Hurt

Disclaimer and Notes: Rent doesn't belong to me, because I'm not that cool. This was written for speedrent...

I've seen it countless times since April's suicide. Roger will emerge from his bedroom casually, as if nothing's wrong, silent and cold like he always is now, small streams of blood running down his arms. Most of the time he tries to hide them from us, but sometimes he can't, sometimes he bleeds through his sleeves, sometimes he's high and he doesn't care if we see, sometimes he hasn't slept in so long he can't think far enough ahead to plot how to disguise his means of self-abuse...

He glares at me every time I acknowledge the existence of scars. I look at his arms for a few seconds, and he's shooting daggers at me with those green eyes, with more fire in them than I've seen in a while, as if to nonverbally say, "Who the fuck are you to judge me, Coffin? I'll do whatever the hell I want to!"

I know what he's trying to do. The kid has hated himself and the rest of the world since she died, and he wants to gather the courage to follow in her footsteps. He's become obsessed with that beautiful scarlet river that holds the secrets of life and death alike, addicted to the blade that releases the blood. His love of the needles April gave him is nothing compared to this new high – pain.

It all started with him wanting to kill himself – that's how these things always start. But now, it's not even about that anymore...Roger just wants to retain his ability to feel. He's sensed how his grip on emotion is slipping, how they're falling and how he has no control anymore, and he just wants to regain that control.

Mark's about to go into a nervous breakdown now, it seems like. He's always pacing back and forth whenever Roger's been alone for more than a few minutes, like he's scared Roger's gonna actually do it, end it all. But I know him better than that. Roger's an idealist, a dreamer. I've watched him for two years now – Roger dreams about things like suicide, but he would never have the courage, the strength, or the willpower to go through with it, especially not now. Roger doesn't have the mental or emotional endurance to pick up his guitar and play a simple song anymore...how much more stamina does it take to end your life?

Collins is gone now...at MIT, completing his dreams and some kind of shit like that. Maureen moved out, even though she and Mark are still dating, in theory – apparently she can't handle the drama of living in the same loft as post-April Roger, a thought I find somewhat ironic.

And me? Well, I don't know what the fuck I'm still doing here. I guess I'm staying here for Mark's sake, because I know he'd never leave Roger in a time like this and I still feel something like a college roommate loyalty to Mark. As for Roger – I grew to like him ok when he was himself, but lately there's nothing to like. Besides, I know the only person who can actually help the boy is Mark, who thinks he's so helpless...

I want to help him. I really do. I would do whatever I could to help him, even if he is a asshole the majority of the time...but what can you do in a situation like that? Throw away his knives? He'd just find more. Tell him it's not all over, that he's hurting himself? I get the vague idea he knows that...that's why he's doing it. He feels like it was his fault April died, so he punishes himself...or at least, that's one of the reasons he tells himself he's doing it. He doesn't know why, he doesn't think about it. Me and Roger were never all that close, but I can tell that much from sheer observation. I know full well that I don't really belong in this little society of friends...but I understand Roger more than he could ever know.

With cutting, it's just not a big deal. It's not really hurting you badly, and chances are you won't die from it, unless you accidentally hit a vein or something. And cutters are more cautious than that, because it's all about getting close to real injury without actually ending up with more than a few nonfatal scars. He can use this as his safe drug, as his morbid therapy, because it won't actually hurt him. He just wants to see his internal pain expressed, materialized, so he'll feel like he has the right to hurt.

I, for example, did it for years, and it didn't kill me...and that's what he's relying on. We were both looking for that license to feel, that permission to hurt. But we had one major difference – no one ever found out about me. But that's the way it should be...I was never the type to go around begging for sympathy.

And I'm worried about him, and I hate that this addiction's taken hold of him, and I don't like seeing those little red Xs that line his wrists and forearms...

But I understand it all too well.