A/N: Hiiii! I said in my profile I'd figure this site out. Mwhahaha! * Huggles story* This story is very important, and also finished. I've just begun putting it up here though, and I need you all to tell me how it is. Because, despite them being awesome, many of my friends have yet to learn the wonders of RENT. Anyhoo, I don't own RENT or its many awesome charries. That's all Jonathan Larson and...whoever the hell has it now. Probably a movie company or something. Or Broadway/... Urgh, off track! What I mean to say is, I couldn't possibly own any of this. But, despite that, I own the 'kid' at the end and this storyline that is about...a year after the movie/musical. Mm, have fun kids!
It was cold. Rain splattered against concrete and asphalt. Blue-Grey eyes look through a blurred lens. It was normal, routine, as rain plastered hair to foreheads and stung cheeks, as small figures huddled in dark corners, Mark Cohen would film. Observing life through scratched, never quite clean, glassed and a barrier of technology. Life was easy that way, no empty words or broken promises to flow from your lips, instead you watch as others, with their fragile paper hearts, break into miserable pieces and slowly reach for the glue. It was quiet and shadows were closing in, stretching menacing fingers and feigning monstrous shapes. He ignore this and focused, rather, on the single, small, wilting dandelion that had the defiance to pop it's bright head out of a crack in the sidewalk.
The window ledge of the tall, recently abandoned building gives relative protection from the onslaught of rain. He idly fiddles with some silver thing sticking out of the camera, he told himself time and again not to, but he never could figure what that thing did. It was cold and getting colder, pale hands turning ashen. Damn. He didn't want to go, to enter the loft with another roll of film wasted. How long had he been shooting a dying weed? Half an hour? Forty-five minutes? It was late, well, technically early, and Mark was starving. He briefly wondered if he had to go, What if he stayed out? Filming in the dark abyss of New York city. Filming as silhouettes stalk in the corridors of the labyrinth known as NY. He'd wander into the bad parts of the city, a voice would sneer behind him, he'd turn to see the glint of a blade. All instincts telling him to run but he's unable, frozen as the shadowed figure lunges, and then- wait! No! He slams his hand to his forehead.
Damn, damn, damn!
He promised himself he wouldn't think like that. Those thoughts were sick and wrong, but he couldn't help it, ever since Angel died and Mimi came back he felt utterly alone. Roger doted on Mimi, Collins had a job, Benny was...well, Benny. And there was no way he was going to see Maureen and Joanne. They still scared him. It wasn't that he wanted to die, no. At least, he didn't think so. He just wanted something, anything, to happen. And these thoughts were friggin' scary. They weren't just thoughts, they were dreams and nightmares that would leave him in cold sweat. Night terrors.
Crap, his hands were shaking.
He leaned against the rundown building, he wanted them to stop. He did. But they wouldn't. They'd creep up on him, and he'd be left alone with those thoughts and running the images over and over in his head. Goddammit! He doesn't want to die. No dying. None. He closed his eyes, fixing attention on the sounds around him. Dogs barking, crickets searching for a mate, the night bird cooing, traffic, sirens, in the distance. A cat screeched, hissing as something crashed down to the ground not too far from him. What the hell?
His legs are already taking him there, refusing to comply as his mind keeps repeating for them to stop and turn the other way. A moan. It's probably some bum. He turned down the alley, he could see a form not too far off. Crumpled on the ground in defeat. As he approaches he can see the shivers racking the small frame, hoarse coughs emit from the form. Damn, the guy's practically dead. He doesn't know what compelled him to bend down, doesn't know why he gently turned the crumpled being over, or why he swept the hair away from the pair of violet eyes.
All he knows is thinking; fuck, it's a kid.
A/N: Oooh, language. Bad Mark! I'll talk to him about that. But, in other news, what did you think? I was very proud of the prologue simply because I liked Mark thinking depressing thoughs, which is creepy. I think something is wrong with me, but hopefully they have medicine for that. Anyway, I adore you for reading. Now, review? Yeah, see that button right below this? Well, you click it, and a little window pops up and you use that to review. You can say anything really, even if you shout 'SHTINKERMUFFINS!' and say nothing else I'll probably be ecstatic. I am a people pleaser, so I might change something in the story. Who knows? I reamin your obedient Authoress, Lushy