Most places around the world, it was still at three in the morning. But in New York City, East Village, life never stopped. In fact, a whole new society of people stirred as the sun vanished. Once the well-to-do and moral people closed their doors for the night, the streets filled with bohemians, junkies, and starving artists looking for some semblance of pleasure. Vices could be enjoyed anywhere by anyone, and Roger Davis was no exception.
It was just moments before three when the young, struggling rock star managed to stumble up to April's door. Her apartment was near the loft apartment shared by Mark, Maureen, Collins, and Benny. A raging headache and crawling skin were the physical evidences of his fading high, brought on by his vice of choice; heroine. Cold, tingling fingers dug deep into his tight pocket for a key. Finally locating the sharp metal with a soft grunt, Roger managed to jam the key into the lock after the third dizzy attempt. His vision blurred briefly, his head pounding violently. Letting his head drop against the door, Roger raised his arm and looked at the track marks all over his arms. i What the hell am I doing, /i he asked himself for the tenth time in the last two hours.
Roger had been a junkie for almost five years, and it was killing him. He knew it, April knew it, his friends knew it; that didn't stop him. Mark and Maureen kept begging him to quit, and the instant Collins had figured it out, the man had almost pulverized him, verbally and physically. "What the hell do you think you are doing, Roger?! You're fucking i killing /i yourself!" That had been an unpleasant conversation, and every time he shot up, those words rang in his mind until the heroine silenced them.
Shaking his head in a feeble attempt to clear it, the regretfully young junkie pushed open the door and fell into the living room with a loud clatter. Sprawled on the floor in a graceless heap, Roger kicked the door shut with his foot and lay still. Something about staying prone on the floor spoke of being the intelligent choice, so he simply let himself drift off to sleep, shutting out the world and the pain of reality.
It was nearly noon when a sudden, unexpected slap across the face, accompanied by a loud shriek of protest, brought Roger back to consciousness with a painful jolt. Deep blue eyes cracked open only to quickly shut again against the bright light. Slowly this time, those eyes opened again to see Mark and Collins standing over him. "That wasn't necessary, Collins. Is he ok?" someone asked. A woman, presumably Maureen. Groaning softly, the blond stirred and blinked a few times to try and truly clear his vision. Someone had moved him to the couch and covered him in a blanket while he slept. He tried to sit up, but found himself pinned to the couch by two strong, resolute hands; one white, one black.
"Oh no you don't, dumbass," reprimanded a deep baritone. Collins came into view as Roger turned his head in what felt like slow motion. "Feel fortunate that Mark is the one who found you a five this morning sprawled on April's living room floor.
"Why?" he croaked. His throat felt like it was on fire. He was surprised he actually made any noise at all.
"Because I would have kicked your sorry ass until the Second Coming," the man growled, fingers tightening on his shoulder. "If these drugs don't kill you, I will."
"Collins!" Maureen hissed. She rose from her position across the room. "You could be a i little /i nicer."
"Why? You know as well as I do that Roger is killing himself with these drugs. You and Mark babying him isn't helping." At this point, Mark had been wise enough to step back to avoid becoming collateral damage.
"Neither is your shouting and threatening! The poor boy is suffering and needs our help! Not your anger!" Maureen now stood in Mark's place, hands clenched tightly into fists at her sides.
"What he needs is a lobotomy!" Collins was digging his fingers into Roger's shoulder with bruising force.
"You two argue like a married couple, and you're making my headache worse. Not to mention the fact that you're bruising my shoulder," the man in question managed to say. He grabbed hold of Collins' wrist and pushed it away. Despite the soft, whiny protests of the brunette, Roger sat up, pressing the heel of his hand into his forehead. "Shit...I need some water."
Mark, wishing to leave the vicinity and quickly, lifted his hand in acknowledgement and vanished into the kitchen. Maureen knelt at Roger's feet, resting her chin on his knees and gazing up at him with sad green eyes. "Roger, honey--"
"Don't start with me, Maureen," he snarled, eyes closed again, brows slightly furrowed. "I've heard it all, and don't want to hear it again."
"You're gonna keep hearing it until you kick the habit." Collins leaned on the edge of the couch, hovering over Roger. "You're the dumbass who's got heroine for a vice."
"Well, we all have our vices, don't we?" Roger said with a soft, almost invisible not of bitterness. The black man stiffened with a quiet, sharp intake of breath. "Don't we?" he asked again. Somewhere in the back of his drug-hazed mind, he knew his words were hurtful, but he really didn't care at that point. Roger had had enough of Collins' lectures and physical abuse; it was time to fight back.
"I suppose we all do," Collins agreed. Strong fingers began to scratch at the couch.
Something had passed between those two with just those few sentences. Maureen felt slightly out of the loop and was about to seek clarification when Mark returned with a glass of water and a couple pieces of toast. "Here, Roger. I brought you some water and some--"Mark paused when he saw the look on Collins' face. "I missed something."
"Nothing you need to worry about," Roger said softly as he turned his head to look up at Mark and off an obviously forced smile. "You have water and what?"
Not entirely certain he believed Roger, Mark shrugged and sat down beside the exhausted man. At the pained grimace on Roger's face, he said, "Once you eat this, you can take some Advil or something."
"As long as you promise not to get addicted to that, too," the black man muttered.
"Go fuck yourself, Collins," Roger snapped, taking the water and toast. He bit into the warm bread harshly, reveling in the sharp prick of the toast.
"Will you two please knock it off?" Maureen said wearily. "Or at least wait until we leave?" The young performer rose from the floor and returned to her chair across the room. "Where's April?" she asked after a few minutes of silence. "We were going to go shopping today."
"I don't know," Roger responded around a mouthful of toast with a small shrug. "I was expecting her to be here, but I guess she's not."
"Hm. That's weird. April never forgets our monthly shopping day." Raking her fingers through her curly dark brown hair, Maureen shrugged. "Pookie, we should go."
Roger snorted softly even as Mark hit him in the shoulder. "Pookie? Since when have you taken to calling me that?" But he rose anyway, eyeing Collins' hard expression. "Just...don't leave any blood anywhere, you two. Roger...you know how we feel about this. You're killing yourself."
Not wishing to dignify that comment with an answer, the young rocker stubbornly stared at his plate, noting with some regret the way his hands shook. But he refused to respond. Maureen placed a gentle kiss on his forehead. "You know we all love you, Roger. Call me if you hear from April." Tipping her head to the side, she indicated for Mark to follow. The two left, leaving Collins and Roger alone.
Another five minutes passed in silence; all that could be heard was the sound of Roger eating his toast. Once he was finished, he rose on unsteady legs and went to the kitchen in search of a painkiller. "If you're going to rip into me, hurry up and do it; I need to go home."
With a soft sigh, Collins pushed off the couch and watched Roger move stiffly around. "Look at yourself, Roger. You look like shit, you're in pain...how is this a good thing? Do you have any idea how much you're hurting us? Hurting yourself? Hurting April? How many times a i day /i does she beg you to stop? The only reason she hasn't left you yet is because she loves you. More than anything, April loves you."
"You don't have to tell me that, Collins. I know that she loves me." Having taking his painkiller, Roger now leaned most of his weight on the counter top, shaking fingers spread to balance out the weight on the cool marble.
"Then why won't you quit? Dammit, Roger, I hate watching you suffer like this!" He sighed and shifted the woven hat on his head. "I know it's not about me, but...why can't you quit? I don't understand why it's so hard to just...go to a rehab center."
"It's not as simple as you make it out to be, Collins. I've i tried /i to quit. But I can't." For the first time, Roger let himself sound defeated, weak in front of Collins. "I can't..."
Touched, the man let out a quiet, resigned sigh and stepped into the kitchen alongside his blond friend. "Roger...you know that I'm here to help you. I may not have a lot of money, but..."
"Yeah, I know..." Exhausted, irritated, and pained, Roger let his head hang limply, dark eyes closed. The two men stood in Roger's girlfriend's kitchen in an apologetic silence before Collins spoke again.
"Have you had any success with those songs?"
"No. I tried yesterday, but nothing would come to me. I ended up just plucking out random Dave Matthews songs." The corners of his lips curled up just slightly.
A dry chuckle was the response he heard before Collins offered, "Class starts soon. Do you want a ride back to your place?"
"I could probably use the walk, so no thanks." Slowly, Roger straightened up, stacking one vertebrae on top of the other. His world spun suddenly and Collins reached out to catch him, one arm wrapping around his waist, the other grabbing onto the edge of the counter to prevent a complete collapse. "Then again...maybe I need that ride home." Collins' chest was warm and comfortable; Roger could hear and feel his friend's heart beating deep inside of him. It was soothing.
"I think you do too. Come on." Setting his tired friend upright and on his own two feet, Collins kept one hand between Roger's shoulder blades. Concerned chocolate brown eyes watched the blond sway on his feet. "Can you walk?"
"I think I need a little help." One hand flailed a little, searching for something to hold. Upon finding Collins' hand, he leaned heavily on it, taking a cautious step forward. "Ok. Here we go."
"Is there anything you want to take with you?" Collins followed closely behind his stumbling friend.
Pausing for a moment, Roger considered that question. He had a small stash tucked away, and almost turned towards the guest room but stopped himself. Collins would murder him in his sleep if he even tried it, and Roger was already in enough pain. "No," he said sharply, sharper than he intended.
The pause was so long, and the answer to abrupt that Collins considered questioning it. However, he decided against that course of action; he probably didn't want to know anyway. Together, the two of them made slow, staggering progress down to Collins' car, almost falling down the stairs at least twice. "You know that just because I'm helping you, that doesn't mean I'm done thrashing you for being a dumbass," Collins said as he helped Roger into the car.
"I would be disappointed if you were," he said wearily. Eyes of midnight blue fluttered closed as sleep overtook his abused body.
Despite the fact that Roger only lived a few blocks away, it took nearly 20 minutes to finally arrive outside his apartment. Overhead, the sky was a foreboding grey that promised rain soon. People crowded the sidewalk and street, moving at a constant, quick pace. A soft hand on his shoulder stirred Roger. He blinked a few times and smiled. "Thanks, Collins."
"Yeah, sure. Do you need some help upstairs?"
"No, I should be good." Carefully opening the door, Roger stepped out and turned back to look at Collins. "I'll...see you, I guess."
"Yeah. I still think you're a dumbass." Reaching over, Collins grabbed the door and pulled it shut as the blond man laughed and waved.
"You aren't alone," he said with a sad sigh. As Collins vanished into the traffic, Roger looked back around at his apartment building. Several stories high, it had a way of disappeared among the surrounding housing complexes. Paint often described as the color of baby poop brown chipped off, revealing the flat white base, and even the bare wood itself. Graffiti covered the majority of the walls in the area, and many windows were boarded up. "Home sweet home."
Testing his legs, Roger found himself amazingly stable. His head still pounded and his muscles were sore, but at least the itching had faded to only a minor distraction that nagged at the back of his mind. Dodging pedestrians, Roger stepped into the dark lobby and made the trick up the rickety stairs to his apartment on the fourth floor. The creaking beneath his feet always made the young man doubt the wisdom of turning down Mark and Benny's offer of staying with them in the loft instead of his own decrepit little studio apartment. Mice and cockroaches infest the entire building, but the artist on the fourth floor had a suspicion that they had established a headquarters in his room.
Opening the door to his room, Roger was surprised to find a light on in the kitchen. He closed the door slowly as he called out "Hello? Is someone here? April?" Maybe she had come by last night when he was out.
There was a note on his counter. It was short and scrawled. Down in the bottom corner was what appeared to be a dried tear drop. i Roger, we've got AIDS. I'm sorry and I love you. April /i
It didn't make sense. When had April gone to get tested? Why had she gone? Why didn't she say anything? Roger lowered the note to the counter and tried to makes sense of it. The fact that he had AIDS was bad enough. Terrifying, in fact. Formerly steady legs began to tremble and Roger had to lean his full weight on the counter as a particularly painful truth descended on him.
It was his fault. It was because of his dumb fucking habit that the two of them were infected.
Maybe it was wrong.
But the paperwork was right beside his elbow, opened with the results circled in red ink.
There was no way it could have been just April, that they didn't share the disease; she was clean and didn't cheat on Roger. He was the one who had infected them. Only he could take the blame.
Fighting back tears, the desolate rocker straightened. He had to find April. The two of them would work through this together. Together they could fight the disease, support each other, and love each other. But first he had to find her.
Something in his hallway caught his attention. Turning, Roger saw what looked to be a hand lying out of the bathroom door. Panic seized his heart and Roger dashed down the hall, falling to his knees with an anguished cry.
Lying on the floor in a pool of her own blood was April. Beautiful wavy chestnut brown hair was matted with dried blood, soft brow eyes that used to glitter with passion and love were cold and blank. Both of her golden wrists were slit, the wounds crusted in a deep reddish brown that matched the dry puddle on the floor. A razor blade rested in her left hand.
His breath came in short, painful gasps as he tried to understand the scene spread before him. The one woman he had ever dared to love was not only dead in his bathroom at her own hand, but it was because of him. It was because of the disease that he had given her. As the emotions and disbelief washed over Roger and threatened to drown what little spirit was left in him, he pulled the stiff, cold body into his lap. Rigor mortis had set in hours before, but he still desperately tried to hold her against his chest. Maybe if he could just warm her up...maybe she'd wake up...but to no avail.
Weeping, Roger rocked back and forth, begging incoherently for her to wake up, for it to be a dream, for her forgiveness, for the disease to go away. All these things came in turn, in one big cycle that continued for hours.
Around four, Roger passed out from exhaustion and pain, both emotional and physical. He was sprawled on the floor, his head and arms protruding into the living room. That was how Collins found him when he entered the small apartment after knocking repeatedly.
"Aw, shit," Tom muttered as he hurried to Roger's side. "You fucking dumbass, I can't believe you--"but his tirade was cut short at the sight of April's very dead corpse lying in Roger's lap. He pulled the body away, closing his mind to the image to keep from weeping until after the body had been dealt with. In his strong arms, he carried Roger to his bed, stripped him of his soiled clothing, and tucked him into bed. After closing the door, he phoned the police, then the loft apartment.
"Hello?" he heard Benny say on the other end.
"Benny? It's Collins." His voice was thick and heavy.
"Yeah? Collins, what's wrong?" Benny waved his hand at Mark and Maureen who were bombarding him with questions.
"I...there's...April..." Collins took a shuddering breath and tried again. "I'm at Roger's. We...he found April...she's...April's dead."
The other end of the line was silent for a very long time. So long that Collins almost feared he had lost the connection until he finally heard, "Oh God" whispered on the other end. "We'll be right there. Where's Roger? Is there anything you need?"
"Roger is asleep for now, and I think we need some--" The note on the counter suddenly registered in his mind. The phone fell from his fingers and landed on the counter with a loud clatter. From the ear piece he heard "...shit!...what...going...Collins!" The black man picked up the phone again and said softly "Bring some cleaning supplies and some strong alcohol. Roger...Roger's got AIDS."
"We'll be right ove--he i what /i ?!" Benny nearly shouted into the phone.
"I'll see you when you get here. I have to go talk to Roger." Without waiting for a response, Collins hung up the phone and looked up to see Roger standing in the living room, leaning on the wall and staring at him with blank eyes. "Roger! You're...you're up."
"Yeah." His voice was thick, almost hard to understand. "Collins, I...April...I gave her..." He couldn't form the words to explain just what had happened.
"I know. I read the note...Roger..." Collins was struck by such emotion that he couldn't bring himself to speak either. The two men stood in silence, trying to find words to comfort or explain. "The police will be here in a few minutes...do you..."
"Please...can you...I can't...I couldn't...there aren't any..." Arms crossed over his chest, Roger stared down at the floor surrounding his feet. "We have AIDS. Her and I. It's my fault." He sighed a little, as if giving up.
"Roger, don't--" Collins started.
"No. Let me. If I don't...I'll never get it out. I may not find the words again. Please. Just...let me talk." When Collins nodded a little, Roger sighed again and continued. "It's...it's because of me that she's dead. If I hadn't been such a fucking asshole...if I hadn't...she wouldn't be dead right now. We wouldn't be having this conversation. I wouldn't...I wouldn't be alone...and..." Roger lost his ability to speak and his knees gave way beneath him. Sinking to the floor, he began to sob, his entire body shaking.
It was only a matter of seconds before Collins was kneeling beside him, arms wrapped around his shoulders. "Roger...hush...it's going to be all right."
But Roger was inconsolable. He continued to sob into Collins' chest, clinging desperately to him. He rocked back and forth, weeping and begging for the black man to make it better, to heal his pain.
Back in the loft, Benny still sat and stared at the phone. Mark finally shook him roughly enough to break him from his reverie. "Benny! What's wrong? What's wrong with Roger?"
"Roger...Roger's got AIDS...and...April's...April's dead."
Days turned to weeks, weeks to months, and Roger locked himself in April's apartment. He couldn't stand being in his own, it felt look much like she was watching him. Several times, the guilt of causing her death almost drove him to his own suicide. Roger refused to answer the phone or the door, no matter how often they called or how loudly they knocked.
On that particular morning, Roger was sprawled on the floor of the kitchen, a needle in one hand and his stash in the other. Blank, dark eyes stared up at the ceiling as he slowly turned his head to focus his eyes on the needle. His other hand lifted to bring the powder over when his sleeve drifted down his arm, drawing his attention to it. Roger looked at his bared arm and stared at his track marks; he actually stared at them and saw them for what they were. A thought brushed past his mind and the man dropped the needle with a soft clatter.
Rising from the floor, the heroine hanging loosely from his fingers, Roger walked to the bathroom, his feet scuffing the floor, and stared at himself in the mirror. Collins was right; he looked like shit. His skin was pale and waxy, his hair was lifeless, and there were dark circles beneath blank eyes. Lifting the fine white powder, Roger stared at it for a long moment before hurling it against the mirror with a loud, anguished scream and slamming his hands down onto the counter. "Fuck," he said; the first word he had spoken in weeks. "I can't do this anymore...and I can't do it alone."
Stumbling from the bathroom, Roger collected what small amount of clothing he had and threw them into a bag. With one last scan over, avoiding the guitar in the corner that April bought him under the command that he write a song for her (which he never did), Roger turned off the light and closed the door for the last time.
Weaving through people with amazingly nimble feet, Roger made his way to the loft apartment. "Mark! Mark!" he screamed.
The ash blond leaned out the window, shocked. "Roger? Roger! What are you doing here?" Maureen appeared behind Mark, looking incredibly disheveled.
"Throw down the key!"
"But why--"
"Just throw down the key! I need your help!" A small suede bag dropped down into his waiting grasp and he dashed inside.
Arriving at the top of the stairs, Roger burst into the door to Mark and Maureen waiting expectantly for him. "What the hell is this all about, Roger? Why do you have a bag packed?"
"I...I need your help. I need to...to go to a--"
"Roger?" Collins stepped out of his room, looking vaguely confused. "Well, look at you, up and out." He smiled a little and gave him a once over. "Did hell run you over with a mack truck or something?"
"Or something."
"Where do you need to go, Roger?" Maureen asked, still hovering expectantly behind Mark.
"A rehab." The room went silent. Every pair of eyes was locked on him for several long moments.
"A rehab? Are you serious?" Collins stepped around the couch, a surprised smile brightening his eyes.
"Yes. I caused April's death, I'm the one who infected us. It was my fucking addiction that did this; it's time I dealt with it." The duffel bag fell to the floor with a muffled thump. "But...I can't do it alone. I need you guys..."
"We wouldn't expect you to, honey." Maureen smiled brightly and moved to take Roger in to a warm hug. The man wept openly on her shoulder, sharing his grief for the first time since April's funeral.