A/N: Why hello there. This is my latest story. I started it randomly on the way to Ohio. Hooray. So, here it is.
Disclaimer: I don't own Mark or Roger or any of them. They belong to Mr. Jonathan Larson.
ROGER:
I'd been in the car for countless hours, hours that had faded to days. I left in the middle of the night, so as to avoid any more goodbyes. Now, the blood-red sun was just sinking down to the horizon. As it set, a red glow was cast over the entire car.
In the dimming light, I found myself talking to my steering wheel.
"This is a good thing, I'm doing, right? I'm going to start my own, new life, far from New York, far from Mimi and Mark and Benny, far from any attachment whatsoever. I don't need them." The words were coming out of my mouth, but there was a nagging hint of doubt that kept me from completely believing it.
"Focus on the road, Roger. Don't think about whether it's right or wrong. Just go." With that thought lodged in my brain, I did everything I could to keep from thinking about the things I'd left behind- I counted the dashes in the white line, tried to remember the four years of high school French I took, and even recited brands and models of the best guitars. It worked, and when the sky had been drained of all light, I stared fixedly at one star as the states and hours creep by.
Time had become an illusion long before my arrival, so I don't know when I did arrive. My watch was working, but in eastern standard time, and I didn't know what time zone Santa Fe was in. I drove around in search of an affordable hotel. The rest of the town was a blur; all I could focus on is the flickering neon sign at the end of the street. I managed to get myself a room, and without even bringing my small collection of belongings in with me, I threw myself on to the bed and feel immediately asleep.
MARK:
I knew something was wrong the moment I woke up. Overcome with intense dread, I called into the darkness,
"Roger?" No answer. "Roger?" I called again, slightly louder, and flicking on the main light. Nothing.
I knew what he had done. He'd finally followed through on what he'd been saying he was going to do since New Year's. With one final strand of hope, I checked his room- both he and his guitar were gone. Clothes that hadn't made it into his bag we scattered across the floor. There was no note. I always hoped that if he did carry out his plan, he would at least leave some sort of goodbye. Maybe he left one in the kitchen. Eagerly, I went to check. Nothing.
He said he was leaving yesterday at the funeral. I came back here after canceling my meeting with Alexi, expecting to find him gone. Instead, I found him in his room crying. For fear of him turning his tears to anger, I hid in my room for most of the rest of the day. No words were exchanged except for a feeble "Thanks" from him when I brought him a glass of water, his pills and the last stale bagel. And he was gone. I might never have a chance to say anything to him again.
There was nothing for me to do but hope and wait for him to come home. Sinking to the cold linoleum floor, I said to him, "Roger, where are you? Please come home soon. I miss you."
The last three words echoed eerily around the loft as I drifted of into a vague half-sleeping state.