Unable to Cry

DISCLAIMER/AUTHOR'S NOTE: they're all jon larson's. except phoebe. i used her as a plot device in an earlier RENTfic, and liked her, so i've decided to reincarnate her as a plot device in this. this story isn't connected to that one at all, though, plot-wise. heck, it wouldn't work if it was. this one takes place a few years after RENT ended.
p.s. i don't know what happened the first time i tried to post this...hmmm....

Unable to Cry
by kaydee falls

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I feel so lost now. In the five days since the funeral, I haven't left the loft once. It feels so big, empty. I suppose it's mine now, to do what I want with it; but for now I'm unable to do anything but wander around it helplessly. Lost. Every now and then, I remember to find something edible in a cabinet, and wolf it down. A few times, that nagging inner voice reminded me to take my AZT, and I complied mindlessly.

I wish I could cry. I think of all those nights, over the years, when I cried myself to sleep somewhere after a fight. Or the haze of tears and drugs after I ran off and nearly let my body shut down completely. I recall that feeling of being so alone. I wasn't alone then. It was only my own stupidity that made it seem that way.

Now, I know what being alone is, and I can't cry at all. Every footstep seems to echo in the wide emptiness of the loft. Funny; I'd never realized how large it was. No wonder Benny was picky about paying rent. I should probably move out, either back into my old place downstairs or somewhere else entirely. Maybe Maureen and Joanne would let me room with them for a while. Collins said he'd pop by once I was up to it; maybe I should give him a call. Or Mark -- no, never mind, I can't remember Mark's number for the life of me. He moved in with his girlfriend back in June, and I have not been able to call them without relying on Roger's selectively photographic memory. He should've written it down for me, the idiot.

No. No. Never think ill of the dead. I loved him.

He left me. All those times he separated himself from me, fought with me, ran away from me -- they don't hold a candle to this. This is the ultimate ditch. He is gone.

They all thought I would go first. Even I did. I may never know how I bounced back on that Christmas Eve -- what was it? Two years ago? Three? Well, almost three. It's late August now. Hell, I don't even know what I almost died from. Starvation? Dehydration? Overdose? AIDS-related infection? Maybe all of the above. At any rate, it should've weakened me. I was supposed to go first.

And with him, it just happened so fast. One morning, he woke up and couldn't breathe properly. He had a fever, too, so I coerced him into seeing a doctor. The doctor said, Opportunistic infection, and Pneumocystis carinii pneumonia. One week later, Roger was dead.

I might've followed right behind him, but the others all made sure that someone was with me at all times. And now, I just don't care enough. Listless. It's not worth the trouble to kill myself. Even then, I couldn't cry; all I felt was rage. Mainly at myself and the doctors who hadn't saved him. It wasn't fair. I had spent the whole week at his bedside in the hospital, in those uncomfortable plastic chairs. Towards the end, he was unconscious, and I just sat and watched the heart monitor, listened to its steady bleep-bleep-bleep-bleep until it lulled my to sleep. When the nurse shook me awake a few hours later, the first thing I noticed was the silence.

I never heard his final breath. I wasn't awake to watch him die. What if he'd opened his eyes at the end, like in all the movies? If he had any last words of wisdom for me, I missed them. He would've seen me in the chair, asleep. Without the ability to waken me. Maybe his last thoughts of me were of disappointment. I can't bear the thought that he was disappointed in me.

At the funeral, it was scorching hot. Mr. and Mrs. Davis insisted that he be buried in the family plot, in New Jersey. The August sun beat down, and all the grass was brown and dry. The flowers I brought had wilted.

We must have made an odd picture, there. Divided into factions. Roger's parents and other family members were on one side, all dressed somberly and conservatively. His friends were on the other side: me, in a black leather miniskirt and navy blue linen shirt (the only black tops I owned weren't exactly appropriate for this sort of thing), my own face dead and blank; Maureen, in a dark outfit that suspiciously resembled her cat burglar apparel from a New Year's break-in and looked about as suitable as my own get-up, sniffling over dramatically; Joanne, with her usual business-like flair, occasionally brushing away a tear or two; Collins, in tight black pants and a white shirt, with a black armband, crying openly and unashamedly; Mark, who had dug up an ill-fitting but conservative suit, wearing a sad puppy-dog face and blinking his eyes a whole lot under the pretense of rearranging his glasses; Mark's girlfriend, Phoebe, in reasonably tight black pants and a charcoal gray tank top, looking uncomfortable; and, surprisingly, Benny, standing in the background and trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. I think I'm the only one who noticed him; he left quickly and silently as soon as the whole business was over.

The Davises made it clear that they wanted nothing to do with me, although they greeted Mark warmly enough. I didn't care, which was fine, because Maureen raised a stink about it for me. I extended a hand for Mrs. Davis to shake, and she deliberately turned away. Maureen then rushed over and started lecturing the older woman on courtesy and manners -- polite Maureen, yeah right -- delving into how Roger had lived with me for more than three years, and how he had loved me and I had loved him. Hearing the word I guess I kind of flipped. I half-walked, half-ran back to the train station and jumped on the next one back to New York. I didn't know what I was doing or feeling, I just wanted out.

That night, Mark, Phoebe, and Collins dropped by. Collins was carrying a bag of groceries. He plopped them on the table. he said gruffly. Don't let yourself starve.

Mark's eyes were red and swollen. He clutched Phoebe's hand convulsively. She looked uncertain as to how to comfort him, and she was still a little teary herself. Still, I couldn't help but envy her. She was so healthy, alive, unmarred by the shadow of disease. And so was her boyfriend. What I would give for that innocence.

Mark stepped forward. I'm sorry for what his mom -- for how she acted today, he mumbled. She's just--

It doesn't matter, I said dully. I don't care what she thinks.

Look, Mimi, are you all right? Mark asked, eyes brimming with fresh tears. I don't...I don't know how it must be, how it must feel, for you....

It feels like a void, I thought, but remained silent.

Roger was my best friend, the filmmaker continued hoarsely. He...we...oh, god! he sobbed, suddenly hugging me fiercely. I can't believe he's really gone!

I held him woodenly, not knowing how to respond. This was bizarre. Normally, I was the caring one, the one who provided comfort, who knew what to say. But now, I didn't know what to do at all. I couldn't even cry with him. I saw Phoebe, behind him, trying desperately to disappear. Collins took a step forward, and put a hand on Mark's shoulder, effectively saving me. Still sniffling, he straightened, face beet red with embarrassment. he whispered. I just miss him so much.

Phoebe finally decided that this was the time to be the good, caring girlfriend. She slipped her hand back into his and began murmuring softly into his ear. He smiled a little, giving a look filled with such love that it caused me almost physical pain. I used to get looks like that. Not anymore. But no sooner had the feeling hit than it swiftly withdrew.

Collins must have noticed the vacant look on my face, because he cleared his throat and said, I guess we'll leave you alone now, Mimi. You need some time to yourself. To the filmmaker: Say goodbye, Mark, he chided.

Goodbye, Mark, came the dutiful reply. Phoebe laughed slightly. Collins rolled his eyes. Mark smiled slightly through his tears. I'm sorry, Mimi, he said more seriously. If you ever need anyone to talk to, remember, we're here. With a last, long look around the loft, he sighed and turned to go.

Phoebe came up to me and kissed me on both cheeks, with a whispered, I'm so sorry for your loss. Then she and her boyfriend left, clinging to one another.

Collins eyed me for a long moment. I'll pop by in a few days, he said sternly. You'd better be up to company by then, out of your shell.

Is that a threat? I asked faintly.

He gave me a quick pack on the cheek, and left.

And I'm still here. Five days later. The void inside of me remains in place. It doesn't matter much; at least I don't feel the pain. I don't want to feel the pain. Nothingness suits me well. I just wish it wasn't accompanied by this sense of being hopelessly, irretrievably lost.

Somehow, I find myself in the bedroom. I should do the laundry, I think hazily. I start making a pile of the dirty clothes in the room, disregarding their owner -- or former owner. In the pocket of a pair of my loose jeans, I find a cassette tape.

Now, where did that come from?

Abruptly, I remember. It was the beginning of the end, the day Roger woke up sick. After the doctor told him what was wrong and advised him to go to the hospital, Roger and I came back here to pack a bag for him. Neither of us really knew the significance of the opportunistic infection, then; I at least assumed that he would be out in a few days. As he was grabbing a few things, he handed me this tape.

What's this? I asked.

Just something I'd like you to hold on to, he said casually. I just don't want it to get lost or misplaced or anything. Here.

It hadn't meant much to me at the time, so I shrugged and pocketed it.

Now, of course, it did mean something. Finding our small stereo in the living room, I pop the cassette in and press play. Familiar guitar chords fill the air. Your eyes, Roger's voice sings from the stereo, as we said our goodbyes....

Trembling, I sit frozen as the music continues. I had never realized how well the song worked even if the roles were reversed -- if the singer was the one who was dying.

Two words suddenly are emblazoned across my mind: He Knew.

He knew.

At that moment, I heard the click of a key in the lock. Cursing myself for forgetting that Collins now had a copy of the key, I reach over to hit the stop button.

I was a second too late. The sound dies, but Collins had heard. Well, I said I'd drop by, so here I am. I see you haven't left the house. He nods to the stereo. What was that?

Uh...nothing, just something Roger...I mean...

He knew, didn't he? Collins half-asks, half-states. I gape at him. He gives me a twisted smile. For some reason, it's a common phenomena among AIDS victims to know when they're about to die. Soon to die. Angel did, too. His face darkens for a moment.

I whisper, how did you stand it when Angel died?

I couldn't, he responds flatly. It was like a fire eating me up from within, and it hurt every waking second. He shakes his head sadly. It still does.

Why can't I feel anything? I blurt out. I should be sad, angry, hurting, I don't know! But i should be something!

Collins throws up his hands. I wish I could tell you what to do, he sighs. But this hits everyone differently. Me, I cry it all out. The ache never goes away, though. He looks directly into my eyes. You must feel something, he says.

I don't, I exhale. Just alone, empty.

Those are feelings.

Yes...but...I don't know. My voice drops back to a whisper. I feel like I failed him.

Collins's eyebrows arch in surprise. What do you mean? he asks.

I tell him about being asleep when Roger died. About missing his final message to me.

You realize that Roger almost definitely didn't regain consciousness before his death, Collins tells me gently.

Yes, but that's just the point! No one knows if he did or not, because I was alone in the room with him and I was asleep!

People look so different when they're sleeping, Collins comments, gazing off into the distance. I blink, startled by the apparent shift in subject. His eyes return to me. Didn't you ever wake up before Roger, watch him sleeping?

I smile slightly, remembering lazy mornings and sleepless 2 AMs. A tentative feeling of warmth begins to creep over me. I murmur. He always looked so much softer, gentler when he was asleep.

It's a beautiful sight, one's lover sleeping, Collins muses. I think, if Roger did wake up, right before he died, if he did glance over at you -- well, maybe that wouldn't be such a bad thing, after all. He pats my shoulder, as I stare out into space, considering this. Get out of the house, he says softly. Whatever happened to your no day but today' mantra? Chuckling, he leaves.

Silently, I lean over and hit the play button again. Closing my eyes, I let the music wash over me.

That night, I take a train back out to New Jersey. Finding the cemetery again, I make my way to his grave. Tracing the still-warm stone with a finger, I try not to focus on the short, short time between the birth and death dates inscribed there.

As a child, my mother raised me to be a good religious girl. I pull out my old rosary from its soft leather envelope and light a white candle. Would you light my candle? I whisper to the stone. It doesn't respond. Shaking my head at my own foolishness, I begin the prayer. Santa Maria...

The old, familiar words come rushing back to me, filling me. Peace descends, and somewhere a cricket starts to chirp. Finishing, I blow the candle out gently. Wisps of fine white smoke twist their way up through the air, to the dark sky. To the moon, the stars. It's a gorgeous night.

Standing, my knees protest a little. I was kneeling for far too long. But still, I don't move from the grave, reaching out tentatively. Maybe he wasn't disappointed with me.

Maybe, as he took his last breath, he was smiling.

I realize that I'm smiling too, sadly. Goodbye, love, I whisper, as a lone tear makes its way down my cheek.
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all done! please, be a nice reader and review, even if it's just to make corrections (i figure i deserve it). oh yes, and thank you, Tiara, for being nice.
if anyone wonders why i'm always so morbid...well...um...this time, i just realized that no one ever kills off roger. otherwise, the explanation involves a good cast picture (you know, the finale one) and a few darts. heh.
--kaydee falls