A/N: I know it's been done, but I wanted a chance to write about April's suicide. April is one of my favourite characters, and I love trying to understand her better. And, I figured what better time to write a fic about her...it is the month of April, after all.
Disclaimer: I don't own RENT. If I did, would I be here?
April's footsteps echoed in the silence as she paced anxiously. Sighing, she opened the bathroom door, jumping when she heard a car door slam on the street below. The door closed on her finger, and April swore loudly.
She cradled her injured hand to her chest, trying to survey the damage. The skin on her knuckles was broken, and a small stream of blood coated the ivory flesh. April hissed in pain as the cold water flowed over her hand. When the stinging subsided, she began rummaging through the cabinets, her eyes lighting up when she found her prize: Roger's razor.
April caught sight of her twisted smile in the mirror and turned away quickly. She pulled her lipstick out of her pocket and prepared to write her final words. They didn't understand. None of them. Mark, Maureen, Collins, even Roger--they all though this was a phase, something she could control. As if she could ignore the way she was feeling. As if she would wake up one day and be completely well again. As if--
She shook her head, her flaming tresses whipping her face. She knew thinking this way wouldn't solve anything, but it didn't matter. Not really. It would all be over soon anyway. She picked up the razor and brought it to her wrist. She hissed as the cool metal bit into her skin, wondering how she would be able to stand the pain long enough to finish. She winced in anticipation of the next slice, but made herself keep going. The next stab of pain was worse than the last, and April felt tears spilling out as she pressed deeper into her skin.
The cut still wasn't deep enough, so she pressed the blade deeper than she had ever dared before. The pain was sharp, but seemed to be fading faster than before. Her vision swam, and she picked up her lipstick container, knowing her time was running out. She frantically scrawled her message and collapsed seconds after she had finished. Her last thought Damn, this floor is hard was the last thing April Ericsson ever knew.
Roger opened the door, calling April's name. There was no answer, but Roger didn't let it worry him. April was probably out with Maureen. Sighing, he picked up his guitar and strummed it thoughtfully, wondering what he would do until April came home.
Each tick of the clock passed at an agonisingly slow pace, and finally Roger couldn't stand it any longer. He stood abruptly, knocking over his beer as he did so, letting a stream of profanities fly. Still cursing, he made his way to the bathroom, hoping his search for a paper towel wouldn't be in vain. He pushed the door open, but what he saw made all thoughts of a paper towel vanish from his mind.
April was lying motionless in a bath of her own blood, her eyes mostly closed, her red hair matted together with dried blood. Roger felt a scream building in his throat, felt his breath catch, his pulse increase and knew he had to get out of the room. Fast. The last thing Roger saw before he stumbled from the room was the message scrawled on the mirror in crimson--April's handwriting.
Roger--
We have AIDS.
--April