Disclaimer: Still don't own RENT. It's all Jonathan Larson's masterpiece.
I wasn't always like this. That's such a cliché, but it's true. My friends think they know me, know who I am. I guess they do, in a way. They know I'm a guitarist, a singer/songwriter, former front-man of the Well-Hungarians, former junkie, HIV-positive. They don't know everything. There's one thing I've kept from them, that I will always keep from them. I can't tell them because they would tell Mark and Mark, even though he's my best friend, can never ever know.
I didn't get AIDS from April. She didn't have it. We got high together a few times, but never used needles—they scared her. We used condoms, a lot of 'em too—no way was I getting stuck with a kid. When everyone around me was getting tested, April and I did too. We were both negative. I know exactly when and how I got AIDS.
April and I were in a car accident. Mark's listed as my next-of-kin on all my medical charts. Easier than waiting for my mom to get to New York. Never thought my life would actually depend on that. The doctors told Mark I'd die without a blood transfusion. He signed the papers. Three months after I was discharged, the hospital sent a letter. It came while Mark was out filming. Turned out, a bunch of the blood they'd used for transfusions was HIV-positive and I needed to get tested. I couldn't bring myself to tell Mark.
Two weeks after I got that letter, April killed herself. It had nothing to do with AIDS. She killed herself because she…well, I don't know. But I know it wasn't AIDS. I found her in the bathroom covered in her own blood. Even then I saw the irony: she hated needles, but willingly and intentionally dragged a razor blade across her wrists.
While Mark was talking to the police, I scribbled out a note in April's handwriting. I've always been good at forging other people's handwriting. This was no exception. I wrote four words: Baby, we got AIDS. I didn't show Mark until the police left.
It probably sounds horrible that I'd made up such a lie. Maybe it is, but it's a hell of a lot better than letting Mark blame himself. If April left that note, then one of us contracted it and passed it to the other. Nobody's fault. Let Mark think it was the drugs or sex, anything but that damn transfusion. I don't blame Mark, but I know him well enough to know he'd blame himself. So I wrote the note and let him think what he wants.
Mark took me to the free clinic and was there with me three weeks later when they confirmed what I knew in my heart to be true. That night, I went out for a walk and bought some heroin. Instead of snorting it like I would've with April, I shot up. What difference did it make? I was dying anyway.
That's the truth. It's the truth they'll never know. The truth that, as far as I'm concerned, never happened.