In Wanting to Explode

by Lynne the Canuck

Post-Rent ... And now you're trembling on a rocky ledge/Staring down into a heartless sea/Can't face life on a razor's edge/Nothing's what you thought it would be .. It's not as if you're all alone/In wanting to explode - Rush,'The Pass'

1. Chapter 1

DISCLAIMER: This is a work of original fan fiction based on characters and situations created by Jonathan Larson. The intent of this work is for the entertainment of the fans of the musical theatre work "Rent" and its 2005 movie adaptation, and is not intended to garner payment in any form.

I only rent. I don't own.

Author's Note: Now complete. Thanks to my Beta-Reader, YoungBoHo.

Thanks for reading.

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IN WANTING TO EXPLODE

And Pity, like a naked, newborn babe,
Striding the blast, or heaven's cherubins horsed
Upon the sightless couriers of the air,
Shall blow the horrid deed in every eye,
That tears shall drown the wind.

-- William Shakespeare
Macbeth: Act 1, Scene 7

Prologue

The thunderstorm was different in western New York from the deluges in the state's namesake city. It smelt fresh, not like a sodden gutter, full of peripheral waste.

No matter how much it rained on the city, the collected sediment never washed away. The soaked scab of filth would bleed away from the calloused dull buildings, forming rivulets that snaked down the street.

In between the indifferent eyes of the housing units, the wind blew cutting and cold.

It seemed the bitter wind scattered the debris of indistinct shadows through the lamp-blind streets.

Sometimes, there was no barrier between sky and earth there. Sometimes, Roger imagined he could keep walking up, up into the shadow of infinity.

The industrial smell of the permanent marker mixed with the sweetness from the lingering smoke of the joint, that bobbed like a body in the glass of water next to him. "I'm still in control", he whispered, before the delicate illusion of calm gained from relaxing into the storm was ripped from him with an explosion of light …

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Chapter 1

"You've reached 555-0496. Leave a message."

It was always telemarketers at this time in the evening. He wasn't interested in buying into time-sharing schemes and, since he never played the lottery or entered promotions, he highly doubted that he should exchange his Social Security number for the grand prize. Come to think of it, he had no interest in investing in a company that sold curling-themed fondue sets in the Congo, either.

Irritated, Mark turned up the volume on the television set.

"Goodbye," said the familiar voice. Mark lunged, but the line was dead by the time he lifted the receiver.