Reflections of April
I've cried so much in the past week, I think my face is now permanently tear-streaked. Like a zebra. Maureen the Zebra. Is it possible for a person's tear ducts to shrivel up? I'd ask Mark, but he'd probably just tell me to quit being ridiculous.
I miss her so much. It's like so kind of alternate reality. Some kind of freakish nightmare that I can't wake up from. I mean, I never could have even imagined this. How could someone be her one second, then gone the next? The past few days there's been something that would happen—something sweet Mark said, or some awesome outfit I saw in a store window—and I'd think, "Oh my God, wait 'til I tell April!" and I'll be halfway out the door, and then BAM!, like some giant meteor, it hits me…oops, no more April.
I've had a lot of time to think the past few days. I've always heard that suicide was the coward's way out. But I disagree. It would take a lot of guts to do something like that, guts that I don't have. To just take a knife to your wrist, one swift move and whoosh! you're gone, whisked away into the afterlife because of your own sick, twisted mind. Mark's afraid that I'll do the same, and I haven't said anything to convince him otherwise. But I'd never be able to do that.
A part of me hates him. Roger, that is. This is his fault. If it weren't for stupid Roger and his stupid band and their stupid "morbid curiosity", he wouldn't have tried those stupid needles and that stupid powder, and none of this would have happened. He wouldn't have gotten hooked, and he wouldn't have gotten April hooked, and she'd still be alive and he wouldn't be a dumb depressed junkie.
I one fell swoop I've lost my two best friends in the world.
Sure, Roger's still alive. But he's not the Roger I know, the one who's been my best friend since Pre-K, when I socked him for stealing my Play-Doh. The one who spent nearly every day of his childhood at my house; the one who's given me his homework to turn in as my own when I was too busy with the drama club to do mine; the one's who's beaten up boys who broke my heart; the one who, knowing that I was sitting in my room, crying, climbed the trellis outside my window when we were sixteen with a cupcake to give to me when my current boyfriend forgot my birthday; the one who's been by my side through grade school, junior high, and high school; who move with me to New York and introduced me to Mark.
No, this isn't Roger. This is some psycho, drug-addicted, crazy person who's taken over his body. I know that somewhere deep down, my Roger is still there. I only wish I knew some way to bring him back.
I remember when Roger first met April. I hated her, with a flaming passion that infected every fiber of my being. She was so…good. She went to NYU with the highest marks I'd ever seen. She wanted to be a journalist. She had these gorgeous sky blue eyes, unlike any I'd ever seen. And just because I dropped out of high school my senior year to move to New York to become a famous Broadway star, she thought she was so much better than me. She was so condescending.
Then one day she cornered me in the loft, accusing me of sleeping with Roger. My initial reaction: I laughed so hard I nearly wet myself. Me and Roger? Yeah, right! I explained to her that Roger and I were best friends, and that, no offense, but I'd sleep with a cow before I slept with him. Not that was unattractive, because I, along with every girl he'd ever crossed paths with, had fantasized about him at one point in time. But obviously I grew out of it. He was like my brother. She became embarrassed, apologizing profusely for what she had said. I told her it was alright, and then we had a good laugh about it. She and I became inseparable after that.
So when I walked into the bathroom and saw her sprawled on the floor, covered in blood with a deep gash in each wrist, I felt like a part of me had been torn away. The message written on the mirror in her favorite lipstick: Baby, we got AIDS. It killed me that she felt like she couldn't talk to me about that. Why she felt she had to kill herself to escape it. I still have nightmares about that night: I see her standing in my room, covered in blood, staring at me with her cold, dead eyes that I so envied when she was alive. As I would reach out to her, she'd fade away and I'd be left clutching empty air.
Mark has been wonderful, holding me when I cry, telling me how much he loves me. He's afraid of losing me like we lost April. I haven't discouraged the thought, but like I said, I'm not strong enough to do something so…final.
Roger is a mess. I pity him. And blame him. And love him. He came to me two days after they took April's body away, and begged me to help him get clean. I told him I would.
I don't think I can.
Mark is more of a help, and I'm more of a hindrance. We fight: screaming matches that includes the both of us saying things that hurt, and neither of us apologizing afterwards. After I've stormed out in a huff, he goes and shoots up.
Mark and I are growing farther and farther apart. More fights, more nights spent with me in a bar and him sleeping on the couch. I know in my heart that it's over between us, that things will never be the same, but I don't want to accept it.
So much trouble from a substance that resembles table salt…
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The two year anniversary of April's death, and I see Roger and Mimi curled up together on the couch, whispering and giggling to each other. They're so happy. I don't think of April as much as I used to, but sometimes I see something that reminds me, and it hurts. But I'm coping. And yet a small part of me is relieved. I see how happy Roger is now, and I can't help but think that April never caused that. Mimi did.
Joanne says that Mimi and I could be good friends. I'm still a little wary of letting people get too close. Too much pain. Joanne was the exception, but I'm trying with Mimi. She and I are a lot alike. Both stubborn and pig-headed and know how to get what we want.
Mimi grins wickedly and mutters something to Roger. He throws his head back and roars with laughter, causing Collins, who heard the exchange, to join in. Mark is still filming, but his camera sits on the table pointed at us instead of glued to his hands, and he joins in the laughter, even though he doesn't know why they're laughing. I smile contentedly and snuggle closer to Joanne.
Reflections of April have come and gone, and now we move on with our lives.