December 24th, 9 A.M. Eastern Standard Time

By: DaggerQuill

12-24
9:00 AM E.S.T

Roger Davis read his roommates watch. Mark was still sleeping, with his arm hanging off the side of his bed in a way that his roommate could perfectly read the illuminated face.

Roger glared at the numbers, he grunted as he turned twisting the sheets around his body in attempt to no longer face the daylight streaming in from the window. Eyes adjusting to the new light Roger saw his guitar leaning against the wall the instrument was covered in dust. The sight of his once loved possession began to haunt him.

It had been one year sense he had last played. His band had an important christmas eve gig in Central Park, nothing like the Village clubs. The event was going to be broadcast on network T.V and some top labels were rumored to be present.

Roger's band was bumped right as they were walking on. The stage manager saw some of the band members, Roger included, shooting up backstage, he didn't call the cops but they were kicked out.

There was a fight afterwards, Roger only remembered bits and pieces. By the end of the night the band had split up and April was waiting at home with a new stash.

The ringing phone ripped Roger from his memories and woke Mark.

"SPEAK." followed by the beep of an answering machine sounded from the other room.

"Mark, I need you to drop my equipment off at the lot. Soon, before Joanne gets out of work. She doesn't want you--" Mark had gotten out of bed and attended to the girl on the phone.

Roger thought it was sad how Maureen had him wrapped around her finger. Roger never wanted to be that pathetic, not over a girl that had left him a month ago.

He sat up in bed "What the Hell am I doing?"

It had been seven months sense April had died. Seven months of him being nothing. Feeling nothing.

"I have AIDS" He whispered to himself, saying the words for the first time. "I've been sitting here, wasting away, not knowing how long untill... I don't want to be remembered like this..."

Roger got out of bed. He grabbed a pair of brown plaid pants and pulled a green sweater over his head. Finally he removed the Fender guitar from it's case. He opened the window and crawled out to the fire escape.

He closed his eyes and felt the cold wind bite his face as he played a few cords and began to tune the instrument. He was amazed how well his hands still knew what to do.

When he opened his eyes he noticed the girl downstairs was also out side. He waved and she smiled. He swore he had seen her--

"Hey, Roger," Mark stuck his head out the window. Mark was dressed, a red sweater, blue and white scarf, his camera was in his hand, off but ready for whatever needed to be immortalized on film. "So, um, Maureen needs me to go down to the lot and-- What are you doing out here, Rog?"

"I'm writing one great song before I..."

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