Disclaimer: It's not mine. Thank you Jonathan Larson.
Everything Was Wrong
"Roger?" I yelled up the stairs of our freezing apartment building on a crisp November morning.
I had come back early from shooting that day; everything was wrong. Nothing feels the way it's supposed to. The spark is fading. I need to get away, New York is too much for me to handle; too much pain, too many hungry freezing nights, there's only so much a person can stand. I was never known for my endurance, or my stamina or my perseverance back in Scarsdale. I was just one of those kids that dissolved into the background like melted wax; nothing special.
Here I have to put up with Maureen's constant nagging, and ordering me around like I'm her personal slave, and now since Collins moved out, it's up to me to try and straighten Roger out. He's even worse off than I am, if that's possible. The drugs are killing him; I don't know how much longer I can take watching my best friend destroy himself like this.
I'm not strong enough to hold us all together. Everyday, going back to Scarsdale sounds better and better, there's nothing for me here.
I came.
I tried.
I failed.
There's no reason to stay.
"You dumbass, you left the door open," I yell as I walk into the loft.
At least I thought that this was where I lived. Instead of seeing the homey, cluttered, space that I expected, I entered into world of chaos and disorder that resembled something out of a movie more than real life.
Everything was wrong.
The curtains were ripped from the windows allowing the sunlight to glare in through the freshly broken windows, which glared expectantly at me from across the room. All of our food and dishes were shattered creating a domestic gravel throughout the space. Shit was everywhere, filling in every open space.
"What the fuck?"
I felt the crunch of cheap china and cheerios beneath my thinning sneaker as I stepped into the apartment. All of Collins' old papers were ripped to shreds and left to decay in the dusty corner. Tears stung my eyes when I saw Roger's guitar smashed amongst his equally mangled music.
These objects, lying dismembered amongst the rubble, were his existence, they were what he lived for, and were now lying in pieces, ruined, on the dirty floor of the shitty apartment. What was he going to do when he finds this? I couldn't bring myself to picture his reaction.
After a little more exploring of this seemingly empty space, I heard a small noise coming from behind the bathroom door. "What was that? What if the person that did this is still here…? Oh God… Roger was home when I left, Oh dear God please let him be okay, please, please, not Roger, anyone but Roger," In my rush to get to the bathroom I didn't see the crumpled, bloodstained paper lying on the floor near the broken guitar. This wasn't good.
Everything was wrong.
- - - - -
The bathroom was covered in grimy white tiles doused in a crimson liquid. The putrid smell of death still lingered in the air. My eyes are reeling trying to take the scene in as quickly as possible. There, in the middle of the blood, was April. She was dead. The life had flowed from her body through two holes in her wrists. Roger was immersed in the pool of blood, holding her, shaking her, kissing her, rocking her, begging her.
His empty pleas made no difference. Cold dead eyes starred into eternity looking past the pain of the one who had loved her so deeply, and was holding her so tightly. Her belt was still roped around her upper arm; she could die without saying goodbye the one who loved her more than anything, but not without one last hit.
April never felt the same way towards Roger as he did her. I always suspected that she used him for drugs. Smack was the real love of her life. She attached herself to Roger, giving him the acceptance that he had so deeply longed for; he was immediately addicted to her acquiescence, and gave her all that she asked so he would never lose it. She took his money, his body, his livelihood, and threw it all away with one last hit.
I never liked April.
"Roger…"
Looking up for the first time since I had entered the small room a look of sheer terror came over his face, "Mark, no you can't come in here, it's not safe, just leave," and he immediately turned his attention back to April's corpse, "Baby please, don't leave me here, I got nothing without you, come back to me please, baby please, I love you so much, please don't do this to me,"
He went on like that for what seemed like hours, begging and pleading with the lifeless remains of the one he had loved so passionately. He kept kissing her swollen purple mouth, and held her against him as if he was attempting to restore heat to the frozen skin.
There was blood all over him.
I had never seen him like this before. He had always been so calm, so in control, even when he was high. Usually it was him keeping me in line. The sight of it all made me sick, I could barely bring myself to stand in the doorway, let alone enter the tomb.
"Roger, come on, you're going to get sick, let's go," I tried gingerly. He seemed to not hear me, and continued cradling April's body. Taking a deep breath, I forced myself to step into the drying blood and approach my broken hearted friend. "Come on," I said again touching his shoulder. He looked up at me rage searing from his smoldering eyes. I jumped back surprised.
"Mark! What are you doing?! I told you not to come in here!"
"You can't stay here…" I started.
"You're going to get her blood on you!" he cried, ignoring my requests.
"Roger listen to me, you can't…"
"Get the fuck out of here!!"
"I'm not going to leave you like this,"
"I won't let you get hurt Mark, now get the fuck out of this room before I make you,"
"No,"
Without another word, Roger carefully lay April's body down, stood up, and for the first time in our friendship, he hit me. Hard.
- - - - -
The bathroom door is closed and locked, and I'm lying outside of it amidst all of the debris from Roger's explosion. What now? How could I help him? How could weak little Mark help anyone? Pulling myself to my feet I began to search for the phone. Hopefully it was still intact. I was going to bail out on my best friend. There was no way I could handle this. The best thing for both of us right now was to get help.
Collins.
He'll know what to do.
"Collins, it's me Mark… you need to get over here right away… something happened with Roger,"
With help on the way there was nothing left to do but wait. I sat outside the bathroom door listening to my best friend's grief pour out of him. It wasn't until then that I saw the furrowed paper. I starred at it for awhile, wondering whether or not I should read it. After a few moments deliberation, I carefully opened the paper and felt an incredible pain descend upon my heart, and my body in the time it took to read the three words written there.
We've Got AIDS.
We've. Got. AIDS.
My eyes kept circling those words over and over not allowing the mind to register they're meaning. I just sat there starring at the sheet of paper, listening to my friend's pathetic whimpers from behind the door.
Even in this state he was still in control; doing all in his power to keep me safe. What kind of friend am I? How could I just sit here while my best friend is clutching the body of his recently dead girlfriend?
When he comes out of there, everything will change.
We've got AIDS
That bitch. Why would she let this happen? It wasn't enough to crush him the way she did, but she has to kill him too. He's so young, we're best friends. We have our whole lives yet. Roger couldn't be dying.
Everything was wrong.
This wasn't supposed to happen to us. Today was a normal day, just like any day. I woke up, and went to shoot some footage. Roger was working on a song when I left. Now he's in the bathroom covered in his dead girlfriend's blood.
His sobs were growing louder with every passing minute. Soon they were wails piercing the chill autumn air. I wanted to do something, anything, to help him. He shouldn't have to go through this alone.
Collins better come soon; I don't know what to do. Roger's wails soon grew into screams. My best friend is in there holding his girlfriend's corpse, and I'm sitting out here not doing anything; too weak to do anything. My best friend is dying, and here I sit.
Everything was wrong.
This isn't right, it isn't fair. How are we going to get through this?
Finally Collins came crashing through the debris; he'll fix everything and make it all go away.
"Where is he?"
I just look at the door when Roger let's loose another stabbing shriek from the bathroom. Collins tries to open the door; it won't open. He doesn't hesitate to break it down.
"It's ok Roger, it's going to be ok," Roger is clenching April's body even tighter than before, he doesn't appear to notice Collins' big arms enveloping him in an embrace.
I stand in the doorway, watching as Collins gives my best friend the comfort that I am too much of a coward to provide. All I can do is stand to one side and observe. Roger quickly succumbs to his friend's soothing words, and strong arms. I look on as two of the strongest men I know weep into each other's arms.
Tears are beyond my reach, all emotion has escaped me. I'm just the cool observer, the omniscient being that doesn't get involved. That should be me in there, but I'm weak. How could I stay now? I'm just a puny little boy that got caught up in dreams that were too much for him to handle.
Everything is wrong.
Fin