Thoughts
By: Jokestress
Summary: Roger said that I was obsessed with my work... If only he knew that it was my only release.
Warnings: Angst, near-suicide situations.
Rating: T
Love? No. Love is something that's never been any good with me. Love is something that leaves me for a black Lawyer woman, only to break up with her at the engagement party and put me in a bad position with that love's parents.
Love is something that I hate, that has ceased to be in this emotionless body that I seem to hide behind.
I hate it.
I've sold my soul to Buzzline, it seems. I never have a day to myself, and I'm always home late. Roger started a large argument with me about it before he left for Santa Fe, one that I think that I shouldn't have said some of, seeing as immediately after, Mimi had heard all of it, and left herself.
I am the last one to survive. I don't want to be.
Sometimes, I think that god has truly left us all. 'Hey! Mark! Everyone's going to die soon, and you'll be the only one left in this god forsaken place! Fun, huh?' is one of the many thoughts that seemingly rolls through my head like one of my movies.
Maybe it's my fault.
Maybe I could have stopped it all.
What am I saying? God, I'm pathetic...
Since that damn engagement party, things have been going downhill. I refuse to watch any more of it.
I refuse to be a part of any more of this.
I'm in the loft, and my camera's to the left of me on the windowsill. I look for a clear spot, the perfect angle. I stop to think, but the window opens from the wind, a cold breeze hitting my bare skin. Then I remember what I'm doing, and I adjust the camera, turning the crank a few moments until it's ready to film. A gun lays to the side of the camera on the filing cabinet, and I pick it up. One bullet is inside of it, and where this came from, I have no idea. The devil must be waiting for me, otherwise this wouldn't have been on the coffee table when I had gotten home.
I sit back down on the windowsill, staring at the camera.
"January 24th," I begin as usual, the camera filming as if it was normal, a usual thing. "6:30 P.M.. This isn't a normal clip, as you can see, but it'll be over soon. I'm tired of hiding, of being alone. This is my final release---Oh, god, I can't..."
I take a moment to calm down. My hand's shaking as if I'd been in the cold for hours, but it wasn't the cold I've been in. It's been in the dark.
'But who, Mark, are you?'
A question that was asked of me a while ago. I honestly don't know. I don't know who I am anymore.
My hand raises up to my head when I'm ready, ready to release my soul from this wretched place. I release the safety, the trigger clicking somewhat as I pull it back. Footsteps echo in the hallway as I begin to let it go, yet the door opens, Roger's happy smile greeting me until he sees what I'm doing. I pay no attention as he drops his guitar, rushing over to me in a frightened flash of air, but I do as he knocks the gun out of my hand, it firing as he did so into the wall, knocking over a lamp.
I struggled away from him. He held me tightly until I stopped trying to remove myself from his grasp. The window opens again, snow getting into the loft. I calm down, but I feel a tinge of guilt as a tear hits my neck. Roger's arms never leave me.
I realize then that I'm not alone, at least for now. My arms hesitantly hug him back, and we stay like that for hours.
The camera ceases to film, the crank frozen in its place. I shut my eyes.
Thought overtakes me.
