Yep, that's what happens when I get bored and think about stuff .
. .
(A working title)
It wasn't supposed to be this way
Eight hours ago she would have thought differently, but now all
she did was stare at the razor in her hand. The edges caught the
dim light of the bathroom and she swallowed hard.
She had to do it.
It was her fault.
Okay, maybe that wasn't true. It could be Roger's fault. He could
have gotten it first, passed it on to her
She shook her head. It really didn't matter. She had it. That
mattered.
HIV.
AIDS.
The disease that killed. That plagued the gay community. She was
straight.
You're an addict, April. For Christ's sake, you shoot up
every night. Share needles. You and Roger, after he rounds more
up from the Man and for a few hours it's all oblivion and life is
fine
No, life wasn't fine. Not now.
She did it once, at a party. A recommendation. It was after a gig
of Roger's, a party filled with people Roger was familiar with.
She had no idea where to look, to start, to fit in. She was 18
then, Roger was 22 and a lot of the people there were that age
and older. She felt immature and insecure. It was moments like
that that she regretted running from her crappy family life. One
try. To loosen up.
She saw Roger shoot up that night too. So, technically she
started herself, but if she hadn't tried that night, she was
almost positive that watching Roger would have gotten her started
soon enough.
She was so fucking stupid.
She never was strong. She wasn't strong enough to stand up to a
verbally abusive mother, and Roger, well she loved him, and well,
she followed his lead. Trusted him.
She turned over the razor again in her hands.
Roger was out. She wasn't even sure where. Mark was out, either
chasing after Maureen or filming. Benny was somewhere with
Allison, the landlord's daughter and his long-time girlfriend,
and Collins was out copying resumes and such.
She would be dead by the time anyone found her.
She got up and still clutching the razor, turned on the hot water.
She had read somewhere that warm water drew the blood out faster.
She hoped it would be fast, as fast as possible. Her hands shook.
Any other day and she wouldn't be able to do it, never.
But today . . .
She hadn't been feeling well. Nothing new. In between fixes she
usually felt a bit crappy, so she always choked it up to that.
Roger didn't look phrased when she mentioned to him off hand that
she wasn't feeling well. Mark noticed, but she knew he didn't
know every aspect of her and Roger's night life; he was
enthralled with Maureen, or so she thought. Sometimes it was hard
to tell exactly what Mark knew. He hid his feelings very well.
She wasn't sure if anyone else noticed.
She went to the free clinic around the block. She couldn't hide
the fact that she was an addict. She ignored the stares. She
didn't balk at the blood test. She knew little about disease.
About the possibilities.
She got the results today.
HIV.
AIDS.
Dying.
The end.
It had to be.
Would Roger miss her? Would anyone miss her? What would her
mother say when she found out? The woman that called her "a
failure."
She'd be right.
She once had big plans. Go to college. Study teaching. Teach high
school English and spend her days grading papers while she sipped
coffee at Starbucks. Date, find a man. Marriage. Family.
She fucked it all up. Left home to prove to her mother she could
make it on her own, got involved with Roger and made decisions
that changed her life. It wasn't Roger's fault. She made the
choice. She could've said no. Could've have found a different way.
She remembered the first time she met him. His hands in her hair,
their eyes locking, and for one magic moment feeling a spark
unlike anything she had ever felt. Perfect. Before she knew he
was using, before she started using herself. If they could just
frame that one second of time, it would be perfect.
She was stalling. She had to do this before anyone came home.
She picked up a piece of paper and a pen, and then dropped it.
She eyed the tube of red lipstick on the sink. She didn't wear
that particular shade, so she figured that it must be Maureen's.
She unscrewed the cap and without thinking scribbled a message
across the bathroom mirror in big long cursive strokes. Short. To
the point.
"I'm sorry," she whispered aloud, not even sure if she
was talking to Roger or not.
She shut off the water. She climbed into the tub, not caring that
she was still clothed. It wouldn't matter.
She was surprised when the first cut didn't hurt. She shoved her
wrist under the water and stared at the blood.
It didn't hurt. The water was turning red. She was vaguely light
headed. One more cut, and then she'd sink away, ending her life
before AIDS could rob her of it.
The door slammed.
Shit.
Nomatteryoudiditnoonecanhelpyou.
It'soverIt'soverIt'sover.
"Anyone here?"
Mark.
She was growing more lightheaded with each passing second. God,
she didn't want Mark to find her. He was the last person she
wanted to find her. Him and his camera.
Footsteps approached the door. He could've heard the water.
It grew redder. Her first swipe was deep but not as deep as could
be. Losing blood, but not fast enough . . .
You'redoneYou'redoneYou'redone.
Go away . . .
The door was ajar. She'd left it open ever so slightly. Her head
swam as she heard the creak . . .
"Shit!" A camera dropped to the floor.
It's over.
911 she heard vaguely. She let her eyes drift closed. Felt Mark
grab her wrist, hold pressure, heard him on the phone.
It's over.
Blackness descended.
-------
"I'll find Roger. Oh god . . . I'll find him. Please help
her."
Her senses recognized Mark's voice, felt hands touch her, needles
prick her.
She knew.
She was still alive.
It wasn't supposed to be this way.
No.
The only way . . .
There was no other way.