Summary: Maureen contemplates the death of someone close to her. One shot. 09.05.05
Disclaimer: I do not own any characters from Rent.
Author's note: This just kind of spilled out one night, and I figured I should post it. Tell me what you think!
Pathetic Fallacy
Maureen shook the ashes off the end of her quickly burning cigarette and lifted it to her lips, taking a long drag.
She didn't smoke. She didn't smoke normally. She smoked when she was stressed. She smoked when she was depressed.
At the moment, she was a little bit of both.
She and Mark were out. She dragged him to one of the clubs he hated knowing very well he hated it. Maureen worried about him. All he ever wanted to do was sit inside and play with his camera, like a kid with a top-secret project that he hid underneath his bed. The kind of top-secret project he wouldn't even tell his best friend about. Except in this case, it might have been because Roger would have made fun of him.
Maureen drank, Maureen danced, Maureen flirted. Mark filmed it all. She returned to the bar, where he was sitting patiently, all sweaty and hot from dancing. 'Can we go?' he asked so sweetly Maureen could have thrown up. So they left and went back to the loft.
It was cold and rainy out, a typical autumnal New York night. She guessed it was pathetic fallacy-- that thing where the weather reflects the events happening. She smiled a little, proud of herself for remembering anything from high school English class.
But anyway.
It was rainy, and it felt nice after a long night of dancing. She wasn't sure if it was all of the alcohol coursing through her system, or if the weather made it romantic-comedy perfect, but Maureen was in the mood. She wanted Mark, then and there. Of course, the middle of a street in the Village probably wasn't a good idea, so they kept walking. Maureen let Mark know what was in store for him, and he proceeded to turn bright red and stammer. Classic Mark.
They got back to the loft after what seemed like hours and after letting Mark place his Baby down on the kitchen counter, Maureen kissed him, desperately trying to undress him right in the kitchen. He forced a nervous laugh and led her into their makeshift bedroom, hoping nobody else was home, likely.
But then Roger came home.
Maureen was baffled by their relationship. Those two could go days without talking to each other, but when they met up again they'd pick up right where they left off. They were like brothers separated at birth. Mark loved him and watched out for him like an older brother should, and Roger fucked up and thought the world revolved around him, like the younger brother always did.
Roger burst through the front door, calling her name. 'Where the hell are you?' he yelled, dropping his guitar by the door. Maureen knew he was pissed. He usually treated the glorified chunk of wood like Mark treated his camera-- better than gold. He wouldn't normally drop it like that, and Mark knew it. 'Just a second,' he reassured his overly turned-on girlfriend, 'I'll be right back.'
Maureen sat on that damn bed for at least fifteen minutes, listening to the action in the other room. She'd hear Mark try to calm Roger down, then Roger yell about yet another fight he and his junkie girlfriend had. What else was new? Maureen knew that this wasn't anything out of the ordinary. Mark, for some reason knew it wasn't.
She could tell Mark finally gave up when she heard the springs in the couch squeak as if a box of bricks had been dropped on it. It was so sensitive and it even squealed like that when Mark flopped down on it. Next, she heard Roger across the hall, swinging open the bathroom door.
Then, silence.
It was a couple minutes before Mark realized Roger had stopped storming around, and he made a beeline for his brother.
More silence.
Maureen sat up and pulled Mark's t-shirt on over her head. Well Hungarians, it read. Roger's band. Even when Roger wasn't around, he was still an active presence in Mark's life. She whipped on her jeans and opened the door, seeing the two men standing in front of the bathroom. 'Hello?' Maureen beckoned, making her way between the two.
Her heart stopped. There lay the junkie girlfriend, soaked in her own blood and laying limp in the bathtub. Her eyes were still wide open, and her bleach-blonde hair was tangled. She was still wearing the hideous red lipstick she insisted on constantly reapplying out of habit.
Maureen felt her stomach up in her throat and swallowed back the urge to bring up everything she had eaten in the last week. She felt Mark wrap an arm around her shoulders and guide her away to sit on the couch by the door.
Her ears popped, she couldn't hear a thing.
The next thing Maureen remembered was sitting on the curb, like she was now, seeing the paramedics carry a brown, zipped up body bag on a stretcher from the building. Mark was beside her, one arm over her shoulders, and a note in the other. we've got aids, it read.
Mark told his girlfriend that he took the note because he didn't want Roger to see it yet. Maureen didn't know why he couldn't let his little brother face his problems for once. Shit happens, she thought. You deal with it.
He passed the note to her and told her he was going to go back inside and check on Roger. She nodded and let him leave, all the while staring at the gutter across the street. Almost instinctually, she reached into her back pocket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. Roger's. He wouldn't miss them. His junkie girlfriend just killed herself. He had more important things on his mind.
She took a cigarette out and lit it, holding it between her fingers as she read the note over and over.
we've got aids.
Maureen hated April.
She hated the way she wrote that note all in lower case letters. She hated that she dotted her 'i's with little circles. She hated that disgusting red lipstick she doused herself in. She hated her blonde hair, she hated her baggy clothes, and she hated what she did to Roger Davis.
Maureen could still remember when she and Roger were best friends. They did everything together-- they hung out at her old apartment and ate Chinese food with a side of ice cream and watched Dallas reruns together. They would snuggle on the subway and hold hands in the park. It was through Roger that Maureen met Mark and landed a home at the loft. He was a fun, cool guy.
When he met April, their relationship went down the drain. April and Maureen clashed from day one. April had all of Roger's attention and Maureen wanted it back. So, she fought back the best way she knew how-- she tore April down at every chance she had. She'd play Devil's Advocate and tell Roger what a bad person April was, but it was too late. Roger was already addicted and was always out of it.
He and April had only been dating for a few weeks before she got him hooked on smack, then they were out every night, all night shooting up and trying to find more. They had been dating a few more weeks and Roger found out that she was cutting herself. They had been dating for two months before he found her dead in the bathtub.
Maureen watched the ambulance drive away, not even bothering to flash its lights. Her cigarette burned low, and she watched the embers fall off the end. She was in her bare feet, having forgotten to put shoes on when Mark rushed her out of the loft. She examined the chipping nail polish on her toes. She would have to repaint them.
Water from the rainfall just a little while ago rushed down the gutter over Maureen's feet. It was still misty out. She wiped her face with the bottom of Mark's shirt. She wasn't crying, though. Why should she cry over somebody who hurt her best friend? She hated April--
Maureen blew smoke out of her mouth and eyed April's note again. we've got aids.
She hated April for killing Roger.