Disclaimer: RENT does not belong to me.
Mark stood up slowly, cautiously, in front of the gathering. For the first time in years, he had actually taken a seat with them, actually used one of the hard plastic chairs arranged in a forgiving circle. His camera sat whirring on another empty chair, with its arm quietly thumping the seat and tilting the view as it spun. He could never bear to turn it off at one of these meetings, but today he couldn't bring himself to hold the burning thing in his hands either. He cleared his throat, certain he should begin speaking.
"You already know me... I'm Mark," he said with a vague motion toward his chest, "Um… still negative." He licked his lips and looked around at the others. He knew the new attendees were wondering why he was even there. Why he had taken the time out of his day to listen to people with AIDS voice their fears, why he had sat silently until the very end of the meeting when Paul had called attention to the fact that Mark had finally taken a seat, as if that showed progress. "I just got re-tested." He clarified, "Roger punched me in the face a couple months ago, just after Collins…" he shook his head, shook off a memory, cleared his throat, "He was wearing a ring, so he bled… and I bled…" Mark trailed off again, fingers tracing a small scar on his jaw, "And nothing." His voice was hollow, empty of emotion. He shrugged and pulled on one of the tassels on his scarf, twisting it tight around skeletal fingers. "…I'm here today because he's finally gone. He—he died yesterday afternoon. Three-twenty-one PM, eastern standard time," Mark's voice faltered and he squeezed his eyes shut. He didn't want to see them looking at him, empathizing with him. "I've watched five of my friends…my family… go practically the same way…because of the same thing… First April, then Angel, Mimi, Collins, and now Roger." Mark pressed a quivering hand to his mouth, but whether he was suppressing tears, vomit, or a long, lamenting wail was unclear. His eyes moved a little bit, beneath his lids, transparent eyelashes shaking on his cheeks. He took a deep, uneven breath, steadied himself with a hand on his vacant plastic chair, and forced his eyes to open. "And I wanted to ask you guys, if you think—if you think it's completely wrong that I'm starting to…" his voice broke, but he pushed on, an octave too high, brow furrowed and blue eyes shut tight once more against the tears he refused to shed, "…that I'm starting to wish it would just take me, too."