READ, POR FAVOR: Hola. This is just my stab at a MarkxOc fanfiction. If it's awful (or good, which I doubt), tell me so I can stop (or continue…). Don't kill me if it sucks- I gave up on my last story due to a case of chronic writer's block. Yeah... SO THROW YO MITTENS AROUND YO KITTENS…AND AWAAAY WEEE GOOOOOOO! Eh…heh…heh. Grease moment. Sorry. ^0^''
This will be told through Mark's POV.
HUGE, FAT, UGLY DISCLAIMER: Jonathan Larson, may he rest in peace, created RENT and all of its greatness. I don't know who owns the rights to it now, but I do know it (sadly) sure as hell isn't me. :,( And credit for the title goes to the Cure...since it's their song, and they shall forever remain my favorite non-Broadway artist. :)
January 10th, 1987
Dear Mark,
Can you believe pretty soon it'll be two years since I've seen New York? I'm almost halfway through school- and then I'll be back home! Hey, Italy's great and all, but my home will always be back in NY with you guys!
Sooo, you and Maureen, huh? Wow, that's really…unlikely. But, I'm still happy for you! It's about time you got a real girlfriend! I guess opposites do attract…
How was your New Year's? Did you spend it with her? ;D Hah, I can just see how red your face is turning right now! I spent that weekend in Venice with my roommate, aka the only civil person I've met here. Anyways, it's probably one of the most beautiful places in the world. I plan on going back soon to get some drawings done of the scenery. I really wish you could capture a place like this on camera…its breathtaking.
Anyway, school still pretty much sucks. I'm almost sure I've told you that in every letter I've sent you, too. I'm still the "stupid misfit American" who just doesn't belong there. I mean, I'm learning a lot more and most of the professors are nice, but 99% of the students are just bitches who think they can get away with talking about me in their native tongue. Heh, I guess my mom sitting me down for an hour every day and forcing me to learn Italian finally paid off, eh? And, well, that lovely 1% just happens to be my roommate and her normal, non-bitchy friends.
Oh, by the way, tell Roger I LOVED the recording of his songs you guys sent me! He sounds absolutely amazing! Hey, I guess he wasn't kidding when he told us he'd be greater than Robert Smith one day! By the way, has he been doing okay? How're things with him and that new girl? Please, tell him to stay out of trouble, for everyone's sake. I know you're probably already breathing down his neck about it, but I'm still worried from the other side of the world!
So, how've you been lately? Love-struck? Ah, sorry, Marky, you're just too fun to tease! How's your baby? And I meant the camera this time, not Maureen…
Oh, and how's Collins been doing? Is he staying out of trouble? (Like that's possible for him…) Did he get the thumbs up from MIT yet? Not that he'll really need it- we all know he'll make it anyway. He's smart, just…extreme.
Yeah, that's me lately. I'm pretty bored with my life, so I didn't have much to say. And I know, I know- I still wrote you more than a page, but you know that's not enough for my motor mouth! Anyway, I'm counting down the days till I graduate! I miss you guys so much!
Love,
Izzy
Letters from Izzy were always the best part of my week. I wish I could get one every day. Sadly, that's impossible when she's all the way in Italy. Isabella Amoretti, or "Izzy", as we called her, has been one of my best friends since I was about 3. Eventually, we found Roger in kindergarten, and Collins not too long after that. Collins and Roger were always finding some type of trouble to get into, while Izzy nervously chased after them, making sure they didn't get hurt, and I just awkwardly stood there, watching with my glasses that were too big for my face. Yes, we were always a band of misfits…
F L A S H B A C K
"Roger!" A nervous, 7 year-old Izzy yells up to our rambunctious friend. He was sitting on an unsteady branch in a tree in her backyard. Izzy was always a cute kid. Her brown curls fell slightly past her shoulders and her eyes of the same color were always wide with worry for her troublemaking friends. She was always dressed in girly, floral print dresses and dressy, but uncomfortable, matching shoes that she'd always kick off to run around barefoot. "Roger, please! You're gonna get hurt!"
"I'm fine!" The young, 1972 version of Roger protests- even back then, he rocked the "shaggy blonde hair and worn out jeans" look.
"I-izzy?!" I ask, timidly. "Maybe I should go get Mrs. Davis?!" There was a fine line between Izzy's and my worrying. Izzy had a genuine concern for her friends. She was like our mini-mom, even though she was the youngest by a few months. I, on the other hand, was just a nervous wreck. Izzy may have worried a lot, but at least she could at least put that aside to have a little fun. I couldn't leave my own room without being scared something bad would happen.
"Look out below!" Collins howls. But, back then, he was known as our friend "Tommy". I know, it sounds weird now, but we didn't really take up calling him by his last name until towards the end of middle school. Thank God it came eventually, though, because I'd feel pretty weird at 22 years old, calling my best friend "Tommy", especially when the cute and innocent little boy name didn't fit him anymore.
"Tommy!" Izzy and I yell in unison at our other friend; he was swinging on a loose branch, as if he were Tarzan. "Get down!" Collins groans and reluctantly lets go of the branch, allowing him to soar a few feet across the yard and land flat on his stomach.
"Whoa!" He shouts, excitedly. "That was awesome! Roger, you have to try it!"
"No, you don't!" Izzy angrily spits out in a much more stern tone.
"Oh, relax," Roger replies as he jumps over to the same loose branch, swinging back and forth, higher and higher. "I'll be just fine…"
At about 11 PM that night, little Roger left the ER with his right arm covered in a white plaster, then held place in a sling. The dumbass broke his arm and dislocated his shoulder.
It's been about 2 years since any of us have seen her. After high school, Izzy was accepted into Accademia di Belle Arti di Roma, or Academy of the Fine Arts of Rome (either way, it's a mouthful to say.) We still write each other every week and she'll call once or twice a month, but it's obviously still not the same…
My train of thought was cut off by the sound of heavy feet dragging an indifferent-looking Roger into the loft. "Hey," I say as he throws his old, leather jacket on the chair next to me. "You okay?" Still, no reply. "Uh, I get a letter from Izzy today…she really liked your songs." Once again, nothing. I stay silent for a moment, and then hesitantly ask, "This has something to do with April, doesn't it?" He stops in his tracks to shoot me a glare that could've possibly burned holes in my soul. He then storms off into his room and slams his door shut. Great. I put Izzy's letter to the side on our old coffee table and begin to write my reply.
Dear Izzy,
Ugh, no…why did it sound okay when she wrote it, but too formal when I said it back?
Hey, Izzy,
No, again- way to casual for a letter.
Izzy,
Too simple? Oh well, it will do for now.
Wow, 2 years already? I still don't think it's going by fast enough, though…I...We can't wait until you get home…
I immediately stop writing when I hear a smacking sound coming from Roger's room. I quickly jump up and dart toward his door, swinging it open and carelessly allowing it to smash into the wall behind it. My face completely drops at the sight of Roger, sitting on his bed with one sleeve rolled up and a syringe in the opposite hand. "Rog, please…" I protest altruistically, concerned for my friend's mental and physical well-being. "We could…I mean…you don't have-" I cut off my own stuttering when Roger looks up at me with a cold, blank stare. "…I…R…Roger…" I take another pause to get my words out. "Do you really want-" Without even glancing back down at his arm, Roger shoves the needle dead-on into the vein in his wrist.
I cringe at the sight- a sight I was hoping to never have to see again.
Roger takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, letting the drug completely take over his trembling body. "Roger," I say, less scared and more seriously this time. "Why?" Still without a word, Roger abruptly stands up. He walks right past me, as if I wasn't there, grabs his jacket and heads toward the door. "Where are you going now?!" I angrily call out to him. He simply slams the front door in reply.
There was nothing worse than watching your best friend completely tear his life apart.
Speeeeeeeaaaaaaak…*beep*
Weird…I guess I've gotten so used to screening our calls, I don't even hear the phone ring anymore.
"Marky, it's me!" Maureen's cheery voice announces over the speaker. "Pick up the phone! I-"
"Hello?" I answer, interrupting her message.
"Mark! Where are you? You were supposed to be here ten minutes ago!" Oh, shit…
"Uh, yeah, sorry," I reply, trying to make it sound like I didn't forget about the date we had tonight. Then again, if she didn't go MIA all day, I would have remembered. With the way she'd always disappear, I'd forget she was even living with us sometimes. But, hey, Maureen will be Maureen, and there was no putting a stop to that. "I'm leaving now." I hang up the phone before she has the chance to yell at me to hurry up. I quickly throw on my jacket, and then grab my camera that was sitting right next to my unfinished letter to Izzy.
I let out a deep sigh when I scan over the three pathetic sentences I've replied with so far. I really wanted to be able to mail it by tomorrow…
Maureen's impatient; don't keep her waiting, a little voice in my head tells me. She can get violent when she's angry…
I take one more glance at the letter, and then head toward the door.
I mean, Izzy can wait one more day, right?
And that was my pathetic attempt. I don't plan on posting another chapter until someone's actually dimwitted enough to think this is worth reading…so, yeah.
Peace, Love and Cuteness
Veg ^-^