O Rose Thou Art Sick
A/n: Again, I apologize for the slow updates. I really will be updating sooner, I swear. I've just been incredibly busy writing new things, and this has fallen behind. Sorry!
Disclaimer: I do not own RENT; Jonathan Larson does. I do not own the poem The Sick Rose; William Blake does. I do not own the poem Because I Could Not Stop for Death; Emily Dickinson does.
Chapter Seven: My Labor and My Leisure too
My labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility-Mark pedaled unsteadily on his bike, nearly getting hit by cars several times. He felt extremely ill, and there was a tight pain in his chest that increased whenever he took a breath. He felt dizzy, and weak; the pumping motion of his legs had become pure reflex as his mind, deadened by something in Mark's body, began to wander.
Suddenly, in front of him there was Collins, but he disappeared just as suddenly. Mark shook his head, trying to focus; he was riding in the street, dodging cars! He needed to remain alert. But as bright cars zipped past, he thought of Angel.
Angel was bright.
Had been bright. She was dead now. But she had been bright, colorful, fun, loving, caring, alive. Angel Had been alive. She had been alive.
So had Roger. So had Mimi. They all had been alive, but now they were dead, and Mark was alone.
Mark was dead, too.
Not physically. Physically, he was young, with a perfectly healthy body.
Except for the cough, he was reminded.
Yes, in terms of body, Mark was alive.
But inside, he was dead.
Dead. Mark and Roger had once had a conversation about what it would feel like to be dead. Roger had said it would be like the worst case of boredom ever. Mark has said it would be like being utterly alone.
Mark was alone.
Mark was dead.
And yet, he kept going, kept waking up each day to live. Because he knew he couldn't die. Couldn't, because if he did, they would be forgotten. The dead would be forgotten. And they would drift away. And Mark could not let that happen, would not let that happen.
Mark lived for the memory of the dead.
Screech. A car stopping suddenly. Mark, coming out of his thoughts, narrowly missed being hit. But he couldn't stop. Hoping it wouldn't be too painful, Mark braced for impact.
The wheels of his bike smashed into the curb, and Mark toppled off, scraping his hands. Nothing happened to the camera. Mark wasn't sure if he believed in guardian angels, but he was sure someone was watching after his camera.
He got up, the pulsing pain of his skinned palms keeping him in reality.
Fact: He was Mark Cohen.
Fact: He was a filmmaker.
Fact: He was going to visit his friends.
Fact: He was alive.
Fact: He was alone.
Being careful, Mark got back on his bike and began to ride. He gripped the handlebars tightly, the sharp pain in his hands keeping his mind focused.
He arrived at the graveyard and began to walk, keeping the bike with him. He wasn't sure how it looked, this singular man in a graveyard, with a bike and a camera for company. But his friends were here, and he was, for a brief period of time, not alone.
Here, Mark was not alone.
He found them easily, three graves lined up nicely; the first read 'Angel Dumontt-Schunard'. The second said 'Mimi Marquez', and the third, 'Roger Davis'. Three names carved in cold, hard stone, names that filled Mark with so much warmth and light. Friends, his friends. He stood in front of the three graves, basking in the warmth even as the freezing wind whipped down and ruffled his hair.
Friends, his friends. His friends were there. Mark was there. His friends were cold, but they filled Mark with so much warmth. Warmth and love and life.
Life.
Mark was alive.
He was alive, but his friends were in the ground, dead. He was alive, they were dead, and he was alone.
He was alive, they were dead, he was alone, and yet, standing in that graveyard, he felt more comfort than he had in a long.
Mark Cohen was comforted.
Mark Cohen was home.
A/n: Did you like it? I hope so… Please review and tell me what you thought! It's you guys that keep me writing!
