The news hit me like a physical blow, a punch to the gut that left me winded and disoriented. Stéphane. Gone. The word echoed in the hollow chambers of my mind, refusing to settle, refusing to make sense. And yet, amidst the initial shock and the burgeoning tide of sorrow, there was another, more complicated emotion stirring: a bitter, almost perverse amusement at the paradox of it all. How do you grieve a good friend who was, with absolute certainty, a monumental cunt?
It’s a question that has plagued me since the moment the phone rang, since the stammered words of mutual acquaintances confirmed the unthinkable. Stéphane, with his booming laugh and his infectious enthusiasm, is the man who could charm the birds from the trees and then, just as effortlessly, metaphorically kick them for fun. The friend who was always there, unwavering and loyal, until he wasn’t. The confidante who held your secrets safe, only to subtly weaponise them later, just for the sheer intellectual exercise of it.
Our history together was a tapestry woven with threads of genuine affection, shared laughter, and deeply personal moments. He was the first person I called when I got that promotion, the one who celebrated with me until the early hours. He was also the one who, when I confessed my deepest insecurity, managed to twist it into a backhanded compliment that left me feeling more exposed than before. He was a master of the double-edged sword, a virtuoso of the veiled insult, a grandmaster of the subtle, soul-crushing put-down. He was also a master of the disappearing act, vanishing without a trace only to reappear months later, charming his way back into your good graces as if no time had passed and no slight had occurred.
And yet, despite all of this, despite the undeniable, often infuriating prickliness that defined so much of his character, there was an undeniable magnetism to Stéphane. He was brilliant, fiercely intelligent, with a mind that crackled with ideas and insights. He was adventurous, always pushing boundaries, always seeking out the next thrill, dragging you along whether you wanted to go or not. He was, in his own twisted way, profoundly honest, incapable of truly faking anything, which, while often painful, was also strangely refreshing in a world full of polite fictions.
So, how do I process this loss? How do I reconcile the genuine pain in my chest with the memories of his often infuriating behaviour? Do I mourn the friend who stood by me, or the friend who consistently pushed my buttons, often with malicious intent? The answer, I’m discovering, is both. It’s a messy, uncomfortable, and deeply human process.
I find myself remembering the good times, the genuine warmth, and the shared experiences that forged our bond. And then, almost immediately, those memories are tinged with the recollection of some outrageous, self-serving, or simply unkind act. It’s like trying to untangle a knot of perfectly good yarn that has been deliberately interwoven with barbed wire.
Perhaps the truest form of grief for Stéphane is to acknowledge the full, contradictory spectrum of his being. To mourn the loss of the vibrant, complicated, and often infuriating presence he was in my life. To accept that he was a good friend and a monumental cunt, and that both truths can coexist within the confines of my sorrow. It’s not about forgiveness, not yet. It’s about acceptance. Acceptance of the man he was, flaws and all, and the gaping hole his absence leaves behind, even if that hole is shaped like a perfectly executed, infuriatingly clever, and utterly unforgettable kick in the teeth.
