Helplessness and Guilt
Dislaimer- RENT is not mine- it all belongs to Jonathon Larson
Mark watched Roger sleep. The tubes ran from Roger's nose to the plastic medical bags- one was clear and the other, one that dove into the crease at his elbow, was slightly tinted by a medicine that kept the pain at bay. He wasn't even sure what the medicine was. This was unlike Mark, who usually had all the details, But now, he tried his hardest not to even look at the medical machines that Roger was hooked up to. They-
that was the bitter term Mark used to refer to all the doctors, the vague hospital staff who made these decisions-
wouldn't allow Mark to care for Roger at home anymore. Now Roger was kept in the hospital, a cold plastic band imprisoning him, marking him as one condemned to wait out his days on the ward. Mark pretended not to notice how the identification band flapped around his wrist, the wrist that grew ever thinner, the way that the bracelet hung so much looser than it did before.
Mark didn't know whether to laugh or not at the spot of ice cream on the white sheet. Roger looked smaller, buried in the white sheets of the hospital bed. However, Mark didn't let his mind dwell on that, or on the way the pillow and blankets seemed ready to swallow Roger. He was painfully thin now, like a starved child. Despite his cheeks, roughened by stubble (the day before, he growled at an overeager nurse, "I can shave my own damn face." and then fell asleep before he actually could) and his long shaggy hair shortened by a clucking nurse to an even length, and this new, childish temper he had shown since he grew ill, Roger really did seem like a child.
Mark sank down into the chair by the bed with a sigh.
Helplessness. He finally put a name to it, the emotion he felt every day as Roger suffered on. He was helpless to make Roger better, but he also too helpless to move on. He was unable to help, unable to do anything but sit there, and watch, and wait…
-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-I rent-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-00-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0
Mark was asleep, Roger observed from the bed. He noted the dark circle under the blonde's eyes, the constant crease of worry in his forehead that stayed even in his sleep. It was about time he rested- Roger kept telling Mark to go home, get some sleep, eat some food, maybe even try working, but he refused every time.
"What are you afraid of?" Roger asked, catching Mark nervously eyeing the IV tube, and Mark quickly averted his eyes and muttered a protest.
"I'm not afraid of anything, but sometimes I worry…" His voice trailed off, but the silence (not really silence with the hum of machines and sounds from the hospital hallway) held all of his concerns.
"I'll be here when you get back. Promise." Roger said, his voice gruff but sincere.
"Fine."
Mark sounded resigned and stayed away two hours before he returned with an ice cream sundae.
"To share!" he explained, and he held out a spoon to Roger, who smiled a little and leaned forward to take the plastic ware with an unsteady hand. The coordination of getting the ice cream from the bowl to his mouth proved too difficult for his shaky grip, and a scoop slid off the spoon, onto the sheet, smearing onto the generic polka-dotted print. Roger dropped the spoon, suddenly leaning back. Mark was quiet, and Roger felt his face grow hot as he stared out the window.
Then Mark came forward with a napkin, silent and helpful and nonjudgmental, as always. He wiped the melting dessert from the fabric, then lifted the spoon to Roger's mouth. Roger dodged the spoon, his face still burning, and he turned away.
"Come on Roger, don't be so difficult." Always patient, always kind.
"Mark, I really don't want- could you just go? Please?"
"It's your favorite flavor- chocolate, right?"
"Not now, could I be alone? Go away now."
"Roger, don't get like this."
"Mark, I'm fucking dying, do you think I want ice cream!?"
"I-I'm sorry- fine, I'll go, but, whatever."
And he backed out of the room. Roger stared at his ceiling a long while before he increased his medicine dosage and fell asleep.
Thoughts and images of Mimi came to him. Mimi flirting, dancing, launching herself into his life without hesitation. She was joyful and wild, so full of energy, so bright with her bold, unabashed love for him.
Then it was sick Mimi, too skinny with her eyes that were too big in her face, her skin too pale, and her smile weak. She faded away until there was nothing left of her but a box of ashes, the smell of rotting flowers, and a few condolence cards.
Before Mimi…April. Sunny vibrant intense April. She didn't have the bitterness of Mimi, the cynical edge. She lived life like it was a fun ride, and the drugs did nothing but escalate her giddy natural high. But she was gone too, and left him with…
Mark. Shy, extremely pale, blushing fidgety blonde Mark, with his scarf and camera that never left his side, he was always there for Roger, watching out for him, dealing with him.
Roger awoke to the icy touch of an alcohol drenched cotton swab. The nurse smiled at him, still dabbing at the skin of his arm, then explained, "Another shot, sir."
"Right." Roger sat up a little bit and turned his arm out so it was easier for the nurse to reach his vein,
Before, when he shot up with April, he used to watch the syringe with fascination, thrilled at the exact moment the drug entered the bloodstream. Now he looked away, he shifted uncomfortably, clenching his toes as the medicine was injected. The nurse pulled the used syringe away, then disposed of it in the waste basket next to the guest seats.
"Thanks."
"Sure, but do you want me to have him leave?"
Roger looked over at Mark, who was asleep in his chair.
"No, no, it's fine."
The nurse quietly left. Roger's gaze returned to Mark. He looked so worn and tired, and Roger felt another pang of guilt as he noticed the tear tracks left on Mark's face. Guilt wasn't an unfamiliar emotion for Roger.
He had felt it when he came in too late to the loft, reeking of alcohol and marijuana, and Mark gave him that look before retreating with some film into his room. He felt it when April died, killed herself right after their fight. With Mimi too, he was guilty then, alive and healthy while she was dying.
It didn't help Roger to identify this overwhelming feeling, but guilty he was, putting Mark through the drugs, his own moodiness, and now this. Mark had to be here every day to watch Roger. But there was really nothing Roger could do but lay here, and wait…