This is just a little ficlet kind of thing that came to me in school the other day, just an angsty piece. I have so much to be working on and this is one thing that slipped through the crack in the wall of my writer's block.

It's written in Mark's point of view, but the paragraphs in italics are third person.

I'm going to warn you now, there is mention of topics such as character death and slight hints to a bit of mental instability/disorder (I'm not sure what word to use) as well as swearing and alcohol use. If any of that bothers/offends you, I wouldn't suggest reading.

Anyway, I hope it's okay.

Rent and all isn't mine.

I feel like I'm losing my mind, I've got to be losing my mind. I swear I heard him yesterday. Heard his guitar, playing that damn song. That god-damned Musetta's Waltz. I can't get that fucking song out of my head. It just keeps going and going and going…

He hums a bad imitation of the tune and then laughs, the sound breathy and nervous. He sounds and looks like a man getting closer and closer to the edge, practically pulling his hair out as he talks.

I'm going crazy, aren't I? Yeah, I thought so I probably am. What's it going to be next? I suppose I'll start seeing things, start thinking I see him sitting there on the sofa or hear him complaining about another fight with Mimi. Maybe I'll start talking to myself. Oh wait – I already do that, don't I? I knew I was fucking insane, I just knew it. He was one of the little things holding me together, but now…

Another laugh. He stands up, wandering for a little while and mumbling to himself before picking up an unlabelled bottle, taking a long swig. He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and then returns to his seat, clutching the bottle in his fist.

I don't know. I probably am going crazy, I'm sitting by myself in this hellhole, talking to this piece of shit camera, and I really don't know why I bother with it anymore, I mean really. I've been alone for… Oh, what, is it a week? Maybe two? Fuck, I don't know. It's been a month since Roger died. Maureen and Joanne come by sometimes but apparently they think I'm okay, that I'll be just fine without company. Oh yeah, why not? Leave Mark alone, right? He's used to being abandoned, isn't he? His dad disowned him, his girlfriend left him, his best friend up and died on him, he's used to people leaving, he's fine, he'll be fine.

He pauses and takes another long drink from the bottle, abruptly slamming it down on the table.

You know what? Fuck them. They can go live in their little fucking happy couple world and leave me here to waste away, see if I care. Good for them. And Collins, I have no idea where the fuck Collins is. I never know. He's just doing whatever the fuck Collins does whenever he leaves town, I guess.

He runs a hand through his hair repeatedly, looking down at his lap. He's not even talking to the camera anymore, like he doesn't even quite seem to realize that it's there. He drinks much more often from the bottle now, clinging it to his chest.

I bet they'll come for me. I hereby pronounce you dangerous and insane, you may kiss your dead best friend's ghost. They'll tie me up, wrap me up in a straight-jacket and put me in a cute little padded room, the place they usually put the crazy people. That would make a good movie, wouldn't it? Guy goes crazy after his best friend dies. Nah, it's probably been done already…

He looks down at the bottle in his hand and realizes it's empty and frowns deeply. He turns his head and looks off to the side, as if someone's speaking to him.

Oh well fuck you then, asshole!

He hurls the bottle at the wall, smirking in satisfaction as it shatters, leaving glass shards all over the hardwood. He laughs again and gets up from his place at the table, approaching the camera, and switches it off.

The screen goes blank