How Did We Get Here?
April
Mark Cohen could never understand April. He could understand why Roger liked her. He could understand that the harsh light glaring in through the loft windows every winter morning made her hair shimmer and transformed her into the perfect subject to try his new camera on. But when it came to anything else, he was royally stumped.
Which was why, at about six thirty-five on one of those harsh winter mornings, when Maureen opened the door to find her drowning in a pool of her own blood, he wasn't surprised that he hadn't seen it coming.
Roger got to the bathroom first but Mark was close on his heels. The sun watched silently as Maureen's horrified screams continued and Roger began his own lament. Mark, stood in the doorway, could only think of his camera, the red record light blinking from where he and Maureen had left it on after last night, and be eternally grateful that he hadn't recorded this.
Not that it wasn't burnt into his mind anyway.
It was only when Roger suddenly made a movement towards the ... body in the bathtub that Mark moved too.
"No! Roger!"
He wrenched his best friend away, tears seeping down his cheeks.
What had possessed her to ...? Why? Why leave Roger like this?
"NO! LET GO OF ME!"
Roger's fist collided with his nose and Mark's blood joined the puddle on the floor. Slowly Mark looked down at the cold tiles and at the new colour that they'd painted during the night. He didn't like it. And as Roger sank against the wall, crying once more, it seemed that he didn't either.
Maureen had fallen silent at the punch and Mark tried to ignore the tears that were travelling down his nose, down his neck, down his bare chest. In some perverse way, they reminded him of the kisses that Maureen had trailed deliberately down his chest the night before.
"I'm calling 911."
...
In the time that it took the ambulance and police to arrive, Mark returned to the bathroom only once. He put down the phone, slowly and deliberately, as though to make sure it didn't disturb the sudden, eerie silence that had filled the loft. Roger had stopped his howling; it felt like the entire world had listened to his phone call and Mark was filled with a sudden guilt; by admitting it he'd made it solid. He'd locked the door which might, just might, have allowed it all to be a dream.
He leant against the back of the sofa, feeling as though his legs were about to give way. Tears stung his eyes but he tried to blink them away, tried not to think of how the blood had congealed at her wrists, tried not to think how there were tear tracks running down her face, betraying the terror, the pain, that she went through.
The sound of gagging broke the silence. Mark hurried, half running, to the bathroom, afraid more than he could express at what he might find when he pushed open the door now. But it was just Maureen, her body hunched over the toilet.
Mark slowly walked up behind her and whispered a few comforting, pointless words into her ear.
"C'mon."
They both glanced at Roger before they left the increasingly claustrophobic space; he was still sat, staring blankly at the whitewashed wall in front of him, mercifully zoned out and unaware of what was happening around him.
Deep down Mark felt the first pang of anger stir; how easy would it be to lock everything out? But it was always down to him to keep watch and clear away the shit.
They stumbled to the fire escape together and he held back her hair as she dry retched again. Then they clung to one another, watching the street below without a word. It was quiet. It wasn't quite empty but the people that did walk along the sidewalk did so briskly, not speaking. It seemed unnatural.
Mark felt anger build again, only this time he was angry at the rest of the world for not knowing, not caring that a young woman, with everything to live for had ...
Sirens. They pierced the still air and both Maureen and Mark jolted, pushing their bodies closer together. He was suddenly aware of how cold he was. The police car passed by the end of the street, the flashing blue lights a welcome change from the sheer sunlight.
When their cars did arrive, they were silent. The lights weren't flashing and the sirens weren't wailing. They didn't need to; there was no rush anymore.
"Damn it!"
Mark lashed out at the metal railing with his foot but it was unyielding and just gave him a sore toe. Maureen jumped backwards, looking at him mutely with wide, frightened eyes shining with unshed tears that begged him to stop.
So he did.
"I'm sorry."
He pulled her gently back into his arms, rubbing her back, muttering soft words.
"I'm sorry."
...
The funeral was arranged for the next Saturday.
April's mother visited from Seattle. She stopped by the loft on the Friday, pausing just long enough to collect April's belongings, barely saying another but "hello" and "goodbye". It was clear to them all who she blamed. And the man in question stood in the corner, like a naughty schoolboy, without uttering one word. After he shut the door to his room and shot up.
They could hear the sobs echoing under the door.
When they stopped, the loft was quiet.
There had seemed to be a lot of that recently.
...
The note she left was silently passed around the circle of friends when they arrived on the Friday evening, complete with suitable dark clothing for the next morning.
Even Collins was lost for words but the tests had proven it and that little slip of paper was passed around too.
...
It was raining. The lightening lit up the bruised sky as thunder bounced off the row of gravestones. The rain pelted the ground, echoing noisily. The shrieks of children splashing each other from outside the gates carried on the air.
It was the most noise Mark had heard for days.
He, Maureen, Collins and Benny watched from the path as the rest of the small congregation, swathed in black, made their way back to the cars waiting outside and Roger walked in the opposite direction, towards a distant grave that began a new row.
The first of the cars rumbled away, almost drowned out by a huge clap of thunder. Maureen jumped slightly.
Roger reached the stone, white marble and gleaming as the rain washed down it. The four friends exchanged a slight glance before turning back to the bedraggled figure in the rain.
They watched as he collapsed onto his knees before the grave and they were nearly certain that the slight wail was coming from him. But they couldn't be sure so they watched still.
With shaking fingers Roger slowly reached out to touch the cold marble, tracing the depressions which made up a name:
April Ericsson
15/03/66 – 12/02/88
'Gone But Not Forgotten'
I wrote this a couple of months back now, for my friend Naoko. I can't believe who fast those two months have gone.
She always loved Rent and the tragic backstory of April, but I was never smart enough to enjoy it with her.
友達