There are two parts to this chapter, because if I fitted the two parts together it'd probably be over 3, 000 words.
That's all I have to say, except that next chapter will be the last (unless someone can convince me to write an epilogue or a sequel or something).
R&R,
Ash
"December 24th, 10 pm, 1994,
"Life sucks, but hey at least there is still some stoili left from Collins' last day." The blonde filmmaker whispered, taking a swig from the vodka bottle. He grimaced, but honestly he didn't care how bad it tasted. His life sucked too much to care about such a simple thing as the taste of vodka.
Despite the fact that the filmmaker's beloved camera was beside him, turned off of course, Mark the filmmaker kept narrating. He really didn't care though; no one there to hear him.
Not even Roger, who he assumes is still alive.
It was November 15th when Mark's best friend of all time left him. The second morning after the fight. After the fight, things were quiet between Mark and Roger, and the only words said all day were "Take you AZT." And "Fuck off, you're not my mother."
The next morning after that, Mark awoke to a note on the kitchen table. He already knew what it was; Roger's goodbye note. He could practically quote was on it without even reading it, "I'm sorry Mark, but I can't take this shit—"
"I brought most of my stuff with me, the rest can be thrown out—"
"I really wish you told me what happened—"
"Take care of yourself."
Mark was pretty much right. It was a short note, and it didn't really have any significance in it...but that didn't stop Mark from collapsing into tears. After all those days of not crying from the pain of life, Mark Cohen, the rock, finally cried after 2 ½ years of fighting tears back.
He was hoping that Roger would somehow sense his tears and come back, but Mark had no such luck. After the 13th day of praying for him to come back, Mark finally decided to try to earn some closure; burn up the note.
If girls can do it, why can't I?
But sadly it didn't give him any closure, and nor did the prostitution or the cutting. So, Mark stopped selling his body, and gave up the knife. It wasn't easy, and many times Mark's switchblade found its way into Mark's hands, but he was able to do it more the most part.
On December 4th, 1994, Thomas A. Collins died. Mark didn't know what to do with himself. He was Mark's best friend since college, and it was hard. His grief was endless. He lost the one person who had him talk, and Collins listened too. Mark didn't see his death coming...He went to the funeral, and didn't see Roger there. He thought of calling Roger just in case he didn't know, but...he couldn't bring himself to pick up the phone.
On December 5th, Mark found a new outlet instead of the cutting and it was simple and easy as long as he didn't mind the bitter taste of vodka and he had enough money to buy it.
Alcohol.
He became obsessed. The alcohol altered reality, made it better, happier. When he was buzzed, he could giggle for hours on end for no reason at all. Bottles littered the apartment, and it was amazing that the apartment was still good enough to live in. It smelt of beer, but no one else care so why should he?
Now Mark stared down at the road below him. He was on the roof, precariously sitting on the edge. His feet dangled off the building, and if he wanted to he could just slip off. Slip off...slip off...the street begged, or that could just be the alcohol consumption.
Today was the anniversary of Mark's stop to prostitution. He was kind of happy of that fact, and decided some stoili couldn't hurt. Some turned into a lot more than a bottle, and sober turned into drunk.
But today the buzz wasn't helping Mark.
In fact, it was reopening wounds and making him feel more like crap than ever. He remembered Angel's death, Mimi's death, Collins' death, Roger's disappearance...Maureen's death Maureen Maureen Maureen Maureen...
Is she looking down at me right now?...Maybe she wants me to join her...
Sure, Mark has thought of suicide, but he has never thought of going through with it. It would devastate Roger—
Well, Roger doesn't give a rat's ass for you right now. What the hell is stopping you? Mark's inner demons hissed.
The pavement below looked pretty good right now. Roger obviously didn't care enough to even call, so why should he care if he jumped off the fucking building? Fuck Roger...
"Fuck Roger, fuck Roger, fuck THE WORLD!" Mark cried, standing up. He wobbled a little bit, but he righted himself quickly. He took a sip of his vodka and stared downwards. It'd be okay.
You'll be fine. You'll be killed from the fall before you hit the pavement, so it won't hurt.
Mark bent down and grabbed his camera, suddenly getting a morbid idea. His suicide note would come in a package of film.
"December 24th, 11 pm, 1994...Hello to the person who's found my beloved camera. I'm assuming it's you Roger...at least I hope it's you—"
Mark was so caught up that he didn't hear the rooftop door creak.
OH NO! What will happen? Wait, I know!
Readers: *throws RENT script*
OUCH!...THANKS! *runs away with script*
Readers: *runs after me*