"In Loving Memory of Angel Dumott Schunard.
1975-1995
'No Day But Today'"


The tombstone was gray, like the clouds that hung over Collins' head, serving as a canopy that would protect him from nothing. It had been three months since Angel's death, and two weeks since Mimi's illness had almost cost her her life. Dark eyes stared at the gravestone blankly, misted over with the threat of tears. In his hand were a few roses, carefully cut and preserved until he had reached the yard where Angel had been buried. Every day he visited, every day he sat there, and every day he sank deeper and deeper into the void that filled his entire being.

Guilt was possibly the most abyssimal feeling that had taken over him. Every single moment of the day he was filled with immense shame at a fleeting thought that had covered his heart in the black veil of hate. Mimi had been dying, Mark stood next to a broken Roger. Maureen and Joanne huddled close. Collins had stood alone, watching, sorry. He had wanted to help-but another want had entered his thoughts.

Collins wanted Mimi to die.

Standing there, eyes fixated on Mimi's shivering form as she went completely limp, he had wanted her to be dead. It was a desire that filled his soul, and made him tear apart when she twitched-and was found still alive. Mimi's life had been spared. Mimi's, but not Angel's.

Roger had Mimi. There were joined at the hip now, it seemed. Mark had finally found that film he had worked so hard trying to find, and was now hard at work building himself up to composing it completely. Maureen and Joanne were together-fighting often but still perfectly warm and affectionate when the times called for it. Benny had gone off somewhere in hopes of rebuilding his wealth-disappeared from all of their lives.

Collins was alone. He had no one. And no one seemed to notice that he was alone. A brave smile had been pasted on his face for a while, but even that had died to a constant troubled look that spread to the farthest portions of his body. Losing Angel had scarred him in the worst possible way-his heart was far from ever even beginning to heal. But he didn't want it to. Parts of him didn't want to forget the hurt, for fear of him forgetting Angel. Still, he made no attempt to raise himself from his own misery, save the occasional depression pill that either Mark or Roger forced down his throat. More than once the threat of suicide had come up, once it had been attempted.

The bathroom mirror was already cracked, and Collins had grabbed at the shards and pulled off a jagged piece of glass. With the severity of grim detirmination, he had forced his down his wrist. Joanne had discovered him laying on the floor in a red pool of blood. He had stayed in the hospital for the following week, and rehabilitation for two weeks following that. Every day, though, he had ventured to the graveyard, or sent someone to go for him to bring flowers.

It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that Roger should have kept Mimi, kept Mimi who had faced the same illness, the same death, as his Angel. She wasn't a better person, had nothing more to live for than Angel had. And yet, God had spared her life. Collins could do nothing but hate them for being together, being in love, and being alive. He loved Angel three times as much as they did each other combined, and yet he was the one alone. Collins, more than anything, wanted Roger to feel the pain he did. He wanted to husky blonde to cry all the bitter tears he was, and to know the gaping void that filled his very being and dragged him to the bottomless pits of hell's fire. Instead, Roger remained in a heavenly love.

Collins was alone.

Every day he saw Angel's face. Every day he felt Angel's touch, the pressure of kisses against his lips, the warmth of skin against his own. Every whispered murmur of the wind brought to him the painful sound of Angel's voice. He tried to smile, he tried to live as Angel would have wanted him to. But even sunlight made him ache now for the love and feelings he had once known, and would know no more. No one could replace his Angel. He didn't want anyone to try.

Hate had filled Collins' very being. He hated Mimi. He hated Roger. He hated Mark, Maureen, and Joanne. He hated Benny. He hated himself. He hated God. And sometimes, he hated Angel.

He hated Angel for coming to him. For showing up on that corner with an offer of comfort and a night out to forget about the troubles that had been pursuing him. He hated the warm smile that had made his hands shake. he hated the purring voice that had enticed him to spend the first night beside the drag queen. He hated the drag, the hands, the skin, the eyes, the lips, the sighs, and everything else about his deceased lover. Most of all, however, he hated Angel for leaving him alone. He hated Angel for leaving him alone, and hated Angel for still making his heart throb at the thought of the transvestite's entire being.

Perhaps, had he not fallen for Angel, Collins would have been able to toss away the death as he felt some of the others must have. They visited the grave sometimes, out of respect for the dead, and talked of him with tears in their eyes. But since his abandonment, they tears seemed fake. Every time Mark or Roger's voice trembled at the mention of Angel's name he felt an overwhelming urge to scream. Their greif seemed to be nothing compared to his devouring depression. Collins was certain that when Mimi and Roger were together, talking and staring into each other's eyes lovingly, that they forgot about Angel. That when Maureen and Joanne were rehearsing, they forgot about Angel. That when Mark was buried in his compositions, he forgot about Angel. And yet, every second of the day Collins felt his hurt worsen. Angel never left his mind. Nights were worse, when he lay in his bed, sobbing silently and wishing more than anything for his Angel to be there. A gaping hole took over his soul. There was nothing left but unhappiness.

"Angel-" He murmured gently to the wind that floated above him as a few flurrys fell from the sky. Collins' dark hand shook as he kissed his palm and lay it on the tombstone. The breeze wafted back, and in a brief wash of anxiousness, Collins thought he heard an answer, whispered throught he breeze:

"Collins."