staring straight at me.
I tried to acknowledge him with a quick nod, the man smiled, got up, and approached me.
"I hope you know what you're getting into", the man said in a deep, almost trembling bass voice, in perfect Swedish.
I was taken aback by his words and couldn't utter a syllable. The man smiled again, reached into his jacket pocket, and took out a white pill bottle without a label, it rattled as he shook it demonstratively.
"He'll need these", the man said, handing me the bottle. I took it without saying anything, as if all my critical thinking had been blown away.
Accepting a bottle of pills from a stranger in the middle of the American countryside wasn't exactly what I had planned for the evening.
I looked down at the bottle, opened it, and saw that it was filled with small red pills. Hundreds of them.
When I looked up again, the bar counter was empty; the man had disappeared.
The rest of the trip went smoothly, we had an unforgettable weekend in New Orleans, sold the Ranchero for a few hundred dollars, and a few days later, we were back in Sweden.
**So. Why am I telling you this?**
Well, I've started having serious problems.
25 years have gone by since that summer in the US, and Linus is very ill. I didn't fully realize how bad his condition was until today.
The day started like most others; I woke up, had breakfast, kissed my children and wife goodbye, and drove to work. As usual, I handed over the car keys to Edward, who was waiting outside the building and greeted me.
I entered, said hi to the staff, and took the elevator to the 18th floor where I have my favorite office.
The morning went well; we planned a consulting trip to Dubai, I had a successful meeting with an investor for a new project, and then I had a nice lunch with the finance minister at a pretty decent restaurant in downtown Stockholm.
It was on my way back to the office when a notification on my mobile phone alerted me. "Linus's medication" was all the note from my calendar app said.
I sighed, having forgotten that it was today.
Perhaps I should clarify a few things since I haven't been completely honest in this story. Or more accurately, I've omitted a few details.
Firstly, I should mention that I have been very successful in life. Shortly after returning home, I got a job at my father's company, and when he passed away a few years later, I took over his stock portfolio, including majority shares in all the companies.
I made successful investments in factories in China, India, and South Africa and made profitable placements in real estate and commodities.
Call me old-fashioned, but I firmly believe that one has to put in the effort to get anywhere in this world and that every man is the master of his own destiny.
I've worked hard and made my way up on my own, and I deserve what I have achieved.
But none of that matters now that my best friend is ill. Seriously ill. He is like a brother to me, my family.
When I returned from lunch, I went up to my office, unlocked my safe, and took out Linus's medicine bottle. There were only a couple of red pills left.
I went back out to the elevator, used my special access card, and pressed the button for "Basement 2".
When the elevator doors opened, I was greeted by Dr. Vidström, who always had a smile on her face. She doesn't know the severity of the situation. She knows she can't truly help Linus, but she gets paid to do her best.
I walked through the corridor, past nurses and doctors nodding their greetings, down to the large glass doors at the end. The glass doors to Linus's room.
I then remembered the man with the black hair and beard.You ee, I haven't told you everything he said to me that evening.
When he handed me the pill bottle, he said in his clear, fluent Swedish, "He will need these. Give him one a month. I will grant your wish. As long as he lives, you will have what you desire. When he dies, his soul is mine, and our deal is over."
I approached the glass doors, saw doctors moving back and forth inside. I entered.
The room smelled of hand sanitizer and death. Then I saw the bed. I saw Linus.
He had lost even more weight since I last saw him, his pale skin taut over protruding bones, his face hollow and chalk-white around his enormous eyes.
Tubes were inserted into his thin blue veins, IV bags surrounded his bed. His mouth was open, revealing the few teeth he had left.His gaze met mine, and his lips formed a smile. I approached, genuinely moved by his reaction.
He had been sick and weak for a long time, but now my best friend looked like a corpse. With jerky movements, his chest rose and fell. I placed my hand on his cold, thin arm.
"My friend," he whispered.
"Linus, please, don't try to speak. You're weak."
He shook his head.
"You're my best friend. You take such good care of me. I'm so happy; you're my best friend in the whole world."
Seeing him in that state made me sick, and I remembered the night at the crossroads when the young, healthy, and strong Linus exclaimed "I'll sell my soul! Just so we can be best friends forever! If I can be his best friend forever, you can have my soul."
And I remembered how I had whispered, "Take his soul. Take it and give me everything I desire in return," while Linus laughed and twirled around.
I remembered the blue moonlight, the cool summer night in Mississippi so long ago.
Two pills left. That's two months. Then Linus will die. He's so weak, as if something is draining life from him. And what happens when he's gone? Will I also pass away? Will my life continue as before? What about my investments? My stock portfolio?
I'm genuinely concerned; I don't want anything to change. If you, the reader of this, have any advice for me on how to prepare, please let me know. I might share some of my success with you.
/All the best, Niclas
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