I was always the one of us to survive. Always.
We all knew I would be. I think I just tried to convince myself Roger would live past thirty-five and not leave me. Alone.
As he has said before: "Mark is always alone."
I feel my eyes prickle behind my glasses and quickly wipe them before the tears can spill onto my face.
I remember the day April died. She was the first one of us to go. It was horrible.
"April? You ok in there?"
Silence on the other side.
"April?" I called again, getting paranoid.
Still silence.
"April I'm coming in." I said, creaking open the door.
And there she was. Her naked, petite body covered in red. The red water was overflowing onto the floor as she floated there, head hung limp on her shoulder, all the red coming from two sources, each of her wrists.
I don't know what happened next. I think I might have blocked it out. All I remember is Roger's screams of agony when he saw her body floating there.
She didn't have many people at her funeral. Me, Roger, Maureen, Benny, Collins. I think her sister was there too. And they lowered her into the ground, for her to rot there for eternity.
Angel died next. She was such a beautiful soul. The day she started coughing was horrible. She was like that a week. Just coughing. Then Collins forced her into the hospital. I think we all knew she wasn't going to leave that white room. I don't think Collins knew it though. He was so sure she was going to be fine. It was almost pathetic, how much he gripped onto her, not wanting to her go.
"Angel. Baby. You should sleep. You need to rest so you can get better." Collins said, sitting on her bed while Mimi painted her nails. I was sitting in the chair next to Roger. His arms were crossed. He never dealt well with death. Angel smiled up at him, as if to say 'Please honey, we both know the truth'.
"Just rest baby." He said, kissing her forehead.
And she closed her eyes, and rested. She died in her sleep. Resting in peace. And she was soon buried, rotting forever in the ground.
I felt the salty tears flow down my face. Collins was next to go. No one expected it. After Angel has passed, he moved in with us. He said it was too hard to be at their apartment. Of course we were more than happy to take him in.
He would go to work every single day, and come home. He would get drunk when we would, he would get smoke weed when we did. I don't think he was ever really the same though. One day he just didn't come home though. We assumed he went to the bar or something.
A car hit him though. Surprisingly, not too far from the loft. The paramedics told us he was delusional when he died. Didn't even make it to the hospital. They said he thought one of the women were Angel and said: 'I'll join you soon, my Angel'.
I think those were his last words, besides a few incoherent mumbles.
We got drunk the night of his funeral. He wasn't there with us though. He was in the ground, rotting, next to his Angel.
Joanne went next, about two years after Collins.
She took Maureen out to dinner, celebrating Maureen's birthday I believe. There was peanut oil in her food. Peanuts. Something she's deathly allergic to. Deathly.
Her throat closed up. By the time they got her to the hospital, she hadn't been breathing for over fifteen minutes. She was pronounced dead. Maureen was a mess; she collapsed into my arms sobbing. She was convinced it was her fault.
The love of her life died on her birthday. She thought it was fate.
Her funeral had about fifty people. And we all witnessed her, being lowered into the ground, rotting away.
Mimi was next. Died peacefully.
"Is Mimi awake yet?" I asked, about to make some breakfast.
Roger looked towards the clock. "Nah. I'll go wake her up."
He left the room, still in his plaid boxers.
"Mimi, time to wake up." I heard him say softly. I could just picture him nudging her softly, kissing her forehead.
"Meem's, come on baby." He said a bit more firmly.
I closed my eyes. God. No.
"Mimi!" He said sharply. "Wake up. I'm telling you to wake up right now." He said, almost as if talking to a dog.
"Wake the fuck up!" He screamed. I immediately ran into their room to see him screaming at her profanities, holding his head in his hands, as if his head were going to pop off if he didn't hold it down. Tears were streaming down his cheeks as he screamed.
"Mimi! Fuckin' wake the fuck up!" He yelled, pushing her off of the bed.
"Roger!" I yelled, grabbing him. "Stop!" I screamed. He violently pushed me against the wall, sobbing, sliding down the wall next to me, his head in between his knees.
"She… she…" He stuttered.
"I know." I said, putting my hand around his forearm, in a brotherly gesture. "I know."
Her funeral was the following day. We wanted it to be quick, and get it over with. For Roger's sake.
Benny paid for the funeral. He was there to witness her burial. Her rotting.
About two months later, Benny passed. I heard it was due to some type of heart attack. Stress related heart attack. And he was the next to rot.
And my best friend, Roger, was next about five years later. His death was slow. And painful.
I could tell he was dying for a while. Almost a month. Little things he would do. His hands would shake as he tried to play the guitar. He would get frustrated and throw the guitar down in anger. He would wheeze and pant after walking up the stairs. He lost his appetite slowly. He went to the hospital grudgingly a couple of weeks later.
"This stuff tastes like shit. Go to Burger King for me. Get me some of those chicken fries. Those are good. And don't forget the sauce. The chicken is nothing without the sauce. So get the sauce. Maybe you should get extra, just in case." He demanded. I chuckled and went to get him his food.
I came back; bag in hand as he played with his rubbery looking Jell-O.
"Ahh. Yes! This is what I'm talking about." He said, taking a bite of his food. "If this is my last meal, I'll die a happy man." He smiled, leaning back, closing his eyes.
"Rog. Don't say that please." I muttered.
"Don't worry about it, Cohen. We know that the day is coming sooner rather than later."
I looked up at him, finally noticing how bloodshot his eyes were.
"You should get some sleep. You look exhausted. I'll be here first thing in the morning. I promise." I said, wrapping my scarf around my neck as I said a quick goodbye and walked out the door.
As I promised, I was walking into his room as I saw him cracking open his eyes.
"Morning Rog." I said, smiling.
"Mark?" He said, not focusing on my face.
"Hello to you too."
"Where are you?" He asked, tipping his head to the right, almost as if following my voice.
"Right in front of you." I said, confused.
"Mark…" He trailed off. "I can't see."
What are you talkin' about Rog?"
"I can't fucking see!" He screamed, punching his mattress in anger.
"Calm down Rog. We knew this might be a side effect." I informed him. I knew it was possible, but never thought anything of it.
"We didn't know shit!" He screamed, tears streaming from his eyes that he could no longer use.
I sighed and sat on his bed, trying to calm him. "You'll be fine Rog. Take a deep breath. You'll be fine."
He continued to cry. "Mark, if I'm gonna die, I need the last thing I see to be my best friend." He said through his tears.
I put my hand on his shoulder, trying to reassure the both of us.
I think it was all I could do.
He died two days later. I think his death was the hardest. My best friend since the day I started kindergarten was gone before he reached thirty-five. He came damn close though. He was thirty-three.
His funeral was nice. Small. Not very glamorous. Just how he would like it. And it kills me to think of my best friend, rotting in the ground.
Two months later, Maureen was diagnosed with breast cancer.
I stayed around. For her. I had to be strong for her. I was all she had left.
Today, three years after Roger's death, was her funeral. She had lost her courageous battle with breast cancer and now, she too, was rotting.
I am now sitting at home, picturing all their loving faces. All the times we've had.
And as I tie the rope tightly around my neck, I think about Mimi's beautiful brown eyes.
As I step off of the metal table, I see Maureen and Joanne's happiness as they kiss on New Year's.
And as the rope cuts off my airway and my feet begin to hang, I think of Roger sitting on the couch not more than ten feet away from me, playing his fender guitar.
And then everything is white. Except for the seven silhouettes of my friends in the distance, welcoming me with open arms.
And I walked towards them, joining them, rotting with them. Finally.
A/N – Reviews?