Warning: This story contains quite a bit of violence. In short, everyone assumes Roger's the only one with a temper. What if Mark hides in his work to avoid losing control? This story is preRENT and sometime after April's suicide but before Roger's withdrawals.
January 1989
Mark bolted up the stairs. He heard the shouts from the stairwell.
"Maureen! Just give it to me!"
"I don't have it!"
"Yes, you fucking do and I know it! Just fucking give it to me!"
"Roger, I don't have it! You used it all this morning! I fucking saw you do it!"
He froze when he heard a loud thud. It was followed by a scream and Mark flew up the rest of the stairs.
When he came in, Maureen was pinned to the wall. Roger held her there, one hand holding her wrists above her head. His other hand held something, pressing it against her stomach as she cried out.
"Maureen! I swear to God—"
"Please, Roger, please! I don't have it! I swear to you, I don't have anything!"
"Roger! Stop it!"
"Back off, Mark!" he screamed, his gaze staying fixed on Maureen.
His arm moved from her stomach. The light streaming in through the loft windows caught on the object in his hand. A knife. Mark hesitated, waiting until the knife was away from Maureen's body. He lunged forward, catching Roger around the middle. Roger was knocked backwards. Mark straddled him, one hand on his chest. He grabbed the wrist of the hand holding the knife.
"What the fuck are you doing?" he screamed at the fallen musician.
"Get the fuck off of me!"
Mark twisted the knife from his grasp. He glared down at Roger, squirming beneath him. The rocker's eyes were glazed over with drug-induced rage.
"Did you cut her?"
"Mark, stop!" Maureen cried.
Roger glared at Mark and swung at him. Mark slashed at Roger's arm, both of them still screaming.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?"
"Fuck you! This is between me and that bitch!"
Mark flung the knife across the room. He swung at Roger, his fist colliding with Roger's cheek. The rocker was quick to swing back, knocking Mark off of him. Mark leapt to his feet before Roger could pounce. He headbutted Roger in the stomach, sending him back to the floor. Maureen screamed at both of them, pleading with them to stop. Mark heard her but couldn't stop. He heard her call someone but couldn't focus his attention on anything but Roger.
"Get the fuck off me, Cohen!"
"You want to hurt someone? You want to fuck with somebody? You stay the fuck away from her!"
Roger's fist slammed into Mark's chest. The filmmaker had seen it coming and only flinched. He punched Roger in the face again and again. Roger's hands reached up and tightened around his throat. Mark gasped for breath, eyes glowing with rage. He swung as hard as he could, hitting Roger in the head. The rocker fell unconscious and his hands slipped down to the ground. Mark stayed on top of him, punching his chest. He couldn't stop.
Benny ran in and put his arms around Mark, flinging him away from Roger. "What the hell's going on?"
Collins ran in a moment later. His eyes darted around the room. He picked up Maureen and carried her to the bathroom. She'd stopped screaming and now sobbed. Her tears were the only response from her.
Benny grabbed Mark and threw him into his bedroom. He yanked a chair over and propped it up under the doorknob as a lock before returning to Roger's side. "Collins?"
"In here, man!"
Benny saw Collins kneeling on the floor. Maureen lay beside him, silent as Collins tended to her. Maureen? Benny still wasn't sure what the hell had happened, but Maureen's stomach was bleeding.
"Fuck…how'd this happen?"
Her tears had slowed but she showed no sign of hearing them.
"Collins, Roger's bleeding."
Collins looked up at Benny, his face paling. "Son of a bitch…okay, okay, you stay here with her. Do not come back in there until I say it's okay."
Benny nodded. Collins grabbed a few towels and went to the living room. Roger lay on the floor, his arm bleeding steadily. Collins wrapped a towel around it and pressed down. Roger groaned and tried to sit up. Collins put a gentle hand to his chest.
"Easy, Roger, easy. Just lay still a minute," he said softly.
Roger's eyes fluttered open. Collins noted the familiar haze in his eyes. He was still high.
The high had worn off by morning. When Roger woke with a black eye, he asked what happened. Maureen said he'd been mugged. No one disagreed. Collins had bandaged her arm and stomach. She winced if she turned to fast but assured Roger it was just cramps. Her arm she hid beneath sleeves.
Mark began to spend more time behind his camera after that. Behind the camera meant that nothing he was watching was real. It wasn't his life. It wasn't his friends. It wasn't reality. If he stayed behind the camera, there was no reason to get mad, no reason to lose control, no reason to ever feel anything. He couldn't be hurt that way. More importantly, he wouldn't hurt anyone again.