DISCLAIMER: Obviously, I do not own the characters in this story. It's a FANFICTION!
Chicago is nothing like New York City. Sure, it's got crappy piles of wood and nails for houses, and taxis, and hobos. But it doesn't have Alphabet City.
I needed to go back. I missed it too much. I told Joanne about it, and at first she refused to even consider moving back.
"What's the point?" she'd asked me. Who do we have to come back to?"
Those words stung. It was a cold reminder of how we had lost four of our dearest friends—Angel, then Mimi, then Collins, and only four months ago, we lost Roger. Benny was gone from our lives. But there was still Mark; surely he would let us stay at the loft.
"We have Mark," I had told her. "Maybe Mark needs some friends, too. Ever think of Mark?"
"He doesn't even talk to anyone anymore, Maureen, and you know that!" she retorted, pointing her finger at me.
"Can't we try?" I pleaded. "Please, Pookie?"
Joanne gave in.
I called Mark for the first time that night since we'd moved.
"SPEAK," said two voices on the other end of the line. I guessed he hadn't bothered to change the answering machine since Roger died. Hearing Roger's voice struck me dumb for a moment. Then I remembered that I was on the phone.
"Hey, Mark, it's Maureen," I started out. "Are you there? 'Cause if you are—"
"Hello?" said an unfamiliar voice.
"Mark?" I said, baffled.
"Hi, Maureen," he said. I realized why I didn't recognize his voice. It was flat, monotone, lifeless.
"Uh, Mark, hey. How… how's it going?" I asked tentatively, instantly regretting the question.
"I'm fine," he said in the same flat voice.
"Well, Mark, um, I called because… because I wanted to ask you something," I said.
"Shoot," he replied.
I took in a deep breath, not exactly sure what to say.
"Mark, I want to come home," I finally blurted out in one breath.
There was silence on the other end.
"I miss Alphabet City, Mark, I miss New York. I need to come back."
More silence.
"Joanne said to call. She was wondering if… well, if we could stay at the loft, if we came back."
Finally, Mark spoke. "I might not be here," he said.
Something about that one sentence made me feel funny inside, like someone had yanked my stomach down to my knees and let it fly back up like those maps they use in high school history class.
"What do you mean?" I asked. "Will you be working or something?"
"Maybe," he replied flatly.
"Well… can we come?" I asked again, hoping beyond hope that he would say yes.
"I'll see you in a couple weeks," he said.
A huge grin grew across my face. "Oh, thanks so much, Mark, I can't wait—"
Click.
Exactly seven days later, Joanne and I found ourselves once again in Alphabet City. It was uglier than I remembered: beer cans in the streets, cigarettes only half-smoked thrown in gutters, and overflowing trash cans. But it was still home sweet home.
Joanne and I lugged our suitcases up the stairs slowly, somehow feeling that what we were doing was ceremonial and solemn. There was obviously someone new living in Mimi's apartment. I heard laughter coming from her door, joyous and carefree. I stared at that door for a long time, wishing that I could go in there and find Mimi and maybe even Roger, having a good time just because they could.
"Maureen, let's go," said Joanne impatiently behind me. I snapped out of it and continued up the stairs, halting in front of Mark and Roger's door.
Mark's door. Not Mark and Roger's door.
I grabbed the side of the door as well as I could with a suitcase already in my hand, then pulled it, backing in while pushing it all the way open.
"We're here, Mark!" I said in a false cheerful voice.
Just then, Joanne bowled me over, shouting, "Mark! Oh my God, Mark!" I whirled around to see what was wrong and let out a scream.
There was Mark, a rope around his neck, the other end tied to a rafter. His feet dangled above the ground by almost two feet. He was still struggling to get oxygen, making no noise, but his mouth opening and closing like a goldfish's. His diaphragm was contracting wildly, trying to pull some air in, but making him jerk around in the process. His eyes were closed, and his hands were limp at his sides.
Joanne ran over and grabbed his legs. Pushing them up, she shouted, "Maureen! Get him down!"
I dropped my suitcases and ran inside, snatching a chair and placing it by Mark's feet. I jumped onto it and loosened the noose around his neck. I held him tight with one arm as I pulled the rope off his head. Joanne and I slowly lowered him to the ground as he began to gasp for air, making a sick, grating noise. We carried him to the couch and laid him down.
After a few minutes, Mark's gasps became less panicked and more normal. He began to cough hoarse, feeble coughs. Finally, he opened his eyes. When he saw my face, he abruptly stopped coughing and just stared at me with sunken, haunted eyes, looking at me in a way I had never seen him do before. His glasses were missing, and a purple bruise was developing on his neck.
"Joanne, get him some water," I said, watching Mark intently as his eyes closed again. I wiped the sweat off his face with the end of my scarf and pushed his unkempt hair off his forehead. Joanne appeared with a glass of water just then. She set it on the coffee table and helped me to get him upright, propping him up with pillows. I brought the glass to his lips and let a little bit of water go into his mouth. He tried to swallow and instead made a retching noise and spit it up.
"Stop, he wheezed, his voice barely audible. I could hear the defeat in his voice and it sent a chill down my spine. I put my hand on his forehead. He was damp and cold, not to mention shaking uncontrollably. He reached up and took my hand, then let it slide down his shoulder and his side. I felt the bones in his arm and shoulder too easily through his shirt and skin. His ribs stuck out too much to be healthy. I looked to Joanne, and she knew exactly what I was thinking.
"Mark, can you breathe okay, honey?" I asked gently, moving the pillows and helping him lay back down again.
"Why did you do that?" he asked me, disregarding my question.
"Do what?" I asked, confused.
"Why'd you take me down?" he said, his voice getting stronger. "I was so close, so close…"
"Mark, why are you trying to kill yourself?" asked Joanne, cutting straight to it.
Mark let out a quiet chuckle. "Why am I trying to kill myself?" he said sarcastically. "Why shouldn't I? What is there to live for anymore?"
Joanne began to cry, and I could feel the tears welling up in my own eyes. I smelled alcohol on Mark's breath and realized he was drunk. Mark never got drunk. What had happened to him?
"Mark, don't you know who it is? It's me, Maureen," I said, stroking his hair. "And Joanne. We came back, don't you remember? We said we were coming back."
"You weren't supposed to show up for another week," he said, his words slurring, a vague grin on his lips.
"Is that what you wanted us to find?" I cried, the tears finally falling down my cheeks. "You, hanging from the ceiling by your neck, dead?" I got up and stood over him, watching him chuckle to himself drunkenly.
Mark stopped laughing and slowly opened his eyes. He pushed himself up, breathing in short little gasps, and looked me straight in the eyes.
"Yes, Maureen," he whispered. "Dead."
This wasn't the Mark I knew. The Mark I knew never got drunk, was usually happy, always trying to avoid the fight. I couldn't take it anymore. I ran out of the room, crying quietly, wishing none of this had ever happened. I wished Angel hadn't died. I wished Mimi and Collins hadn't died. I really wished that Roger hadn't died and left Mark alone. I wished that Mark hadn't gone off the deep end, trying to starve himself and then trying to hang himself.
I stood outside the loft for a long time, trying to compose myself. I finally stopped crying and walked back in, carrying in my suitcases and sliding the door shut behind me. The rope was still hanging from the rafter in the middle of the room, like a threat waiting to be carried out. I turned away from it and walked to my old room from at least six years ago. I dumped my things on the bare bed and walked back out to the main room. Joanne was kneeling beside Mark's thin frame, absentmindedly stroking his skeletal hand. She turned to me with a sad smile on her face.
"He passed out," she told me. "He's incredibly drunk. I don't know what he was drinking, but he didn't drink it here."
I walked over to the refrigerator and opened it up. There was absolutely nothing inside, not even an old carton of milk. I opened up all of the cabinets, one by one. They were all empty. There wasn't a speck of food anywhere. I looked to Joanne, and she looked down at her hands, still stroking Mark's.
"I'm guessing he hasn't eaten for days, maybe even a week or two," she said. "We're going to have to take care of him. Thank God we got here when we did."
I nodded, trying to swallow down the lump in my throat. Joanne got up and grabbed her purse from next to the chair I had used to stand on fifteen minutes before.
"I'm going to go get some food," she said, heading out the door. "Watch him, Maureen. I don't want him left alone."
I nodded again as I watched her leave. When she had disappeared from sight, I walked over to the couch. I gently lifted Mark's head and sat down, placing his head on my lap. I stayed there for a long time, stroking his hair and listening to his shallow, wheezing breaths, just glad he was alive.