It's not something I'll forget. It represented something, but what? The end of her life? The beginning of the end of his? We didn't know where we were headed after this. We didn't know what this meant to us, but we knew something had to change. We didn't know what had to change or who needed to make it change, but something needed to shift. This was a warning. A huge, gigantic, screaming, billboard of a warning. A warning filled with questions and holes and untied strings.
She was so careful when she did it. I had just had a day of fun with Maureen and some friends, Roger was out with his band at some audition, Maureen went back to her sister's place and I bounded through the door like nothing could stop me. I was so stupid to be so happy, so when I saw that the bathroom door was open and the light was on in there, I immediately turned sour. Imagine that, I was pissed over wasting electricity. It was petty in comparison to what waited for me in the bathroom.
Her. Slumped over the side of the bathtub, her blonde hair covering her face. My first instinct was that she was just incredibly high, or crashing hard. It wasn't unusual that I found her like this. I let out a heavy sigh and trudged forward, crouching down beside her.
And then something caught my eye. Her arms, pale and needle-marked, dangled in the tub. Almost like she was trying to climb in, but had fallen asleep, or lost consciousness before she could make it. Wake her up. I had to wake her up. I shook her, rubbed her back, called her name a few times. Then I saw the dripping. Little round drops of red were spilling effortlessly into the tub, running down the side of it. Had she broken a vein? Can you break a vein? I didn't know what I was doing, so I did the only thing I could. I turned her over. In doing so, I revealed what was really causing little red rivers to run down the side of our bath.
Slash marks. Not neat, quick, painless ones. Gashes, as though she had attacked herself in a fit of rage. Suicide. My roommate had committed suicide. Her face was empty, her eyes were open and they weren't that happy-go-lucky blue anymore. Lately they had been heroin-chic gray, but now they were just eyes. Eyes that would give a grown man nightmares.
I was overcome with the absolute need to throw up. Taking my hands off of her I scrambled to my feet. In a panic, I turned and found myself leaning over the sink that was behind me before. I had eaten very little, so dry heaves were mostly all I managed to dispel from my churning stomach. I stood up, my hands clenching the sides of the sink, tears streaming down my cheeks, and came face to face with the mirror.
In deep red lipstick was a note. Simple. Complete.
We've got AIDS
She was dead. She was dead and she had been sick. We, we, who was we? What was AIDS? I knew about it, I had heard about it, but no one I knew or was close to had ever confronted it. I had never been exposed to it. Christ, what did it even stand for? Something Immune something Syndrome? I had to do something, I had to call the police. I rushed out of the bathroom and fumbled with the phone, dialing 911 after a moment of complete confusion.
"State your emergency." I hated the woman on the other end of the phone. It wasn't *my* emergency, this was everyone's emergency. Her family, her friends, Roger. Oh God, where was Roger?
"I--my friend slit her wrists..." I spat out, on the verge of hysterics. She didn't slit her wrists, she practically tried to saw her fucking hands off.
"Is she still alive, sir?" No. No she wasn't. I knew that.
"I don't know, I don't think she's breathing...and there's...blood...everywhere..." Keep calm, keep cool, don't panic, get through this.
"Where is everywhere, sir?"
"In the bathtub, she slit her wrists in the bathtub..." I didn't get through that sentence without choking back a few sobs. I heard sirens. They were already close.
"Okay sir, stay on the line until the ambulance gets there." The woman instructed. I didn't want to stay on the line, and I could hear footsteps coming up the stairs. I hung up the phone and rushed over to the door, swinging it open. There were at least four officers and a slew of EMTs. I just let them in without saying a word.
"Where is she?" One asked. How did they know it was a she?
"Bathroom..." I drawled numbly. They rushed off as officers began interrogating me. Me of all people. Little me who had never seen a dead body in his life.
"How old was she?" Twenty one.
"What was her name?" April Harris.
"When did you discover her?" About 20 minutes ago.
"Did she have any reason to do this?" I don't know. There's a note on the mirror.
"Does she have any family? Anyone else who needs to know about this?" Her parents. Her boyfriend. Her other roommates. Why did they use the past tense? My mind was a total blur and I spat out answers like a robot. Just churning out information. Not even giving anything a second thought. How would Roger find out? Maureen and Collins?
It changed me. Roger was tested, and he did indeed have AIDS, so it changed him too. But what was it that *needed* to be changed? What was this supposed to show us? That we were strong? That she was weak? That Roger's drug use was dangerous? Was it a punishment? A reminder? What the hell were we supposed to do with this now? Clean up and move on? There was no way to ever clean up and move on. We sort of just swept it under the rug and moved over it. Moving on wasn't an option. I still don't even know what our options could have been.