A/N: Hello lovely readers! WOW! Two fics in the same month! That's CRAZY! Okay. So ANGST. Angstyangstyangst. So this is kinda short...very short, actually. But you should read it anyway! Because you should like me for whatever I write. Short or long. Yay.
I'm very proud of myself, actually. This is my SECOND Roger fic! Woo! That makes me HAPPY! And if you read it, that would make me HAPPIER. Yeah. Woo! Enjoy.
Disclamerrrrrrr: Just...borrowing dear Roger. But he's not mine. As much as I wish. He's Jonathan's! Which is BETTER! Because Jonathan's AWESOME! YEAH! Okay. Read it now
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It's dark in the bathroom.
And there's walls.
They're kind of pink, too. Even after all this time.
Knees hugged to his chest. Guitar sitting next to him, leaning up against his side. He tells himself its in case some random inspiration comes to him, but he knows its really because he feels like its his only friend anymore.
He sighs. It hurts. And that's weird, because he doesn't know what it is exactly.
Drugs are gone. Sure, that's all fine and wonderful, but what about the fact that he hasn't felt like himself in almost a year? What about the fact that he hasn't had a good night's sleep since it happened? What about the fact that he's scared and sad every day, but he doesn't know why?
What about his life?
How could one girl have made him feel like this? He used to be invincible. He used to be a god. A rock god. And one chick did this to him. She was such a mistake. But he loved her nonetheless. And that's what hurt him most. She left him. And he loved her. And no one understood.
Not Mark and Collins. Who had understood him his whole life.
Not Maureen. Who drove him up a wall, but still could always tell when something was wrong with him. When he didn't feel...okay.
Not Benny. Who had always seemed to know little things about him that no one else knew. He was gone anyway. With his wife. His rich fucking wife.
Just another thing in his pathetic life that had left him.
How did no one understand his pain? Oh, the pain. The pain was horrible. The mental pain, yes. But the physical pain, too. He didn't know what hurt more.
At the beginning, he had pretended. But now? Now he was just fucking tired. Not from lack of sleep either. Oh no, that was really all he did these days. Sleep. Play guitar. Sleep some more. No, he was just tired of how no one understood.
He realized as he sat against the slightly pink walls his thoughts were jumbled. Is this how she felt? When she decided to do it. Is this how she felt? Like she just couldn't take it anymore and she wanted out. Like she was just so confused. Like this could make her happy.
If it was the last one, he thought, that confused him. How could she be happy if she wasn't around any more?
He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and ran his hands over the creases where she had folded it. He ran his hands over the words that were permanently etched in his mind. We have AIDS. The three words that ended his life. Literally.
He sighed and shakily lit a cigarette. It wasn't gonna get any better. He ran his hands along the white of the bathtub. It felt cold. Hard. The way his heart felt. What a coincidence.
What had happened to him? He was the shell of the man he had once been. That man had left with April just months ago.
He didn't think he was coming back.
And that sucked.
It's dark in the bathroom.
And there's walls.
They're kind of pink, too. Even after all this time.
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A/N: Hmm. I don't know how I feel about this one. I don't really like it...it could be better.
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