WASTELAND
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When slapping a hand over his wrinkled nose proved ineffective at stopping the offensive odour, Mark tried a more direct approach. "Jeez, man! When was the last time you took a shower?"
His long-time roommate hardly reacted, let alone was offended. Roger just shrugged, and continued to doodle over his staff paper.
He hadn't mumbled more than a few words since his girlfriend's funeral service over a week earlier. Mark figured he was in some sort state of shock – well, who wouldn't be, under the circumstances – but, was hoping that Roger would show some sign of life by now, no matter how small. Just something that would demonstrate that things would start getting better.
Better. Well, that wasn't the word he wanted to use. Roger would only get worse. Roger was going to die. Oh, the test results hadn't come back yet; but, they both knew the verdict.
Mark remembered the first time he went to a funeral for someone around his age. He hadn't known the guy for very long, and didn't visit him in hospice, because Mark was afraid of becoming infected, himself.
His father had disowned him, as soon as his son told him with what he was diagnosed. His mom, while she still loved her son and would send little care packages with home baking and knitting crafts, had stayed silent. Neither of them attended their son's funeral.
His friends and members of the AIDS support group he attended took up a collection and held fundraisers to help pay for the costs of the burial. Even when enough money was scraped up, some of the funeral homes that were approached either would not take his body, because he had died of AIDS, or they were going to charge more to handle him.
It was a slap across Mark's face. Every time something like that happened, and there had been many funerals since that first one, Mark's optimism and creativity weakened, until all there was left was a heavily fortified outer wall defending an incoherent, mumbling wasteland that went on forever.
… To be continued