Disclaimer: I don't own RENT. Big surprise, eh?
She was on the ledge of the roof, leaning over slightly, knowing that one little step of her stiletto heel and she'd be falling through the air of the cold January night. The wind unbalanced her momentarily, and she shoved the auburn hair out of her eyes as she held out her arms to steady herself. A feeling of euphoria consuming her, and she smirked as she looked down at her out-stretched, wing-like arms – she wouldn't topple off of this building, she would fly. Of course...why would she not fly? Flying would be perfect, wouldn't it? Flying had been a fantasy she had harbored since early childhood, and tonight she could make it come true...The intoxicating mixture of heroin, vodka and adrenaline coursed through her body violently, making the very blood in her veins come alive. She was invincible, indestructible in her perch above Avenue B, above the lower East Village, above New York City, above the world.
She breathes in deeply, letting the familiar high of power consuming her. Here, on this ledge, she could control her destiny, she was in charge of everything that happened. Here she was a goddess.
She felt herself being pulled away from the edge of the building, and she couldn't find it in herself to fight back. Someone was pulling her away from her sense of power, and she didn't know what she would do now...all she knew was she wanted to get back where she was seconds ago...
She looked over at her "rescuer" dubiously, wondering what exactly he was expecting her to say. That little bastard...he was always trying to ruin everything, then he would hide behind his goddamn camera...
Mark stared at her, wide-eyed. "What the fuck were you doing, April?"
She shrugged, looking away almost sullenly. This idiot was not going to ruin her high in its peak...she was searching for an escape route...
"April, I want to help. What were you doing up there?"
"I don't have to answer to you, Cohen," she said, pushing him away.
He grabbed her wrist, his fingers feeling like thin cubes of ice coiled tightly around her arm. "I'm serious. You're going back down to the loft, ok?"
Every thought of flying completely abandoned, she now felt herself falling, tumbling quickly through her mind as she felt herself coming down from her once-indestructible high. She was vaguely aware of Mark pulling her into the loft, anticipating the lectures that awaited her once they reached their destination...
They hurried through the living room and into the small bedroom she and Roger shared. Mark quickly flicked on the light switch and looked at her expectantly, still obviously under the delusion that she was going to talk to him. "April, why are you doing it?" he asked desperately, looking into her somewhat glazed-over grey eyes. She stood silently, looking at him rebelliously. Who was Mark Cohen to stand there, expecting her to confess like a Catholic schoolgirl and ask his help in coming clean?
He shook his head, staring at her in exasperation. "Stay in this room," he commanded strictly as he slammed the door.
April wanted to scream. Stay in this room? What was she, a fourteen year old in trouble for smoking pot? Mark was always doing stuff like this, acting infuriatingly overprotective and mother-hennish...
She flipped out her lighter and idly watched a piece of paper burn. It was a certificate from years gone by, a meaningless declaration of something she could have been, could have become...
"And you're sure she was high?"
"Come on, Roger. Like it's that hard to tell with something like that. And besides...she was standing on the roof, about to fall or jump or God knows what...that's not exactly like the sober April I know..."
"Damn it!" Roger jumped off the table, pacing around the loft angrily. "She fuckin' swore to me that she'd been clean for months now..."
"You knew that there was the possibility, Rog," Collins said wearily. "She's always disappearing for times...we knew that she was probably shooting up."
"Yeah, but..." Roger looked around desperately. "How's she getting the cash, anyway? It's not like she's got a job or any more money than me..."
Benny had been silently listening to the conversation, but at that he stood up from the couch and walked over to Roger. "Hey, can I talk to you in private for a minute?"
The guitarist followed him out to the small balcony of the fire escape and listened to the other man. "Listen, I didn't want to say anything until I had reason to actually suspect anybody...but you know how I've been working for Mr. Grey lately?" Roger nodded his answer. "Well, I've been making okay money there, and it's a good job...but lately I've noticed that my money's been missing a lot. I'd have fifty bucks in my wallet when I went to sleep, and then only I've have ten in the morning, so I knew it had to be somebody living here. I didn't want to accuse anybody, but...I knew it wasn't you or Mark or Collins..."
"So you automatically assume it's April?" Roger bit at him defensively. "Just because she's had some problems..."
"Look, I didn't assume it was her, Rog, but who else would it be?"
"There's always Maureen," Roger replied bitterly, his dislike for the drama queen evident in his voice.
"But that doesn't make sense, Roger. Think about it...April's coming up with money for smack from nowhere, and my money's disappearing...it makes sense."
Roger stared out at the city, sadness filling his green eyes. "She didn't use to be like that," he sighed desolately.
Benny shook his head. "She didn't," he agreed softly, "but she is now, Roger, and somebody's gotta do something about it."
He nodded. "I know."
He slowly walked into the dark bedroom, the ray of light coming from the lamp in the living room casting a small spotlight on April as she laid in the bed. He softly tread over to where she slept and gently caressed those thin, beautiful arms that he had always loved. He studied them for a moment...they seemed smaller than ever, and bony, and...he ran a solitary finger along the protruding veins, the trace marks that ran up and down her arms, and wondered what had happened that had reduced her to this.
He looked around their bedroom, at the ballet shoes, the tap shoes, the jazz shoes, the leotards and tights that she had loved. April reigned on stage, the queen of tap...she was honestly the most amazing dancer he had ever seen. She threw contempt on the dancers in clubs and whatnot, always critiquing dancers on their lack of turn-out and improper style...he looked back at the shriveled form on the bed, barely recognizing her as the girl he had fallen in love with. She wasn't always like this, tiny and drugged and anorexic...there was a time when she was whole and perfect.
He sighed, sitting next to her sleeping form on the bed. "What happened, baby?" he asked bleakly.
It had been nearly a year since her almost-fall from the building, and still she was falling. She held the knife to her wrist, slitting experimental cuts, watching the blood flow from her wrists. This new high was taking over her, as she watched the crimson liquid mix with the cold water that surrounded her.
She felt herself slipping in and out of consciousness, wondering if it would be over soon, and she suddenly felt something inside her begin to fly as she watched her body bleeding the life away. She felt her mind grow wings as she bled, viewing her body from above...
She continued to fly, fly, fly...
...until she felt the final fall.