Look, everybody! Yet another evil little story comes out of my sadistic little mind. Mwahahaha. This one is April... Yay. :D I'm really not usually this morbid! I just haven't the inspiration to write a nice, long story. I will, eventually. Woo!
------
Hi.
My name is April.
And I have problems.
I'm a murderer.
Roger. I love him. I love him so much it fucking hurts. Ah. Fucking! How ironic it is that that's what killed me. Killed him. Killed the one who killed me. It's so easy to forget in the face of the one you love. Emotions. Feelings. Silly little things like AIDS don't matter then. I wanted to make him happy. I know he's had a bad love life in the past ... Hell, so have I. I wanted to be a good girlfriend. I wanted to be the one girl he could really, really love ... and love him back. I can't believe where I am, now. Sitting on the edge of a rust-covered sink in the little bathroom of the loft. The light is probably going to go out soon. I can tell by the way it flickers on and then dims a little. Casting light and dark on the wall opposite me. It's funny, how things seem so precious when you're sick. The little things are more important. Little things. Big things, too. Like love. Loving someone more than you could ever possibly imagine. Hate. Hating yourself. Hating yourself because you're sick. Hating yourself because you love him so much. Hating him because he's so lovable. Because he loves you just as much as you love him.
God. Why did I have to find him? Why did I have to find somebody I loved when I knew I was sick? So many unanswered questions. So many questions that don't need an answer; just because some things aren't meant to be.
Like ... Roger and I.
Sure. I was strong. For a while. I know alot of people who have AIDS or, find out that they're HIV+ and just loose it then. I was happy. I mean, I had a nice time with the life I had left! Happiness is so over-rated. People can be happy on the outside. But inside ... so empty. So hollow. Nothing. I wasn't like that. I was actually ... and honestly happy there for a while. I have no idea what happened. I guess, somewhere along the line that I started not believing in myself. Oigh. But now, here I am. Two things beside me. One that will end me once and for all, and the other that will tell them what I've done. Because there's no way in hell that I could tell Roger what I did to him. Not to his face. Never to his face. He's so trusting. He's so gullable. He's so sweet. I can't live to see the hurt I'm causing him. There's nothing left for me on this earth. All I know is that I've killed myself. I've killed Roger. Fuck. Fuck it all. It's sad how they always used to depend on me to be the strong one. When they had their money problems... The little things. Not enough food. Not enough money. Problems that I'd laugh about now if I could. Problems... It's so ironic that I'm his biggest problem now. Was. I don't know anymore.
At least, I'll have the relief of death. Opening the lipstick that used to rest next to me, from where I sit; I smile. Dust Rose. I used to wear it all the time ... I wonder if they'll use it for my funeral. If they have one. I deserve to be tossed into the dumpster for what I'm doing to Roger. Mark, even. I know Mark loves me. Not like Roger, of course, but he's the sweet little filmmaker who always seems to be alone. Collins. He's too intelligent for his own good sometimes, but I love him, too. Maureen ... well, I can't say that we've always gotten along ... but I love her, as well.
I love them all.
'Roger, we've got AIDS. I'm sorry. I love you'.
How fucking pathetic. I couldn't even come up with something poetic. Couldn't even have put thought into my last, last words. Funny that no one will hear them. They'll find me, sitting in a tub with bloody water. Dead.
At least it won't be mentally anymore.
I wonder if any of them realizes that I've changed in the past few weeks. In the week that I realized that I'd done.
I don't think they have.
I'm alone now. Roger will learn to be. Mark will help. Collins will adivise them. Maureen with try to help by making him laugh. She'll fail, of course, but I suppose it's the thought that counts.
The razor feels so cool against my skin. Blood quickly seeps out of the long slash. I step into the water and wait. Wait for the relief that death will bring. Wait for the freedom. Wait for something that will happen after I die. If there's anything. Maybe ... I'll be alone. I deserve it.
My blood is staining the water pink.
It's so pretty.
------
Hi.
My name is April.
And I have problems.
I'm a murderer.
Roger. I love him. I love him so much it fucking hurts. Ah. Fucking! How ironic it is that that's what killed me. Killed him. Killed the one who killed me. It's so easy to forget in the face of the one you love. Emotions. Feelings. Silly little things like AIDS don't matter then. I wanted to make him happy. I know he's had a bad love life in the past ... Hell, so have I. I wanted to be a good girlfriend. I wanted to be the one girl he could really, really love ... and love him back. I can't believe where I am, now. Sitting on the edge of a rust-covered sink in the little bathroom of the loft. The light is probably going to go out soon. I can tell by the way it flickers on and then dims a little. Casting light and dark on the wall opposite me. It's funny, how things seem so precious when you're sick. The little things are more important. Little things. Big things, too. Like love. Loving someone more than you could ever possibly imagine. Hate. Hating yourself. Hating yourself because you're sick. Hating yourself because you love him so much. Hating him because he's so lovable. Because he loves you just as much as you love him.
God. Why did I have to find him? Why did I have to find somebody I loved when I knew I was sick? So many unanswered questions. So many questions that don't need an answer; just because some things aren't meant to be.
Like ... Roger and I.
Sure. I was strong. For a while. I know alot of people who have AIDS or, find out that they're HIV+ and just loose it then. I was happy. I mean, I had a nice time with the life I had left! Happiness is so over-rated. People can be happy on the outside. But inside ... so empty. So hollow. Nothing. I wasn't like that. I was actually ... and honestly happy there for a while. I have no idea what happened. I guess, somewhere along the line that I started not believing in myself. Oigh. But now, here I am. Two things beside me. One that will end me once and for all, and the other that will tell them what I've done. Because there's no way in hell that I could tell Roger what I did to him. Not to his face. Never to his face. He's so trusting. He's so gullable. He's so sweet. I can't live to see the hurt I'm causing him. There's nothing left for me on this earth. All I know is that I've killed myself. I've killed Roger. Fuck. Fuck it all. It's sad how they always used to depend on me to be the strong one. When they had their money problems... The little things. Not enough food. Not enough money. Problems that I'd laugh about now if I could. Problems... It's so ironic that I'm his biggest problem now. Was. I don't know anymore.
At least, I'll have the relief of death. Opening the lipstick that used to rest next to me, from where I sit; I smile. Dust Rose. I used to wear it all the time ... I wonder if they'll use it for my funeral. If they have one. I deserve to be tossed into the dumpster for what I'm doing to Roger. Mark, even. I know Mark loves me. Not like Roger, of course, but he's the sweet little filmmaker who always seems to be alone. Collins. He's too intelligent for his own good sometimes, but I love him, too. Maureen ... well, I can't say that we've always gotten along ... but I love her, as well.
I love them all.
'Roger, we've got AIDS. I'm sorry. I love you'.
How fucking pathetic. I couldn't even come up with something poetic. Couldn't even have put thought into my last, last words. Funny that no one will hear them. They'll find me, sitting in a tub with bloody water. Dead.
At least it won't be mentally anymore.
I wonder if any of them realizes that I've changed in the past few weeks. In the week that I realized that I'd done.
I don't think they have.
I'm alone now. Roger will learn to be. Mark will help. Collins will adivise them. Maureen with try to help by making him laugh. She'll fail, of course, but I suppose it's the thought that counts.
The razor feels so cool against my skin. Blood quickly seeps out of the long slash. I step into the water and wait. Wait for the relief that death will bring. Wait for the freedom. Wait for something that will happen after I die. If there's anything. Maybe ... I'll be alone. I deserve it.
My blood is staining the water pink.
It's so pretty.