Goodbye love.
She kept saying that. Goodbye love, goodbye. Didn't Mimi see that he wasn't listening? Mark bit his tongue. Shut up Mimi he wanted to say, stop saying goodbye.
"I got over it, why can't you? Roger isn't coming back. So deal with it." He spoke aloud now. But it made no difference. The loft was empty. Mark realized that in the end, it always would be.
No matter what, Roger was still living on barrowed time. And Mark, well, he wasn't living at all.
"Danmit Angel. Danmit Mimi." He wiped the tears that were clouding his vision. "Danmit Roger." Why did he have to leave? Who cares about the restaurants? What about him?
"Fucking Roger!" He yelled. Mimi was probably gone now, Collins was still standing by the grave. He wanted more than anything for somebody, anybody to walk in. Then he could turn off this anger, this drip of hurt. But nobody walked in. "Fucking Roger." He said again quieter. He walked into the bathroom, turning on the sink. For just a second he saw "I HAVE AIDS" written in bright red blood. Aprils blood.
That's when it all went wrong. "Fucking April." He whispered, and punched the glass, hoping it would take the last memory of her with it. It shattered, cracked.
And Mark saw himself in it's reflection. Broken, cracked. Tears streaming down an angry blotchy face.
You're always preaching not to be numb, but that how you thrive.
He looked at his hands. Pulsating pain, slivers of glass shining in the moonlight. Blood dripping to the floor, echoing in the empty loft.
"Perhaps it's because I'm the one of us to survive."
But that's all he was doing. He was just surviving, blocking everything out with a camera lenses.
"There's so much to care about, there's me." He had said. Mimi was an afterthought. "Fuck." Mark punched again. The reflection shattered once more. And more pain, so much more pain. He kept punching, destroying every sliver of the mirror.
Finally, he felt something. Anger, betrayal.
And somewhere, happiness. From that night at the restaurant, from burning his old scripts for warmth. Roger in a desperate attempt to teach Mark guitar, or the night he had gotten sick and fallen asleep on him.
Finally, he had felt something. Mark smirked, gazing at the masterpiece of glass and blood, blurry from stinging tears. He stumbled out of the bathroom, a sudden urge to destroy everything he saw. Everything that reminded him of a time that Roger was there. He emptied the last bit of Absolute into the bathtub, and threw the blue glass onto the floor. He pulled out a lighter and set it on fire, and pulled out photographs of everybody, smiling laughing.
And he couldn't destroy anymore. Because Angel was smiling, and Collins smirking. Maureen was trying to look sexy, and Roger was laughing at a long forgotten joke. This was one picture Mark was in, in between Angel and Collins. He was laughing too, and he wished he could remember at what.
Goodbye love, goodbye love, came to say, goodbye love.
Goodbye.
Hey, it's Mark. I don't know if you'll get this, but.
I just called to ask. Have you found it yet? Your one song?
I hope it's good. I hope it's worth leaving.
…
Goodbye love.