Disclaimer: I do not own RENT, story idea semi-inspired by the fic "Morbid Fascination" and Stephen King's Cell.
It's tiny, small, worn and it stinks like days of sweat, but it's still there, in my hands. It hasn't disappeared yet. Not like everything else.
They tell me it's unhealthy. Tell me that I should just let it go. But I can't Let It Go because It Doesn't Want to Be Let Go.
The colors, once semi-vibrant, have faded to a dull mediocrity. The fabric has been worn to somewhere around a 25-count. I can see through the tiny threads that compose this cloth but I still can't bring myself to drop it. Not for a second has it left my sight. Ever since she came in with the scissors and tossed it on the floor—how dare she toss it!—I won't let go of it. Ever.
They keep pulling at my arms, trying to pry my fingers apart but I'm strong. Super-strong, like the strongest man in the world. I can't rip a phone book in half but neither can the second strongest man in the world.
I bring the fabric up to my nose and sniff it, cautiously, but still with the experience of having done this thousands of times before. It smells of sweat and some kind of cologne and many, many memories. I kiss it gently while inhaling the sweet scent and caress it against my face, first the left cheek than the right. Left to right, never right to left. I can't do it right to left, because that would be Japanese and I'm not Japanese, I'm American. Or something like that.
Top to bottom, right to left, sniff, kiss, caress, repeat. Ritual, never let go EVER.
The conversation took place at one a.m. Here's how I got my little scrap:
"You need to get rid of that shirt."
"Why?"
"It's got a hole in the armpit! People can see your gross nasty underarm hair!"
"I don't mind, it's one of my favorites"
"I don't want to see your nasty hair! Get rid of it!"
"No!"
"Fine, then let me just cut off the sleeves."
"Okay, sure."
Then she tossed my little scrap on the floor and I, being the dog that I am, scurried over and scooped it up. No one noticed. They don't know about the dog thing, either. I'm a lot like a dog, actually. A Golden Retriever. Because I retrieve things, like my little scrap.
I didn't name it Scrap; actually, it doesn't have a name. It just is my scrap. My little piece of him because he's gone, gone far away to a place I can't go to for a long time.
Oh, here they come now, try to take it away from me, but they'll never have it ever. I'll never forget him as long as I live. I can't forget him—that's why I need my scrap. My scrap, my Roger…gone…
A hand was gently placed on his shoulder. "Mark? Mark? Isn't it time you let go of that old bit of T-shirt? If you like it so much I'll give it to you."
"You can't be here…"
"But I am here."
"No…."
"Mark? Mark, it's time to let go. To eat, to stand up, to live."
"I can't because he's gone."
"I'm right here, look at me!"
"Roger…where did you go?"
Please review! No, that was not slash, or implied slash. Friendship, nothing more.