"Mimi's still at the hospital

"Mimi's still at the hospital?"

"How would I know? I'm not her personal assistant, Mark."

He shrugged. "I just thought you might have some idea."

Roger looked up from the over-played guitar strings. "Well, I don't."

"Have you taken your AZT today?"

"Have you reminded me more than twice?"

Mark sighed and wrapped his scarf around his neck. "I'm going down to the hospital to see how they're doing. You wanna come?"

"To see how 'they're' doing?"

"Well, yeah. Angel and Collins. How do you think he's taking it?"

Roger began to pick at the strings again. "I think he's a big boy, Mark." His frustrated plucking radiated the hostility present in his voice. Roger obviously wasn't in the mood for small talk or any talk, for that matter. So Mark swallowed everything that he was going to say and instead whispered his goodbye and promised to return later.

He wasn't sure if the hospital had bicycle parking or not, though why they wouldn't he couldn't fathom, having never spent much time there. Mark was never one for hospitals, what with death seeping its scent into the air he needed to live. He'd never been one for goodbyes, either, because goodbyes meant exposing intimate feelings because you might never get another chance to tell them. He'd much rather be out watching, observing, than talking and worrying. Death was fascinating, that he wouldn't dispute, in the way that one minute you were around and the next lost. How could one…not be?

Mark hooked his camera, his key to survival, onto his bike. He put one foot on a pedal and steadied himself on the seat. But before he began riding off, Mark stopped. He got off the bike, unhooked the camera, and walked back up the steps towards the loft. He fished the key out of his pocket and left the camera sitting on the counter. It was quiet, Roger had stopped his insistent 'playing', and as Mark walked out, he couldn't help but feel that everything had just changed.

0--0

Whenever Collins thought about hospitals, he thought about the machine beside the bed beeping. He thought about hearing its rhythm when his grandmother was passing, and how he wondered why they were making her listen to such an annoying sound. Only later, when he was older, wiser, and a little less naïve, did he realize that people in the hospital wanted to hear the beeping. They wanted the repetitive rhythm to keep them awake, to keep them sane. Because if the beeping was gone then so were you, just like that.

In Angel's room, there was no beeping machine.

Collins wondered how she knew that she was alive.

"So serious," she whispered, tapping his hand with her nail. "Don't think too much on my behalf. Grief isn't your strong suit."

"Grief? Why would I be grieving?"

Angel gave him a knowing look. It was the kind where she told him that she knew exactly what he was thinking, even if she really didn't. But he never knew if she did or not, so it kept him on his toes.

"I'm dying, honey."

There it was. The unspoken words, warm in execution, but cold in meaning.

"I know."

He blinked. She was right; grief wasn't one of his many talents. Suck it up and shut it up—it was one of his mantras. But still…he had to grieve…didn't he? What kind of person would he be if he weren't upset for the rest of his life? The problem happened to be that he was exactly that kind of person.

"You're looking awfully worried there, professor. Anything I can do?"

"I love you, Angel."

Without hesitation, or a second of comprehension, her automatic reply was, "I love you too, Thomas."

He pecked her forehead and rested his cheek against hers. "I don't know if I can ever be this happy again."

"No," Angel disagreed, "you don't know if you can bring yourself to be anything but happy. I love you, but you're horrible at being sad. And it's a good thing—I don't want anyone to cry when they think about me."

"Not even a little?"

"Not even a little."

He smiled, began to chuckle, and soon began an all out laughing fit. Angel wasn't sure what was so funny, or if she even wanted to know. After all, curiosity did kill the cat. But Angel had never liked cats, too much of an attitude, and she knew from experience that killing animals didn't always mean doing the wrong thing.

"Are you okay?"

He nodded, still chuckling, a wide grin threatening to split his face. "I promise you that I'll move on. I promise you that when I think of you, if I do cry, then I'll try to laugh instead."

"Well don't laugh too hard," she smiles. "Or you'll start to cry again."

His laughing didn't stop, and then she joined in, until neither of them knew if they were laughing, crying, or just going crazy.

0--0

Roger hadn't dreamed in a long, long time. When he was a child his dreams were full of superheroes, and adventures, and treasures. Once there was even a giant dog, all nightmares aside. But he hadn't had a real dream, one where he could escape all that was really going on and just be in a land of make-believe, since April.

Miss Erickson had really done it in for him. If she was going to kill herself, couldn't she have had the decency to do it in the park, or in an alley? Did she really have to do it in their bathtub? He didn't bathe until they bought a new tub, which took quite a while, and he'd had quite the smell to prove it.

He was dreaming now. Not a peaceful dream, or a nightmare. It was more like an ever-continuing stretch of the imagination. An illusion. He was running. Running, and running, and running, but nothing was moving except for his legs. All around him was hazy, but still. He couldn't speak, or hear, or feel. All he could do was see and run.

The floor began to change. It had never been much of a floor to begin with, more a blank bit of nothing. But now it was tile, white and blue, with cracks and dirt and brown around the edges. A light shone above him now, dim. Its covering needed a serious scrubbing, and maybe then the light would shine with its real strength. The mirror wasn't one, it was two pieces to cover the medicine cabinet, with one piece that slid back behind the other. There was a weird brown spot on it that had always been there and always would be, and the sink below was spotted with marks from where a cigarette had been laid there and left.

It was their bathroom, or half of it, but different. Roger had broken that mirror when he saw April. If it was still intact then…

The bathtub was in front of him with the curtains drawn shut.

He couldn't speak, or hear, or feel. All he could do was see and run.

He couldn't stop himself, or warn himself. He couldn't even scream when April lay there before him, her blood gleaming in the dim light. And he couldn't even walk away when she got up, eyes dull and lifeless, and turned into Mimi.

0FIN0

It's official. The next chapter is officially the last. It kind of skips a bit, so don't be thrown off.

But, I already have the next chapter typed up, so it should be up soon.

On one final note, everyone should send flowers to my beta, who is mentioned in several chapters, so I'd hope you know her name by now, because she doesn't get enough credit. But I love her, and so should you!

And, I saw tick…tick…BOOM! yesterday. It was in-freakin-credible!