Criticism or flames, I'll take it.
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Disclaimer:
All characters belong to the beloved Jonathon Larson.
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Chapter One:
One More Hit
Roger sat on the roof and stared at his leather guitar case. He hadn't played in a while. Not since April's death. It seemed pointless to even be bothered. But for the sake of not committing suicide, play it dammit!
Roger sighed, but grabbed his guitar and tested a few rough chords. He flinched. Those were terrible. "Back to the basics then..." Roger grumbled to himself. He'd been out of practice for too long...
He tested a few minor notes. Those sounded worse. This guitar isn't worth shit.
Roger set the guitar back down on the ground and stared at the sky.
I need a hit.
He quickly erased the thought from his mind.
You're going to go clean. For Mark. Remember?
"For Mark or not, I still want a hit." Roger mumbled to himself. He tried to focus on something different. The sky. The stars. The people in the streets... A dealer. He looked closer. Yes, a dealer. He tried to resist the urge to jump up, run downstairs, and buy some drugs. He wanted it so bad...
I need smack. I don't want it. I need it. Just one more hit. One more. And then I will stop for good.
Roger went back inside, trying to sneak past Mark's room. Don't wake up. Don't wake up. Don't wake up.
One of the floorboards creeked beneath Roger. Roger flinched and did not move.
"Please still be sleeping." Roger pleaded to the air. Silence. Roger peered into Mark's room and saw him sleeping soundly on a pile of clothes in the center of his room.
"Stay like that for just a while longer..." Roger commanded the sleeping Mark. He slipped into Mark's room and fumbled in the darkness trying to find Mark's coat. He grinned as he felt the familiar material. And the cash inside the pocket. He grasped a crisp bill and shoved it deep in his pocket.
"I'll return it, I promise," Roger whispered to the sleeping filmmaker, as he crept outside trying to remain soundless so as not to wake Mark.
Roger ran across the street, trying to find the dealer again.
Where the hell are you?
Roger's eyes scanned the streets. The urge to shoot up was becoming too strong for him to handle. Where the fuck is that dealer?
Finally, his green eyes rested on a figure leaning against a brick building, a ciggarrette hanging loosely from his lips. Roger walked over to the man casually, trying not to look obvious. He had an eye for the dealers now. Roger smirked. This was his old dealer.
He cleared his throat and the man looked at him, clear blue eyes narrowed. The man took a drag and ran a hand through his short, brown hair. "Whaddya want?"
"Just enough for one dose," Roger replied gruffly, slipping Mark's ten into the man's palm in exchange for his drugs.
Roger nodded to the man, and headed back towards the loft, gripping the small bag tightly in the palm of his hand. God knows I've earned this. he thought as he searched desperately for a needle. None was found.
Fuck. I need this!
Roger found a needle, his last one. Faithfully sitting in his old spot. He smirked and grabbed it, consciously knowing the high would be intense. He needed this. He wanted this. This was the way to get out of everything...
As he was injecting it, Mark came out.
"Roger, I..."
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...Thoughts?...
- Ginny