All it takes is a pinprick.
Mark swallows, his hand hovering over his sleeping roommate's arm, dangled so temptingly over the side of his mattress. There have been so many nights like this – nights spent jabbing himself with sewing needles in preparation, until his hands didn't shake anymore, until the adrenaline stopped making him dizzy. He has to do it, he has to do it soon before Roger does something stupid and gets himself sick.
Time is of the essence and Mark can stop it, if he could just work up the nerve.
He takes a deep breath and his head spins – so much for preparation, so much for planning, what's rational about this anyways? His wrist is stinging, littered with tiny needle-marks like the ones at the crook of Roger's elbow that nobody talks about.
He's already halfway there! Why can't he just-
Roger snores and he jumps so badly he knocks the alarm clock off of the bedside table, sucking in with a choked off curse as he fumbles to catch it before it can crack on the floor. He's not even sure why Roger has an alarm clock, because he works the night shift and besides, he can't be assed to get up more than twenty minutes before that half of the time but the moment is ruined. Mark's heart is pounding too hard now, his fingers trembling – it's not going to happen tonight.
But it will. It will soon.
Holding his breath, the filmmaker slides back around Roger's mattress and tiptoes across the living area until he can collapse behind his own partition, shaking and curling around himself. The needle clutched in his hand jabs his palm; a thin stream of blood snakes its way down his wrist.
What kind of hero is he? Can't even save his own best friend. He's not cut out for sneaking around like this.
Tomorrow night for sure, he tells himself miserably, and pulls a threadbare blanket over his head.
