I couldn't breathe. I was drowning…drowning in the bathtub of our loft. Roger had his hand on my neck just like a cat would paw down a mouse.
I tried to fix him a bath. One minute he was hot, and the next he was cold. He refused to go to the hospital, and without Collins, I might as well have been an a wisp of air.
"Roger!" I gasped, when he yanked my neck back. If only I could look back at him.
He pushed my head back in again, this time, he put one hand on the back of my head and the other squeezed tight around my neck. I was thrashing around like a dog trying to free it's leg from a hidden trap in the woods. Nothing worked.
My nose began to bleed and the water soon changed colors. It reminded me of that time I got stuck in the undertow. It was almost tranquil in a way. I remember thinking if only I could swallow enough water. The blood tinted water reminded me of a sunset. I began to suck in, the water stinging my nose, maybe this could be my sunset.
Suddenly, he pulled me back up. My heart was beating in my ears - and it sounded like he too, was tired. Like he was out of energy. And then I went back under. I tried to hold my breath, but I ended up taking in more water than air. I thought about taking a big gulp, just getting it over with. It wasn't really worth it -
He pulled me back up. I knew that it wasn't Roger, but yet even that didn't comfort me. Roger going through withdrawal was like Roger turning into Superman or something. He could do anything and everything - nobody could stop him. Not even Collins.
Then, just as quick as he had pulled me into the bathroom, he let me up and pushed me in between the wall and the toilet. I sat there for a minute, not knowing whether or not to run or to stay and let him go.
I looked at him, and for a second, it looked like I could see right through him. Through his withdrawal from heroin induced rage. Though his rock star facade. Though his depressed stage.
But to the Roger that I knew when I first came to the East Village. The Roger that I hung out with, sitting on the fire escape in the middle of the night because our air conditioner did us no justice. The Roger that I had to sleep with when we only had one bed and a steel table as furniture. The Roger that cuddled next to me one afternoon when we fell asleep in the park.
I missed that Roger.
He started to walk out, and I thought it was truly over. I heard him go out onto the fire escape, hopefully to return later on and apologize like he always did.
I stood in front of the medicine cabinet, trying to find something for the small cuts on my face. I heard Roger's footsteps come back into the bathroom, his combat boots heavy on the wood floor. He paused at the doorway for a moment. I ignored him and straightened my glasses.
Roger took a few steps forward, so that he was standing very close to me. I looked at him nervously, bracing myself for whatever was to come next. He smacked his hand against my head, making it surge forward into the side of the medicine cabinet -
I opened my eyes suddenly, and gasped. Iwas in bed with Roger, his body awfully close to mine. His left arm was behind his head, his right hand was resting lightly above my waist. My hand was entangled in the hand behind his head, and the other one was resting on his chest. I tentatively felt my face, not wanting to press too hard on a bruise, but there was nothing there.
"What's the matter, Mark?" Roger slurred. His hand slid lower.
"Nothing," I mumbled. "Go back to sleep Roger." I said. I turned over myself and scooted away from Roger just the slightest bit, letting his hand fall to the bed.
What Roger could have done always scares me.