Title: The One to Survive
Author: Lioness Black
Rating: PG13
Notes: This was written for a challenge that wanted a depiction of a world where AIDS didn't exist. I thought the challenge was stupid, begging for some kind of fluffy magic fairy land. I was very annoyed. This is what happened.
Warnings: Character death, lots of bad language. Some disturbing imagery.
Disclaimer: Not mine, just good fun.
December twenty-fourth, nine PM, Eastern standard time. From here on in, I shoot without a script. See if anything comes of it.
Instead of my old shit.
First shot, the empty loft. Not totally empty. I'm here. I'm here and the ghost of Roger is here. I don't know if the ghost of Roger is haunting the loft or haunting me. I don't know why his ghost isn't off fucking the ghost of April (do ghosts fuck?).
I know I'm not getting any since Maureen dumped me for Joanne the lawyer. I don't see why Roger the ghost shouldn't.
It's probably the loft. He's probably haunting the loft. He and April probably are getting it on, since she's been haunting the loft since she killed herself in the bathroom. We knew April had been depressed for a long time. Hell, that's why she turned to drugs in the first place. We couldn't afford to get her the help she needed.
It crushed Roger. He might have been high all the time, but he was here. I hated it that he used, but he was fucking here. He was here for me to nag about his drug use. He was here to play his guitar, and write his songs, and mope, and scream in my face, and make pancakes, and water his stupid flowers.
Who the hell would have thought a guy like Roger would have flowers? But he did. He loved those stupid flowers. They're going to die too, now, because I as hard as I might try, I couldn't grow a weed.
You know, they're probably doing it in my bed just to piss me off.
There's something wrong with me thinking about the sex life of my dead friends.
Dead. Dead, dead, dead. Everyone is fucking dead.
Hell, even the girl downstairs is dead, overdosing on heroin. I wonder what her name was.
Collins is still with the living, even if he's withering away from cancer. At least when I get that call, I'll be ready. When I get the "Mister Cohen, we have some bad news" phone call, I can brace myself, because I know what they're going to say. I try to spend as much time with him as possible. Maybe make up for the time I didn't spend with Roger, if there was any such time.
I wish Collins wasn't alone. He needs a boyfriend. He needs someone. It horrible to think of him dying alone like that.
But at least I won't be shocked.
It won't be like Roger, tripping and falling down the stairs and breaking his neck. Who the hell sees that coming? Who the hell expects that? Who the hell wonders if that step down will be your last?
Technically, that wasn't his last step. He just used his face to take the rest of them.
Ouch. That was tasteless. Oh well, it's not like there's anyone here to listen. I suppose I can be as crass and morbid as I'd like.
I wonder what he thought, tumbling down the stairs. Maybe he knew, maybe he knew in that moment that he was going to die. Knowing Roger, he thought something along the lines of "Oh, shit." He probably didn't have time to think much more. Things like that happen in an instant. Or so I hear.
Here I am. Christmas eve. I don't celebrate Christmas, but I always liked it. I liked decorated trees and cookies, and plastic reindeer. A couple blocks down, someone has plastic reindeer on their fire escape. I could have sworn they'd be stolen, but apparently even the thieves have Christmas spirit.
Or maybe they just haven't been stolen yet.
Tomorrow, I'm going to go see Collins. I hope he can hang onto until at least tomorrow. Until at least Christmas.
Now the power is out. I guess Benny can't take pity on his lonely friend, even for Christmas.
Now I'm alone with fucking ghosts in the dark.
This sucks.
Nothing stops life from happening. Nothing stops death from happening. We can't get around it. There's no miracle cure for death. It doesn't matter how we go, we're still going to go.
Fuck.
I don't want to be alone. I don't want to be the last one.
But here I am.
That was definitely a crash coming from my room. I guess that answers the question about whether or not ghosts fuck. At least I know someone is having a good time. Or maybe I'm going crazy, here all by myself.
It's actually almost funny.
Almost.