A/N: Ugh writer's block go AWAY… This story gives me so many feels. I'm really enjoying writing it, I hope you're all enjoying reading it still. Whoever you may be. Anyways, more darkness, more cutting, etcetera etcetera, the same old warnings. Read it and weep!

Disclaimer: If RENT were mine, Mark would probably be dead by now- or seated comfortably on Roger's- *censor*.

Chapter Three: A Slip of the Hand

Once in a while, Mark likes to stop and count the scars on his wrists. There's a lot of them and it goes without saying that once he commits himself to the task, it becomes an all-day project- one that requires him to hermit away in his room by himself and curl up in bed, or on the floor beside it, arm held comfortably out before him as he traces them with his fingers and murmurs the numbers under his breath. For a few hours he disappears off of the face of the Earth and returns, fine and dandy as ever, to his life to ignore the worried, suspicious glances of his roommate.

It's one of those days. Roger is out, and Mark is taking full advantage. He supposes that it's obsessive and that it should probably concern him more that something so pointless and unhealthy can consume him for entire days, huge chunks of his life, but he's too focused on the counting to care.

The filmmaker's fingers smoothed down his arm, morbidly fascinated by the raised lines, the scaly feeling of them, and the way that if he applied just the right amount of pressure he felt like he was burning. It's hard to resist picking at the scabs, watching the blood well up all over again- if he does it, though, it will only take them longer to heal. Every breath he takes is another line, his blue eyes flickering over the crisscrossing latticework of his arm.

It's not disturbing, not really. He doesn't know why everyone always thinks that it is. When it comes down to it they're lines. They're art. He'd always known he was an artist at heart, and since he was a shitty filmmaker this must be his calling. Body art, in blood instead of ink. He could live with that.

Roger would appreciate it if Roger paid him any attention at all lately. Not that he blames him. Some small, bitter part of him blames him but he's ignoring it, at least for now. At least until it all becomes overwhelming again and he ends up taking the blade to his wrist, and he has to count them all over again even though he's sure he knows the number. Mark has grown accustomed to this sickly cycle of his and he's strangely content. Not quite alive and not quite dead, either. If only he could reach that perfect state of numbness, everything would be fine...

When he gets to two hundred he stops to let that sink in, staring at the exact place he'd stopped. There's more still to go- the last time he'd counted it had been two hundred and thirty four- but it still seems like an awful lot. Hadn't he just started doing this...? He's not even counted the ones that faded, the oldest, the ones that had hurt the most.

Now it barely hurts at all.

More. He needs more and more and vaguely he recognizes it just by the depth of the most recent additions, the angry scarlet that stares back at him and refuses to fade away.

Red, he thinks, is entirely appropriate. Red is angry. Pink is romantic but red is blood, red is rage at everyone and everything and violence and war and everything Mark feels, every day beneath the mask. What he used to conceal behind the lens stays trapped in his chest now, growing larger, mutating into something grotesque and unlovable.

Just like me...

He shakes his head, refocusing his eyes on the last slash halfway down his arm. It glares at him, accusing and comforting at the same time and he loves the confused way his gut twists in response to the conflict as much as he hates it. His life is one big series of contradictions, hypocrisy at it's finest.

And he wonders why he hates himself.

No. I know.

But he doesn't just hate himself. He hates everyone. He hates everything. Even Roger- especially Roger- except Roger.

Suddenly, he itches for his knife again.

Fuck. He's not even done counting. He can't start a new row until he's sure, until he's double-checked, and God there's something wrong with him and that just makes him want to open his veins even more.

His eyes light on the pilfered pocketknife that has become his best friend, lying oh-so-innocently on the nightstand just a foot from his hand. Everything about it invites him and he finds himself reaching for it before he makes a conscious decision. It doesn't matter. He knows which will win in the end, which always wins.

All of this thinking is hurting his head, bringing those awful thoughts back. Mark would much rather scar his arms than his mind.

He's barely flicked it open before he hears the front door slam and Roger curse under his breath. The noise startles him; his arms stings and he glances down, glasses slipping down his nose, to find that he's gashed his wrist and blood is bubbling from the wound at an already alarming rate. "Shit." Swallowing down the initial muted panic the sight triggers he swings his legs out of bed, clamping his opposite hand over the fresh cut so tightly his knuckles turn white. Crimson wells between his fingers, sickening, and his gag reflex decides to make an appearance so strongly that he nearly blacks out. Oh, fuck. He's done it now.

Way to go, Cohen. I hope you fucking bleed out on the bathroom floor. Just like A-

He puts a stop to the thought before it can even fully form, shaking his head violently to clear it and staggering for the door. Bathroom. Sink. Water. Soap. He just needs to make it to the goddamn bathroom and he'll worry about everything else later. Awkwardly, he manages to turn the knob with his elbows and toes the door open with one foot, slipping out and bee-lining for the bathroom. Roger molds himself to the wall as Mark shoves past, furrowing his eyebrows.

"Hey- what the fuck are you doing?"

"Bathroom," Mark replies shortly. He can regret it later- right now, he's rediscovered his survival instinct and it's just about choking him. Years of desperation and dark clouds and a pill bottle hidden in the back of his dresser, all but forgotten, have been wiped away by the shock of maroon that's begun seeping down to stain his rolled-up sleeve, uncontrollable. Shitshitshit. He's going to need stitches.

How is he ever going to keep this from Roger now?

Well. He's certainly fucked up this time, hasn't he?

Irrationally, he wonders if this is what he gets for cutting before counting. It's fleeting, but it's there.

His future therapist is going to have so much fun picking that one apart. Assuming he lives that long. And judging by the state of his arm, at least at the moment, he might not even see tomorrow. Roger's going to be so pissed if he really does go the same way as April. Mark decides then and there that if he dies, he'll have the decency to do it outside of the tub. Maybe he'll even try to clean up some of his mess before it all fades to black.

He's getting ahead of himself again. Stop. Think.

Right, wash it out. That first.

He pries his fingers away one at a time, as if that will make it better. The blood is flowing at the same rate either way, freely dripping down his arm in thinning lines, down to the crease of his elbow, droplets splattering the floor, the counter, into the sink. Don't panic. Don't panic... He uses his stained hand to twist the tap, icy water gushing out over his wrist. The water pinks immediately. He wants to be sick.

Close your eyes. Deep breaths, come on... He leans heavily against the counter, hardly able to remember a time that he'd been quite this high strung. Is he dizzy from blood loss or from the sight of it? Both? He sincerely hopes that Roger isn't listening outside of the door. His breathing is shallow, his pulse quick and frightened like a rabbit's. Calm is an impossibility.

Predictably, Roger knocks less than politely moments after the thought races through his mind. "Mark, what the hell?" It's funny because if he wasn't so busy freaking out over his arm he would be squirming over the note of grudging concern in Roger's voice. "Are you dying or what?"

Maybe. "I'm fine." It's a miracle that his voice doesn't shake, doesn't even jump an octave. Roger broods silently on the other side and he can imagine those green eyes boring holes into the wood, suspicious. Not now, please... "Just needed- um-"

"Yeah, whatever," Roger grumbles, clearly not in the mood for conversation. Mark hears the rustle of his jacket as he turns and stomps off down the hallway, fuming. He must not be in a good mood, then. Great. What happened this time?

Wait. Arm. Right. Damn that's a lot of blood. He really doesn't have the money for an ER visit right now, either. If he's honest, he never has the money for an ER visit. None of them do. He doesn't even have a fucking job, how is he going to pay for this?

Roger is going to kill him if he doesn't die.

Shakily, he rubs the blood from the wound under the stinging cold of the water and examines it. It's long, it's deep. It's vertical on a plane of horizontal slashes, a perpendicular fuckup of a line right along his vein. It's not something that can be fixed with a dab of Neosporin and a Winnie the Pooh band-aid from the dusty box in the medicine cabinet. Mark has never in his life wanted to punch himself in the face more.

The free clinic. It's his only option. But it could be hours until he gets in... Who even knew if he would make it down the street before collapsing? What if Roger caught him before he could even leave the loft? He's fucked, he's so fucked, he hasn't gotten laid in an immeasurable amount of time and yet he's so fucking fucked and the profanity has started to blur in his head, some kind of twisted coping mechanism. All he has to do is make it out, make it there. The clinic. It's free and it's discreet. As for Roger, who is he kidding? Roger doesn't care what he does. He's a grown man. Nevermind if he still feels like a lonely, broken teenager in a hospital bed in Scarsdale.

He'll make a run for it, he decides. The wound still dribbles down his arm and he wipes as much away as he can, grabbing at the toilet paper and unrolling an enormous wad of it to press over the gaping laceration. This is going to take a whole lot of good luck and some coordination that he doesn't have at the best of times.

"I can do this," he breathes to himself. That negative little cloud in the back of his mind snorts scornfully and he takes a deep breath, focusing on the door handle.

Here goes.

MRMRMRMRMRMRMRMR

Somehow Mark drags himself back to the loft three hours later with his wrist wrapped in gauze, tired and paler than he's ever been. He's not thinking of Roger now. The fine details of the graffiti on the walls of the stairwell have blurred in his vision- blood loss, they'd warned him. Lie down. Take a cab. But Mark doesn't have money for a cab and Roger is probably wondering where he's been. Even if he's not, he doesn't mind a little walking. It's a lot less suspicious, and that's what sells him.

His wrist is throbbing. He can just keep ignoring that as well.

Fingers shaking almost violently, he twists the key in the lock and nudges the door open. There's not enough energy in his body to give it a real shove. He stumbles inside, dizzy and wanting to curl up on the floor and just cry. He's so fucking tired. Everything hurts, his arm and his head and his feet. They hadn't given him any painkillers but he'd been sorely tempted to ask.

They'd probably have thought he was a junkie if he had. That's how it is in the East Village. He's starting to rethink it himself; if everyone is doing it, and if any of them were half as miserable as him to begin with, then maybe he's just been playing stubborn all along.

Sometimes Mark is jealous of Roger's needles and April's bloody arms. His own scars itch beneath the bandaging, burning brightly. The nurse had said nothing about the state of his arms as she'd tended to the fresh wound and he's glad, so very glad that he hadn't gone to a real hospital. They would just have locked him up. Mark doesn't have the time or the patience or the state of mind for that. He'd be off his rocker on the first day.

Isn't he already crazy?

He can see into his room from here, all the way down the hallway. It seems so far away right now but he's prepared to traverse it if it means unconsciousness. Mark spends the majority of his time wishing he could crawl back into his bed and sleep these thoughts away, and today he has an excuse. As he walks, unsteady and almost drunken on his feet, he wonders if Collins could tell. If Roger could. Can anyone see through him? He feels transparent. Some people, though, they only see their reflection in the glass when they should be looking through. Mark's not worth looking through it anyways.

He's ready to collapse into bed and pass the fuck out but when he gets there Roger is lying out, presumably waiting for his return, across his squeaky mattress. The tip of the knife that Mark belatedly realizes he'd forgotten in the sheets pokes at his thumb as he toys with it and the filmmaker's blood runs cold. It doesn't matter what Roger is doing in his bed, he's there and he might as well know. There's blood on the floor, blood on the sheets. Not a lot of it. But it's there and Roger's not stupid, Roger can see when he's looking.

All he can think is that they don't have the money, not for the psych ward. He's not going back.

"Hmmm?" The guitarist sits up with a grunt as soon as he recognizes Mark's presence, setting the knife down. "Hey. Where'd you get this? I was wondering where it went. Hey- dude, what the fuck, are you alright?"

The genuine worry in his voice startles him, makes him stand a little straighter. Does he really look that awful? He hasn't been paying attention but he probably does, he's exhausted and hurting and fuck. Roger's going to figure it out if he doesn't get it together. "Fine... I- found it." He should have had a better excuse than that but he doesn't even care anymore. He just wants his bed and Roger is occupying his space, reaching for the bulkier arm.
"Don't-"

"What did you do?" It's probably not an accusation but Mark takes it as one, narrowing his eyes.

"It's just a little cut. I'm fine," he repeats a bit more forcefully. Roger looks taken aback and then offended, withdrawing his hand. Normally, Mark would probably get that desperate sinking feeling that he gets whenever he's disappointed one of his friends- now, though, he stands his ground, trembling. "Why are you in my room?"

"You ran out of here like there was a fire." The rocker is definitely irritated with him now. Despite everything it still makes Mark cringe inside, and he promises himself that he'll make up for it in blood later. "There was blood all over the bathroom- are you going to tell me what happened or do I have to force you?"

There was a time when Mark would have been legitimately afraid of that poorly veiled threat. He glares, feeling uncharacteristically hostile. Maybe it's just because he's so sick of feeling this way and Roger is the only person around that he can take it out on. Or maybe he's just an asshole. The second one seems more likely, and more appealing.

"I said I'm fine. Go away." He swallows down another wave of nausea at the thought of Roger piecing it together. Stupid, stupid, he'd left behind so much evidence... "I'm just- I'm tired." His conviction is dwindling and he can feel the return of the needy, clingy part of him that always rears its head when Roger is around. The words blurt from his mouth uncontrollably, pathetic. "How was your day?"

Roger looks at him like he wants to punch him. For some unknown reason he doesn't and Mark is overwhelmingly grateful for that. "Brian up and fucking quit, and now we don't have a drummer. Our gig is this Friday. I don't have time to go look for a new one." He closes his eyes and sighs, heaving himself off of Mark's bed with an aura of repressed rage darkly surrounding him, making Mark shrink away as he brushes past to let him to his bed. The knife is slipped into his pocket- the filmmaker wants to protest before he realizes that it's Roger's knife in the first place and he can't afford any more slip ups today. He clamps his mouth shut, just watching him trudge away, brooding in that petulant, attractive way of his. "Fine, take a fucking nap. And then wash the damn sink out. With bleach."

With that, the door slams shut behind him. Mark sways on the spot, nearly overcome with helpless emotion and an ache in his chest that's only growing deeper. Roger is normally snarky but this is a new level. He supposes that it's just frustration, understandable if unpleasant, but at the moment Mark is taking everything very personally and it hurts just to think about that loathing expression on his friend's face.

He never did finish counting...

Licking his dry lips, Mark sits heavily on the bed and stares at the door, tears welling miserably in his eyes now that he's alone. It's never going to end.

Why do people say that things will get better if they only get worse?