Disclaimer: None of this belongs to me, except for Rick- but I don't really
want him anyway. ::shrug:: Jonathan Larson owns it all.
Author's Note: This is my first actual story in a while (besides a songfic I posted a while back..) and I'm not so sure I should be putting this out there, but I'm actually pretty proud of it. I'll wait for some feed back before I post the next chapter. This is AU, so don't expect this to lead into the show, or even include April at all. Now that I think about it, it doesn't include much of anyone besides Mark and Roger. And a little Maureen. Oh, and Rick. But I made him up and he's one-dimensional so it doesn't matter. Anyway, I hope this is enjoyed, and I'm going out on a limb here... and I bring you:
Vows of Silence by Christine Hughes
I didn't notice. I'm the designated observer, and I didn't notice. I'm the one of us who fades into black and watches everyone else go on with their lives. But not this time... how could I miss this? I suppose the reason's name is Maureen. Not that I'm blaming this on her, it's just that I got caught up in our whirlwind of a relationship, which is another story in itself. But between the fights, accusations, lies, apologies, and make- up sex, there wasn't much time for me to notice the drug addiction or a friend who is excellent at hiding it.
The first time I noticed was when I was home at the loft because Maureen was working late- she had gone through a period where she worked at a small bookstore on 12th.
About 3:00 am, I was awoken by fits of laughter and stumbling. Ah, another one of Roger's late-night club trash endeavors. I lay awake staring out the window of my bedroom, listening to the mumbles and worried questions of "Do you have it?" and "Where is it?" I assumed the comments were references to condoms or another sexual instrument until "How much?", "Give me that," and "That's too much," floated through the thin wall separating our two bedrooms.
I decided not to think too much about it. Roger's been partying for years; he's a smart guy and can take care of himself. I went into his room the next morning to wake him up and held up a little empty plastic bag in front of his face, "Uh... Roger?"
He struggled to sit up in his bed and look at me. "It's nothing."
"What kind of nothing?"
"Just club stuff..." He laid back down. For some reason I accepted that answer. I guess I was just happy to have gotten an answer at all without a fight.
After that, I pushed thoughts of Roger running around the entire Lower East side with whatever in his system to the back of my mind. The next week, Maureen broke up with me and I was on an emotional roller coaster of my own. I got wrapped up in my own misery, choosing it over subtle signs of spiraling addiction. But when I gradually got over Maureen and came back to Earth, I couldn't help but notice Roger's painfully obvious habit of little plastic bags and needles. I still can't. It's been three months since I first heard those words through my bedroom wall, and I still haven't questioned him since that morning.
It all started out as what seemed like a casual and harmless practice. He'd come home high occasionally, then it started becoming more frequent. But his use was so gradual that I never knew when to step in. I guess I had false hope he would stop.
I don't know how to talk to him. Roger doesn't make it easy to be honest. Especially now, seeing as he's not even the same person he was before. He has two moods: high/passive/goofy/ebullient or crashing/angry/unreasonable/malicious. I can't even talk to him about anything anymore; serious talks are out of the question.
It's late and I'm waiting up for him, again. Despite the fact he barely speaks to me, I wait for the loft door slam every night before returning to my room. I'm reading on the couch facing away from the door. I hear the familiar sound of his boots stomping up the stairs. The door swings open, hitting the counter and bounces back. Lovely, crashing.
"Hey Rog,"
He grunts and walks to his room.
"How was the night out?" I try to continue a conversation, but Roger is busy searching through his drawers in the dresser for a little bag of white powder. I know it's the only thing on his mind right now, as always. He finally discovers the bag and needle in the second drawer of his side table. He tries to walk past me to the kitchen but I stop him.
"Move."
"Roger," I pause. What do I say? What can I say about this? "What are you doing?"
"Going to the kitchen, now move," He tries to get past me again, but I shove him back.
"Roger, what the fuck are you doing to yourself?"
"Nothing that concerns you."
"Bullshit. This concerns me and you know it." God, this has everything to do with me, if he only knew to what extent. The fact that he doesn't give a shit about himself kills me. But what kills me even more is the fact that I can't do anything about it. My best friend is killing himself, and me in the process.
"No. It doesn't," He's trying to push me out of the way but I don't move for him.
"Mark! Get the fuck out of the way!" He's pushing me and I'm trying to lock us into his bedroom. He wants the kitchen. He wants the spoon in the kitchen to heat the smack so he can shoot up. I'll be damned if he does it without a fight from me.
He finally puts his hand on my chest and shoves me aside into the doorframe. He swiftly opens the drawer, obtaining a metal spoon. Ignoring the immense pain in my back, I try to intercept him by shutting and locking the doors to the bathroom and his room, then standing in front of them. He'll go anywhere that he can get away from me to be with his best friend.
I used to be that best friend. We laughed, we teased each other, we talked, we lived. Now, Roger's not even a person anymore. The white powder holds the weight of Roger's world. His thoughts are engulfed by his desire and need to feel that warm liquid shooting into his arm and flowing all over his body. He now needs that reeling, happy, detached high to survive.
But Roger's never actually shot up in front of me on purpose. I've seen him snort things and take pills before... but the only time I've ever seen him with a needle in his arm was when I walked in on him once. My eyes grew wide and I slowly backed out of the room, and he never noticed.
Roger sees me attempting to prevent his return to a private room and he tries to quickly walk past me, but I step in front of him, "They're locked."
"Mark, get the fuck out of my way"
"They're locked," I repeat. This is the only way I can think of to prevent this. He moves past me, checking the doors of his own room and the bathroom. "What the fuck!" He moves on to my room.
Shit. I closed my door but I didn't lock it. He turns the knob and the door flies open. He goes in after it, closes, and locks it. I run over to the door and start pounding on it.
"Roger! Let me in. Open the fucking door!" I keep pounding in vain, obviously getting no response. I stand and rest my forehead on the door, which is scrawled with my and Roger's writing from years past. A few minutes pass and Roger opens the door.
"Hey Mark," he slurs at me. Fuck this, I cannot deal with him high right now. I grab the spoon off of my own bed, walk over to the kitchen drawer, and take those spoons too. I grab my camera and a key, and then exit the loft. Albeit he probably has other means of obtaining spoons, but less access to the means of getting the drug in the right form, the harder it is for him to get high.
Author's Note: This is my first actual story in a while (besides a songfic I posted a while back..) and I'm not so sure I should be putting this out there, but I'm actually pretty proud of it. I'll wait for some feed back before I post the next chapter. This is AU, so don't expect this to lead into the show, or even include April at all. Now that I think about it, it doesn't include much of anyone besides Mark and Roger. And a little Maureen. Oh, and Rick. But I made him up and he's one-dimensional so it doesn't matter. Anyway, I hope this is enjoyed, and I'm going out on a limb here... and I bring you:
Vows of Silence by Christine Hughes
I didn't notice. I'm the designated observer, and I didn't notice. I'm the one of us who fades into black and watches everyone else go on with their lives. But not this time... how could I miss this? I suppose the reason's name is Maureen. Not that I'm blaming this on her, it's just that I got caught up in our whirlwind of a relationship, which is another story in itself. But between the fights, accusations, lies, apologies, and make- up sex, there wasn't much time for me to notice the drug addiction or a friend who is excellent at hiding it.
The first time I noticed was when I was home at the loft because Maureen was working late- she had gone through a period where she worked at a small bookstore on 12th.
About 3:00 am, I was awoken by fits of laughter and stumbling. Ah, another one of Roger's late-night club trash endeavors. I lay awake staring out the window of my bedroom, listening to the mumbles and worried questions of "Do you have it?" and "Where is it?" I assumed the comments were references to condoms or another sexual instrument until "How much?", "Give me that," and "That's too much," floated through the thin wall separating our two bedrooms.
I decided not to think too much about it. Roger's been partying for years; he's a smart guy and can take care of himself. I went into his room the next morning to wake him up and held up a little empty plastic bag in front of his face, "Uh... Roger?"
He struggled to sit up in his bed and look at me. "It's nothing."
"What kind of nothing?"
"Just club stuff..." He laid back down. For some reason I accepted that answer. I guess I was just happy to have gotten an answer at all without a fight.
After that, I pushed thoughts of Roger running around the entire Lower East side with whatever in his system to the back of my mind. The next week, Maureen broke up with me and I was on an emotional roller coaster of my own. I got wrapped up in my own misery, choosing it over subtle signs of spiraling addiction. But when I gradually got over Maureen and came back to Earth, I couldn't help but notice Roger's painfully obvious habit of little plastic bags and needles. I still can't. It's been three months since I first heard those words through my bedroom wall, and I still haven't questioned him since that morning.
It all started out as what seemed like a casual and harmless practice. He'd come home high occasionally, then it started becoming more frequent. But his use was so gradual that I never knew when to step in. I guess I had false hope he would stop.
I don't know how to talk to him. Roger doesn't make it easy to be honest. Especially now, seeing as he's not even the same person he was before. He has two moods: high/passive/goofy/ebullient or crashing/angry/unreasonable/malicious. I can't even talk to him about anything anymore; serious talks are out of the question.
It's late and I'm waiting up for him, again. Despite the fact he barely speaks to me, I wait for the loft door slam every night before returning to my room. I'm reading on the couch facing away from the door. I hear the familiar sound of his boots stomping up the stairs. The door swings open, hitting the counter and bounces back. Lovely, crashing.
"Hey Rog,"
He grunts and walks to his room.
"How was the night out?" I try to continue a conversation, but Roger is busy searching through his drawers in the dresser for a little bag of white powder. I know it's the only thing on his mind right now, as always. He finally discovers the bag and needle in the second drawer of his side table. He tries to walk past me to the kitchen but I stop him.
"Move."
"Roger," I pause. What do I say? What can I say about this? "What are you doing?"
"Going to the kitchen, now move," He tries to get past me again, but I shove him back.
"Roger, what the fuck are you doing to yourself?"
"Nothing that concerns you."
"Bullshit. This concerns me and you know it." God, this has everything to do with me, if he only knew to what extent. The fact that he doesn't give a shit about himself kills me. But what kills me even more is the fact that I can't do anything about it. My best friend is killing himself, and me in the process.
"No. It doesn't," He's trying to push me out of the way but I don't move for him.
"Mark! Get the fuck out of the way!" He's pushing me and I'm trying to lock us into his bedroom. He wants the kitchen. He wants the spoon in the kitchen to heat the smack so he can shoot up. I'll be damned if he does it without a fight from me.
He finally puts his hand on my chest and shoves me aside into the doorframe. He swiftly opens the drawer, obtaining a metal spoon. Ignoring the immense pain in my back, I try to intercept him by shutting and locking the doors to the bathroom and his room, then standing in front of them. He'll go anywhere that he can get away from me to be with his best friend.
I used to be that best friend. We laughed, we teased each other, we talked, we lived. Now, Roger's not even a person anymore. The white powder holds the weight of Roger's world. His thoughts are engulfed by his desire and need to feel that warm liquid shooting into his arm and flowing all over his body. He now needs that reeling, happy, detached high to survive.
But Roger's never actually shot up in front of me on purpose. I've seen him snort things and take pills before... but the only time I've ever seen him with a needle in his arm was when I walked in on him once. My eyes grew wide and I slowly backed out of the room, and he never noticed.
Roger sees me attempting to prevent his return to a private room and he tries to quickly walk past me, but I step in front of him, "They're locked."
"Mark, get the fuck out of my way"
"They're locked," I repeat. This is the only way I can think of to prevent this. He moves past me, checking the doors of his own room and the bathroom. "What the fuck!" He moves on to my room.
Shit. I closed my door but I didn't lock it. He turns the knob and the door flies open. He goes in after it, closes, and locks it. I run over to the door and start pounding on it.
"Roger! Let me in. Open the fucking door!" I keep pounding in vain, obviously getting no response. I stand and rest my forehead on the door, which is scrawled with my and Roger's writing from years past. A few minutes pass and Roger opens the door.
"Hey Mark," he slurs at me. Fuck this, I cannot deal with him high right now. I grab the spoon off of my own bed, walk over to the kitchen drawer, and take those spoons too. I grab my camera and a key, and then exit the loft. Albeit he probably has other means of obtaining spoons, but less access to the means of getting the drug in the right form, the harder it is for him to get high.