A/N: Hey... my first Mark angst! Yay! Anyway, I started it in Math
class when I was bored, and finished it today, when I was depressed.
Anyway, here it is!
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Limelight
Roger. It's always about Roger. What? Oh, no, Mark's fine, he can handle anything!! Mark can give, and give and give, and not need to get anything in return... right?
Wrong.
I enter the bathroom and look in the closet.
No razors.
Oh, silly me, looking for razors in a bathroom closet! Gasp! How could I have been so stupid? Razors aren't for shaving! No way! They're for cutting yourself so much that you need to get 200 stitches! They're for running up a gigantic, unpayable hospital bill! Oh, and, of course, they're for Roger, so he can fuck up his life even more than he already has!
I go into Roger's room. I frantically search for the box of replacement razor blades. When I find them, I release a sigh of relief, and go back into the bathroom. I take out a blade, and slice through my thin wrist. Deep. In those last moments, I think. I think about the past.
I think about Roger running away.
Even that was my fault.
I think about how it was my fault that Roger started cutting.
It's my fault he got an eating disorder.
I enter darkness. I don't know if it's from loss of blood, or just not caring anymore. All I know is that it feels good. I see a white light. And Angel. "Go back, Mark! Roger, Maureen, Joanne, and Collins need you!" she tells me. "Too bad," I answer. "I needed them, but they weren't there for me." I keep going. Before I leave the earth, I have one last thought. Will Roger steal the limelight at my funeral, or will I finally have a chance to shine for who I really am?
Limelight
Roger. It's always about Roger. What? Oh, no, Mark's fine, he can handle anything!! Mark can give, and give and give, and not need to get anything in return... right?
Wrong.
I enter the bathroom and look in the closet.
No razors.
Oh, silly me, looking for razors in a bathroom closet! Gasp! How could I have been so stupid? Razors aren't for shaving! No way! They're for cutting yourself so much that you need to get 200 stitches! They're for running up a gigantic, unpayable hospital bill! Oh, and, of course, they're for Roger, so he can fuck up his life even more than he already has!
I go into Roger's room. I frantically search for the box of replacement razor blades. When I find them, I release a sigh of relief, and go back into the bathroom. I take out a blade, and slice through my thin wrist. Deep. In those last moments, I think. I think about the past.
I think about Roger running away.
Even that was my fault.
I think about how it was my fault that Roger started cutting.
It's my fault he got an eating disorder.
I enter darkness. I don't know if it's from loss of blood, or just not caring anymore. All I know is that it feels good. I see a white light. And Angel. "Go back, Mark! Roger, Maureen, Joanne, and Collins need you!" she tells me. "Too bad," I answer. "I needed them, but they weren't there for me." I keep going. Before I leave the earth, I have one last thought. Will Roger steal the limelight at my funeral, or will I finally have a chance to shine for who I really am?