She's Not Here
A/N: So I just found this little ditty on my laptop and I'm going to post it. Mainly because I haven't posted anything in a long time. So, alas. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: I do not own RENT nor the characters associated with it.
Roger couldn't believe it, seven years. It had been seven years since he found her in the bathroom. Seven years ago, Roger Davis found the woman he loved, April Erikson, dead. The letter was written on the mirror in her red lipstick. It had been such horrible site to see. He still saw her everywhere, in the mirror, in his dreams. Roger would even admit that he saw her in Mimi sometimes, especially when Mimi smiled. The man turned away from the bathroom mirror and looked out the door, Mark was sitting on the couch reading the newspaper. He slightly wondered if he remembered.
Of course, how couldn't he remember? Mark had been there when Roger had found April that day. He had helplessly dialed for 911, although both men had known it was too late. The blonde felt as though April were still out there somewhere, he wanted to believe that she faked her death. That she faked her death for some sick, twisted reason. But Roger knew better, he knew April was dead. There had been so much blood. The memory was like fire in his brain, bringing back all the heartache that came with remembering her. Oh, how he could still see her perfectly in his head. Her fire red hair and bright red lips, her perfect body, everything about her. Roger could still smell her right after her shower, when the smell of cigarettes or pot was washed away. Every moment he spent with her had meant so much to him…or at least it did now that she was gone.
He remembered the last argument they had before she died, April accused him of not loving her, only loving the sex. Well, they both knew that wasn't true. She was the only person Roger ever really loved. Even the emotion he felt for Mimi couldn't compare to the love he had for April. "Damn it." he hissed, pained by her memory.
"Everything okay in there?" Mark asked from the couch, lifting his eyes from the paper to look at his best friend. There was a look of sorrow in his eyes, there was no doubt now that he knew what today was.
Roger rubbed the back of his neck and collapsed on the couch, sticking his hands in the pocket of his sweatshirt. "Yeah, No." he sighed, leaning his head over the edge of the couch with his eyes closed. April was laughing happily behind them, she was lively. It was the way he had always wanted to remember her.
"Seven years. Seven long years."
"I know. I don't know why I haven't gone crazy yet."
"Maybe it's because you have us keeping you from falling off that edge. Angel was the one who got you out of the house and into Life Support in the first place."
"And now she's dead." Roger moved his hands over his face. The topic of Angel was still hard to talk about, the wound still fresh. The bohemians were coping with the loss of their friend. Angel Dumot-Shunard had moved on four years ago, it had been four years since they had almost lost Mimi too. There seemed to be this curse on Roger, all those he cared for seemed to die around him, mostly those who started with the letter A.
"Maureen called this morning." Mark said, folding the paper and tossing it onto the coffee table. He picked up his coffee cup and held it in his hand, occasionally taking sips from it.
"She remembers too." Roger said, more of a statement than a question. He moved his hands to see Mark nod his head. "It was hard for Maureen too, I guess. Bein' her best friend and all. Damn, seven years. It seems so long ago. Seven years ago, everything changed."
"For the worst." Mark said with a sigh, standing from the couch and setting his cup in the sink. His eyes stared from the frost covered window down onto the street of Avenue A.
"If I had gotten home from the Pyramid just ten minutes earlier-" Roger began before Mark cut him off.
"She had been in there twenty minutes before you came home. April wasn't happy, Roger, she couldn't ever be after the news she got."
It hurt more hearing her name aloud. "I could have helped her, you could have helped her. We could have gotten through this together." Roger hissed, his hand clenching into a fist. "We could have talked her out of it. April should still be alive, Mark. Yeah, she wouldn't be healthy but neither am I." The consequence of that damn needle. Roger thought.
"April was always one to take things into her own hands," the other blonde said, his forehead now against the window pane. "There was nothing we could have done."
"We could have tried," the broken-hearted man stood from the couch. He pulled his jacket over his sweatshirt and shoved the loft door open, stepping out.
"Where are you going?" Mark asked in a curious yet worried tone.
"Out." he responded, shoving the door closed and walking out of the building. Roger needed to think, he needed to mourn, to grieve. And today out of all three hundred and sixty-five days a year he got to. And today out of all three hundred and sixty-five days a year he got to celebrate his birthday.