Don't.
Please don't touch me. Just don't. No. Not now. Not even if it's just in my head. Not ever. I hate you. I can't stand you. I depise you. You're the most cowardly person I've ever met, you're pathetic, you're repulsive, I hate you, I hate you, everybody hates you, we all hate you and what you're doing.
I hate the sound of your voice. It's whiny and moping, nothing's ever good enough, when was the last time you said thank you? When was the last time you thought about somebody else, instead of your poor, miserable self? Yeah, it sure is hard to be you, don't we all know it. Poor Roger, tragic Roger, lonely, hardcore, worthless Roger. I hate Roger. Roger makes me sick.
I hate the look on your face. It's stupid, it's fake, it's always, always there - why am I never enough? All the time, constantly I'm battling for a smile, just one fucking smile from you, but you're too caught up in your own goddamn world, way too concentrated on being stupid fucked-up Roger to pay me a seconds notice. There's no way that somebody can look so fucking helplessly sad all the time.
I hate the way you pack. Angry, hurried, far too familiar. It's something I've become accustomed to. I hate that. I hate it. Every rustle, every swish of fabric I can hear, loud as a brick, and I'm not even in the apartment yet. I don't know what I can possibly say.
Stay?
I finally walk inside. My mind is still blank as I push open the door to your bedroom, and with my hands shoved deep into my pockets I know I must look like an idiot, awkward, lost. You don't notice I'm here until I speak.
"I hear there are great restaurants out west." It's not gold but it's better than nothing, and it breaks the ice. I'm trying so hard not to yell, not to cry, not to scream or punch or feel. Mostly I'm trying not to be here at all. Dissociate, Mark, because that's all you've got.
"Some of the best."
Your voice is quiet and you don't turn to look at me. If I wasn't listening so hard I know I'd have missed the second part of your statement, but as it is I hear every word, loud and clear. Thundering, even.
"How could she?"
"How could you let her go?" It slipped out before I got the chance to check my tongue, despite my determination not to start a fight. Your reply is quick as a dagger.
"You just don't know. How could we lose Angel?"
For an attempt at subject change it's pathetic, and I won't play along. Now that I've started I can't seem to stop, and my mind is racing at one hundred miles an hour as I raise my voice, hoping it doesn't sound as desperate as I'm feeling inside.
"Maybe you'll see why when you stop escaping your pain! At least now if you try, Angel's death won't be in vain-"
"His death is in vain." You cut me off, and your words hit me like a jackhammer.
"Are you insane? There's so much to care about. There's me-" I hesitate, because I can't afford to say this, not now, not ever.
"-there's Mimi…"
Instantly, your face loses all angry passion, you've gone soft at the edges, soft and sad.
"Mimi's got her baggage too…"
"So do you!" I can barely disguise my incredulity, at your selfishness, at your stupidity. You look vacant for a second and I think I might have you, but then your expression goes hard.
"Who are you to tell me what I know? What to do?"
You sound furious. My voice goes quiet, sad,
"A friend."
"But who, Mark, are you?"
It's now that I think you've caught me out, you're asking me who the hell do I think I am, loving you like I do? I open my mouth to reply, though I have nothing I can say to excuse myself, and you cut me off before anything comes to me, letting me know exactly what you think of me, how you think of me. You're making it sound like I'm the one letting you down.
"Mark has got his work, they say "Mark lives for his work', and Mark's in love with his work… Mark hides in his work."
Every word a punch to the head, and it takes all my effort not to step back with every blow. I stay rooted to the spot, eyes on yours, hoping you can see every ounce and inch of hurt that I'm feeling. I manage to squeeze out a sceptical-sounding reply.
"From what?"
"From facing your failure-" you take a step forwards, "-facing your loneliness-" you actually physically push me backwards, "-facing the fact you live a lie."
Your voice was dangerously quiet as you said that. I didn't expect the push. I haven't seen you this angry in a long time, and it's never been this controlled. It makes sense to me when the next part of your tirade bursts out, finally loud, angry, desperate.
"Yes, you live a lie! Tell you why: you're always preaching-" another push, "-not to be numb, when that's how you thrive! You pretend to create and observe when you really detach from feeling alive-"
Your words cut me to the core because they're exactly what I know to be true, and you're intending to injure me, to maim. Maybe even to kill. That's what you've always done, after all, just slowly chipped away at me.
"Perhaps that's because I'm the one of us to survive." Despite the fact that my reply is angry I feel weak inside now, and I know by the look of disdain that crosses your face as you say, "Poor baby," that you don't understand how it feels, to know that out of the two of us I'm the one that'll live on, alone.
You storm away from me and I know I have to try one more time. I need you to stay. I'll use the one tactic I have left, the only thing that seems to work.
Mimi.
"Mimi still loves you… are you really jealous? Or afraid that Mimi's weak?" Your face softens instantly and I know I've hit the spot. The mention of her name can do what I never can seem to manage, stop you right in your tracks.
"Mimi did look pale…"
Your voice is uncertain, so I carry on, forceful.
"Mimi's gotten thin. Mimi's running out of time, and you're running out the door-"
"No more!" You look sick. You don't want my guilt trip.
"I've gotta go." You sound defeated. Actually, you sound just the way I feel. I watch as you walk over to the door, conscious that this may be the last time I ever see you. I want to grab you. Physically, forcefully hold you back.
"Hey!" You turn at the sound of my voice- you thought I was finished, done bothering you. But I'm furious that you're leaving me again, and I have to have the last word.
One last stab at keeping you with me.
"For someone who's always been "let down", who's heading out of town?" I'm making a mockery of you, and you turn to retaliate, fiery.
"For someone who longs for a community of his own, who's with his camera, alone." And just like that, with that final word, you've confirmed to me what I've always feared - you know exactly how I feel about you. And in this moment of angry passion, there is no line to step over, and you use my love against me. I'm winded. I turn and walk away.
Your hand hits my shoulder, and you turn me around until I'm facing you and your fingers have slid up my neck and onto my face, resting lightly on my cheek. All the fire has burned out of you. Before I even understand what's happening, your other hand has moved to grab my neck, and the lightest of pressures means that you're kissing me, slowly, achingly. It's more than I can handle, and I'm about to pull away when you break it off yourself, sadness pouring from every pore on your body. You look right at me, but I'm staring at my feet.
"I'll call." Your voice is weak, apologetic. I turn and walk away, because I can't watch you leave, and I barely catch the last words that you say before you leave the apartment.
"I hate the fall."