I'm taking a teensy little break from my usually humorous stories….not really. I usually like happy stories, but I was in a weird mood and wrote a DEPRESSING ONE! YAAAAAAAY!
Okay. Yeah. So, for all of you who have put me on story alert or watch or whatever, please don't be mad at me for putting up a SAD story.
And just so you know, this MIGHT be a threeshot. It was originally intended to be a oneshot, but I decided it might be cool to type, like, Mark finding her or Roger's reaction…OR BOTH. Actually, now that I think about it, that'll be kinda fun to write. OKAY. So, this WILL be a threeshot. Cookies for those who review!
It was supposed to have been last night.
I was ready for it too. He had left with Mark and Collins to get a few drinks at the Life Café, and wasn't planning on being back for a while. God only knows where Maureen was. Of course, I wasn't ready when they came back early, Collins and Mark supporting a weak and bloody Roger. He had been mugged.
I was upset. Upset for Roger, upset for myself, upset because they interrupted me. Later on that night, Collins had inquired about the small amount of water that sat, cold in the bathtub. I lied, told him that I had been planning on taking a bath. I hoped he hadn't seen the broken plastic safety bar from one of my razors. I knew I should have put more thought into hiding that. Luckily, though, he asked no more questions.
Now, the next day, they were gone again. Mark was off working on his film, or whatever, Maureen still hasn't returned, and who knows where Roger and Collins could have gone off too? I didn't care, all I knew was that they left a note for me saying they'd be back around nine o'clock or so. Mark usually got home around seven, but it was two in the afternoon right now. Five hours gave me more than enough time.
I walked into the bathroom and stood at the sink for a minute or more, examining my reflection – everything about it. My hair, my hazel eyes, my lips, the very form of my nose. I never thought I was that pretty. But Roger always told me I was beautiful, every time he touched the side of my face and brushed my hair behind my ear, whispering gently into my ear.
I don't want to hurt him. But this will be better for both of us.
One more, I walk over to the bathtub and slowly twist the cold water knob barely to the left, and watch as a slow, small stream of icy clear liquid pours from the tap. I stick my fingers under it, allowing the frigid water to run over my fingers and numb my veins. After a few minutes, I decide that it's time. I slowly stand up and exit the bathroom, walking quietly across the loft to my bedroom, taking one last look at everything. It feels odd, knowing that this is the last time. But no, I stop myself before I take a stroll down memory lane, fearing that I'll scare myself out of what I'm about to do.
Although I try to keep myself from doing so, I can't help but look around a little as I enter the bedroom that Roger and I share. Or rather shared. His guitar sits over there, in the corner, propped up against the wall. It's got dents and scratches in numerous places. I spot a rather large dent near the neck, and begin to remember the rather humorous story as to how it was obtained. I don't remember the details exactly (it was before I moved in), but I do remember that it involved a rather drunk Collins, an immensely amused Roger, and an extremely agitated Mark.
I walk over to the guitar and pick it up, bringing it over to the bed and sitting down, holding it in what I hope is the right position. My fingers move up the neck and I push them down on two strings, the first – and only – chord I learned from Roger. I strummed with the side of my thumb. It was a rough, broken sounding E minor chord. Roger told me it was his favorite, because it sounded melancholy and sweet, gentle and firm, all at the same time. Power chords were too deep, apparently, and he just didn't like bar chords. Of course, I have no idea what any of those mean. All I know is E minor. I strum again, producing the same rough, broken sound that I had before. It always looks easier than it is. I wonder how Roger is so good at this.
He said he'd write me a love song. He's been working on it for a while now, but I know that when it's done, it'll be beautiful. I don't know what it's about, but he says it'll be my eyes. Their unique color and how they light up a room when I smile. He's struggling with it, though. I asked him why one day, all he said was that my eyes were too beautiful to simply put in words. I should have been flattered, but I saw it as an excuse. I would have been satisfied with a simple 'writers block.'
I loved him to death. I still do.
I tremble involuntarily, realizing that what I'm doing might steer me away from my current intentions. So, I stand up and place the guitar back where it had been sitting before. I then walk over to my dresser and open a drawer, rummaging around for a certain pair of socks. Once I find it, I unroll them and remove the razor that I had cleverly hidden inside of them. I run the edge gently along my thumb, and look down. Despite the fact that I had barely been pressing against the razor at all, a small cut had appeared on my thumb, a bright scarlet liquid seeping slowly through it. It was sharp. So it was perfect.
With the razor still in hand, I walked out of the bedroom, and over towards the sleek silver table that sat over near one wall of the loft. Piles and piles of paper littered the entire surface, the only silver I could actually see was on the sides and the bottoms. I sifted through the papers. There were newspapers, bills, flyers, telephone numbers, a few of Mark's notebooks, most likely filled with numerous film ideas. I took one of the notebooks with a pencil clipped to the front cover, and flipped to the end, tearing out a blank sheet of paper. After I had cleared a small space on the table, giving me a surface to write on, I grabbed the pencil and brought the tip to the paper.
The words rang clearly in my head. I'd planned this from the beginning, and now, I just couldn't bring myself to write them.
Just do it, dammit! I mentally screamed at myself.
Finally, I did. With a shaking hand, I quickly scribbled out those three dreaded words, We've got AIDS, and threw the pencil away from me, before I could erase them.
It didn't seem fair. I wanted to write more, to explain what was going on. I didn't want to leave him in the dark about this. But then, what was there to explain? I had cheated on him and gotten HIV from a complete stranger. Before I knew, I passed it on to him. And now, I'm being a coward and running away from real life, unable to face the fact that I'm going to die soon. Perhaps if I had just told him before, things would be better. He always told me never to bottle up my emotions…but that's what I do. I can't help it.
I'm sorry, Roger.
I grab the note and turn away, walking into the bathroom again. The bathtub has filled up with about 6 inches of water. I turn the knob back again to the light and watch as the stream of water shrinks from a small stream to miniscule droplets, clinging to the edge of the tap before their weight becomes to much for them to bear, plummeting towards the clear pool and joining with the rest of the water.
Dropping the note at the foot of the bathtub, I climb in, still fully clothed. The cold water shocks me, and for a moment I cannot feel any part of my submerged skin.
I remember overhearing Collins and Roger talking last night.
"You never know, man." Collins had sighed in that ever so deep voice of his. "New York City is one shit hole of a place to be living."
I heard Roger cough. Through the door of our bedroom, I see him sitting on the couch, holding an ice pack to his bruised eye.
"One day you're walking down the street, next thing you know, you're mugged, you're raped, you're a junkie." Collins continued. "You're dead."
Roger coughed again.
"Why are you so--?"
"Pessimistic? I'm not. Look at me, Roger, I'm a gay anarchist with AIDS. You don't meet one of those walking down the street every day, do you? Not a lot of people agree with my views. More than once I've been threatened for them, believe it or not. But you gotta live each day like it's the last one you'll have. In a while, I'll be on my deathbed, looking back on one hell of a life. And I'll be pretty damn happy about it, too."
Roger smiled.
"That's why I'm so proud of you, boy." Collins put an arm around Roger and shook him. "Giving up the drugs. You're sober, you've got April, you're living the hell of a life that I'm talking about."
Roger smiled.
"Thanks man. You're way better at giving advice than Mark."
"I heard that!"
Roger laughed, his smile lighting up the whole room. He really believed in Collin's advice…that night when he crawled into bed next to me and slipped an arm around my waist, I wanted to stab myself, to jump up and tell him to find somebody else, I didn't deserve him. He loved me, and I loved him, but I was keeping a dreadful secret from him, one that might just take his life some day if I didn't tell him. Just by not telling him, I was lying to him, deceiving him. Right now, if he knew, he'd have medicine, treatments, to help keep away the disease for just a bit longer.
By not telling him, I was killing him.
No, I was killing us.
I sit there, shivering in the icy water as my skirt billows around my waist. I stare down at the razor, and then my wrist.
Do I really want to do this?
Yes, I do. Ever since I found out, I'd wake up every single day, my head feeling heavy with depression, my chest tightened and my limbs sore. Knowing that you're going to die in a few years isn't the happiest feeling. I quickly became distant. Roger tried to get me to stop using. And I did, I tried it, I've been sober for over two weeks now. But the agony is too much to bear. I turned to cutting…the pain on my arm distracted me from the pain in my head, in my stomach. I knew I had to tell him sooner or later, I knew it. But I didn't. I let all my emotions gather in one single cup inside of my head, each feeling plunging into the cup like a drop of water, gathering up and up, until they finally all spilled out.
This was it. I'm not going to let that damned disease take my life.
AIDS thinks it has me. Haha. It's wrong.
Hesitation loses its grip on my brain. I bring the razor up to my flesh and press it harder than ever down on my wrist, feeling it sink into my skin. I've never cut this deep before, but now that I do, it feels great. I drag the razor across my wrist, and suddenly feel an unfamiliar twinge of pain. I look down, realizing that I had cut into the thick blue vein running down my arm. Perfect.
Blood, more blood than I have ever seen before in my life, is pumping out of the deep slit in my skin. I stare at it, amused, watching it pour down my arm and mix with the bath water, slowly turning it to a transparent pink. The room suddenly gave a jolt, the bathtub tilted violently and my head began to throb from blood loss.
This is it.
I close my eyes for the last time and lay my head back against the bathtub, quietly humming my unfinished love song.
Try and catch me now, AIDS.