*****All lyrics are from songs that
I've written and which are copyrighted (© Copyright Tiara Rea, 2001. All rights
reserved). J Not that I wanna get mean
about it, but I have worked hard on writing them – music and all – so, I'd
appreciate it if you'd let them be (in fact, they will eventually be used in a
musical I'm working on!! Be excited. Hehe). Thanks a bunch! Okay, now that
that's done, let's get this story started…errr…ended. J******
****One more thing: for those of who (you know who you are!) stay up
'til the wee hours of the morning, awaiting new installments of this melodrama
that flows from my fingertips (or that I pull out of my arse -- whichever),
thank you! I'm glad to know I'm not writing this for nothing. lol Now, on with
the show!****
Roger didn't sleep that night. His
mind was too wrapped up in everything that was happening around him to use the
energy required to sleep. It was more relaxing to stay awake.
Everyone slept over as expected.
Benny slept on their new, small futon along with Maureen. Joanne and Collins
made beds of the tables, making sure to lean them against the walls just so
they wouldn't fall off. Mimi and Roger took the other small futon, cuddling
comfortably beside each other.
Roger looked down, watching the soft
rise and fall of Mimi's stomach and chest. Her breathing was a soothing sound
to his ears, and he listened intently. Her delicate arms were wrapped
contentedly around his waist, hugging him tightly. He held her possessively,
letting his cheek rest against those luscious curls of hers. He inhaled her
sweet perfume, and felt her heartbeat next to his. He smiled. Despite all that
had happened, he felt closer to his friends than ever. Misfortunes seemed to
bring the group closer together. The only thing that he needed to do was talk
to Mark and say he was sorry. Even though Mark had heard his confession
earlier, he felt he needed to say it again.
Rising sharply at 7am,
Roger snuck out from Mimi's tender embrace, gently allowing his lips to caress
her cheek. With his guitar in hand, he headed straight for the hospital.
Mark woke slowly to the sound of the
steady beeping of his heart monitor. He suddenly was aware of the fact that
needles were plugged into him as if he were some kind of diseased patient in for
a contagious virus that would kill him. Unfortunately, he was too weak to
remove any of the tubes or pull out those painful needles. Instead, he lay
motionless and struggled to remember what had happened last night to send him
into the painful reverie of the past several hours. He recalled Roger's hands
moving slowly towards him, nearly gracing his skin with their soothing touch,
and then he blacked out. He did, however, remember that his mind had perceived
Roger to be one of the rapists. For some reason, Roger's embrace would mean
torment to Mark's fragile mind. The thought of Roger – or any other man, for
that matter – touching him at all sent waves of chills and a thick sweat over
Mark's entire frame. He trembled simply thinking about it. And yet, at the same
time, he wondered if he'd ever get over this fear. Those men had completely
warped his mind and there was nothing he could do.
He propped himself up, using all his
strength, his muscles tense. His eyes roamed around the small gray room,
gracing each item that was found there. He sighed, leaning his back against the
headboard gently. He winced slightly, feeling the muscles in his back twisting
and overwrought. Suddenly, he heard the door opening, and for a moment, he
froze in place. Then, he smiled gently, his eyes settling against the soft
sheet over his small body.
Roger entered quietly, mimicking
Mark's expression. He watched as the filmmaker's eyes descended shyly to rest
on his blanket. He took in a breath, shutting the door behind him and moving to
sit by Mark's bedside. There were a few minutes of intense silence in which
neither one of them spoke, but merely studied the ground. Roger set his guitar
down on the second bed that was empty.
"What's with the guitar?" asked
Mark. He was able to talk clearly now, having gained back the use of his jaw
and the swelling in his tongue (for he had bitten it during the struggle) had
gone down.
"The what?" asked Roger, his nerves
on edge. "Oh! Oh, I just…thought you might like a reminder of home."
Mark nodded. "Thanks."
Another break filled with acute
calmness that made Roger's nerves jump even more. He wanted to speak, but he
didn't know what to say. How could you tell your best friend that it was your
entire fault he got raped and was sitting in a hospital bed?
"And thanks for…last night," Mark
continued where he left off, quietly, in his innocent way.
"Oh yeah…." whispered Roger,
allowing his eyes to meet Mark's. For a minute the stillness built up to a
deafening roar that neither one of them could stand.
"I'm sorry," they both said at the
same time.
Roger looked startled and Mark
confused.
"What?" they both asked again.
Roger laughed first, followed
swiftly by Mark. "Why are you sorry?"
Mark shook his head. "Well, I left
in such a hurry, and I wasn't even happy for you and Mimi. I have to tell you,
I was happy for you…but…"
"Jealous?"
"Yeah…."
"I know." Roger sighed. "But you
shouldn't be sorry. If not for me, you wouldn't have left in the first place.
And then… The last thing I said to you, that I can remember, was 'screw you'! I
mean, my God Mark! What if you had died?"
"Please, Roger. Don't –"
"I have to, Mark…. I couldn't live
with myself if anything had happened to you."
"But, it didn't."
"It could have."
Mark sighed, shaking his head. "I'm
fine. Don't worry about it. I'm just a little shaky, that's all."
Roger frowned heavily. "Don't lie,
Mark. I saw how you rejected my touch last night. That was only a hug. What's
going to happen when Collins brushes past you by accident?"
"You're not making it any better,
Roger."
"I know…. Shit, I didn't mean to say
these things…. I wanted to say I was sorry. And that you're my closest friend.
If anything happened to you…I'd be so lost."
Mark smiled. "That's more like it.
Now, are you gonna play me a song or what?" He smirked. "And where the hell is
Collins with my camera?"
Roger's lips lifted to a soft, sad
smile. "He'll be around."
"So, what about that song?" Mark's
eyes implored.
"Sure, pal. Anything you want."
"Well then no lover's lament crap,
okay?" he chuckled.
"Sure. What about something new?" he
asked, picking up his guitar, spinning it once before letting it rest between
his legs as he crossed them.
"You wrote something?"
"Yeah."
"What's it about?"
"You…."
Mark's face reddened considerably as
he stretched, moaning softy as his muscles loosened. "Wow…. O-okay." He teased,
"Nothing too sappy, right?"
"You'll see. Beware: it's cheesy."
"All the better," Mark whispered,
anxiously.
Roger strummed the pick across the
strings a few times, making sure the guitar was tuned perfectly and then he
plucked out a melody so beautiful that Mark was in awe. The chords he began
with were reminiscent to classical sonatas, and the wondrous air that followed
flowed like a steady waterfall – continuous and sublime. Then, he sang, the
melody sweet and tender, from his heart.
Sometimes life can get me depressed,
When everything around me is a mess.
I digress….
Sometimes the feelings in my heart
Get so befuddled and tear apart,
And I cry out to an empty night,
"Will everything be all right?"
Sometimes I feel the world has been torn
Off it's axis, but still it turns,
While I yearn for a time to come
When all my sins will be undone
Sometimes the music in my head
Fills my heart and soul with such dread
That it becomes impossible to breath
But the euphony fills in me
And when the sun sets at dusk
I feel I must
Run away…run away…
Sometimes the days seems so long
And oh so lonely
Go away…go away…
And sometimes the clouds above forecast
My departure from this world
Gotta get away…gotta get away…
Sometimes…
When the world's an empty place
And I slow down in my pace,
I stop and think, "sometimes…"
Sometimes the power of love
Can be felt from up above,
And it leans on me…it leans on me…
Sometimes you just gotta fight tomorrow
You just gotta face the sorrow
And turn away…just turn away…
And sometimes, the pains rage like fire
And the traitors of life conspire,
With all their words of hate
That they spat out and spit out straight!
Late in the night, I hear it
And somewhere inside, I feel it
It's the peace of good,
Breaking through the mood…
Sometimes…
And when the sun sets at dusk
I feel I must
Run away…run away…
Sometimes the days seem so long
And oh so lonely…
Go away…go away…
And sometimes the clouds above forecast
My departure from this world…
Gotta get away…gotta get away…
Sometimes….
When the world's an empty place
And I slow down in my pace,
I stop and think, "sometimes…"
Sometimes I feel alone
Sometimes the fear of death is so close
That I can taste it in my mouth
And nothing's ever finished here
No, nothing's ever finished here!
And I can't fight the tears
No, I can't fight the tears!
Sometimes…
The final chords rang out through
the silence, cutting it like a knife, as Roger's voice died away. As if he had
lost himself in the music, Roger slumped over his guitar, studying his fingers
on the strings. He bit his lip, waiting for some kind of response. Mark was
always his toughest critic (besides himself) and he valued his every word. He
heard no reply, no sound – nothing. Uneasy over what Mark had thought, Roger
looked up to find him smiling that tender smile of his. Roger opened his mouth
as if to speak.
"Don't even ask me, Roger," whispered
Mark as he shook his head. "It was amazing."
"Really?"
"No, I'm lying." He rolled his eyes.
"Of course! I loved it." He twitched slightly, laying back down.
"You okay?"
"Yeah…. I just get these pains
every once in while…." He winced. "It hurts…"
Roger swallowed, setting his guitar
down, but as he started to do so, Mark's hand grabbed Roger's sleeve, stopping
him short.
"No, please… Play some more…." he
begged.
"Mark, don't get excited. You'll
hurt yourself."
"No, I'm fine. I promise." He forced
a smile.
"Don't lie. You can't lie to me."
Mark laughed quietly, releasing his
grip from Roger's arm. "I know…. Will you play anyway? Humor me?"
Roger nodded. "If you want. But
please, don't go and die on me. I can't have you dying because of my music.
That just wouldn't look good." He smirked.
"I'll try my best," he replied with
a grin. "Play that one you wrote about life…"
"All mine are about life."
"Oh yeah… Well, it was called
vacant…or bare…or—"
"Empty?"
"Yeah, that's the one."
He laughed. "I didn't know you were
such a fan, Mark. I'd have bugged you more at the loft if I'd have known."
"That's why I didn't tell you."
Mark's face suddenly became serious. "I really do love your music, Roger. No
matter what I, or anyone else, says, you have great talent."
Roger shook his head. "I think the
drugs they're pumping in you are getting to you."
"No, I'm serious, Roger…."
Roger bowed his head. "I-I know." He
didn't wait for Mark to explain why he loved his music or why he chose now to
tell him. He began the melancholy song slowly, his voice piercing Mark's ears
with its distressing, somber timbre.
The empty bottles of beer on
the bar
Belittle me before I begin
The satisfactory station of life
Lives like a lie
And the broken-down bottles of beer on the
bar
Empty before my eyes
As I step within sleep,
I can only weep
One single, solitary cry
I feel so empty.
I've never been full.
I feel so empty.
And, I'll never feel more.
I stare out at the empty day
Full of empty hopes
And the emptiness I feel inside my empty
heart
Points me to an empty grave
And every empty bottle on the bar
Belittles me before I begin
I scream out these empty words
To an empty hall
And the emptiness flows from my empty eyes
Moving my empty soul
I feel so empty,
Like I've never been full
I feel so empty,
And now I'll never feel more
As every empty minute passes by my empty mind
In my empty room
I sit so still
And then I realize
I'm more empty than before
Empty lives for empty people
In their empty eyes
I can see my empty self
And all my empty lies
I feel so empty
And I'll never be full.
I feel so empty,
But I'll always crave more.
And this emptiness I feel
Inside my empty heart
Points me to an empty grave
And all the empty dreams
Inside my empty sleep
Show me that I must die
I'll die and be an empty shell,
But I'm already gone
I feel so empty
And I'll never feel full.
I feel so empty,
But I'll forever crave more….
Roger opened his eyes,
the song decrescendoing to silence. Mark was asleep.
Roger sat in the room with Mark all
morning. He watched as Mark slept, peaceful for once. He couldn't help but feel
incredibly saddened by Mark hooked up to those machines, tubes, needles, and
electronic devices. Mark no longer looked the same: he was helpless, dependent,
and vulnerable. As Mark slumbered in tranquility, Roger gawked openly, noticing
his tussled hair and bruised features. He felt that anger again – he wanted to
find the men who did this to him and kill them; to strangle the very life from
their bodies and to hear them say they were sorry. Poor Mark….
"Hey, babe," whispered Mimi,
entering quietly, carrying a cup of coffee. She strolled up to Roger and they
kissed gently. "I saw you left early. How long have you been here?"
"Since around 7:30 or so," he
replied as she handed him the coffee. "Thanks. Sorry I left that early, but I
needed to be here."
"I know." She smiled, taking a seat
next to him. "How is he?"
"He's better. Much better. He's
talking really well now and he was able to listen to Rantings-a-la-Roger, so he
must be recovering."
"Glad to hear, but I'm sorry I
missed the ranting session." She smirked. "Usually, you sing to me. Should I be
worried there's another Collins in the midst?"
"What's the big idea?" questioned
Collins, entering the room with balloons in one hand, Mark's camera – filming –
in the other. "You guys are always poking fun at my gayness. I don't make of
you heteros, so leave me be!"
Roger laughed. "Go ahead, make fun
of us. We don't care."
"Naw, you've taken the fun out of it
now."
"What's with the balloons? Mark's
hospitalized, not ten and getting his tonsils removed."
Collins grinned. "I had a hunch he'd
want the cheering up. Besides, I need to talk to him when he comes around
again."
Mark smiled, opening his eyes,
revealing his three good friends. He laughed aloud, noticing the balloons. "You
talk as if I'm dead. Should I be worried?"
"Mark!" Mimi cried happily.
"Hey there, Mark," whispered
Collins, moving to his bedside. "How are you feeling?"
"Terrible. You?"
Collins shook his head. "Fine as
always. You'll feel better once you see…these!" He held up the balloons,
smiling cheerily.
"Balloons?" Mark shook his head.
"Uh...thanks?"
"Anytime. But, seriously, read the
text on them."
Mark closed his eyes, shaking his
head. "My eyes don't want to read those tiny words. What do they say?"
"They say, 'Please forgive me', 'Get
well soon,' and 'I love you'."
"Uh…"
"Don't get any ideas, Mark. They
were all out of 'I wish we'd never fought and I hope we'll always be friends',
so I took what I could get."
Mark nodded. "I get the hint,
Collins."
"So…? Do you forgive me? Trevor and
I broke up, if that's anything…."
Mark smiled. "Forgive you for what?
I was out of line… I'm stubborn. Gimmie a break."
Collins grinned. "So, we're
settled?"
"Of course…. By the way, I really
meant to thank you. I know it was you who brought me here to the hospital."
"Don't mention it, buddy."
"No, seriously. Without you, I might
have died…. I'm really thankful."
Collins stepped closer, laying a
hand on Mark's shoulder, gently. "You're very welcome."
Mark's eyes slammed shut as he felt
himself transferred back in time to last night. Again, the feel of a man's hand
on his shoulder made him tremble with fright and a dense sweat broke out over
his façade, drenching him. He jerked frantically, even as Collins retracted his
hand, and he began screaming. "Oh God…. No, please! Please, stop!" These cries
were followed by whimpers and groans as he panted heavily.
"Shit!" exclaimed Roger, rushing out
into the hall. "Doctor! Nurse! Help!" He raced back into the room and pushed
Collins aside. "You can't touch him! He'll freak!"
"No! No! Roger! Someone…help me!"
Roger jerked his head towards Mark.
Had he just called out his name? Mark writhed on the bed as the doctors came in
to give him medication.
"Get out! All of you!"
cried the doctor. "Calm down, Mark…"
Collins had to go back to work, as
did Mimi, so Roger was left alone again to wait in the lobby. He was bored out
of his mind. His guitar was in the room with Mark, and the doctors were in
there doing various tests on Mark to make sure he was okay for releasing in a
day or so. Roger prayed he was. Otherwise, he'd have to stay here until Mark
was okay.
The doctor came out slowly from
Mark's room, a perplexed look on his face. He glanced in once or twice more
before closing the door softly and standing there gazing at it as if it was
something strange and unique that he'd never seen before. Roger watched with a
sense of anxiety. Something was not right.
"Doctor?" Roger called out. The
doctor shook his head and forced a smile to him, coming to stand in the lobby.
"Is something the matter?"
"What? Oh, no… Well, I don't think
so, Roger. Just doing a few tests to make sure." He nodded and wandered off
down the hallway.
Roger felt a twinge of wrongness in
the way the doctor was acting. Something was wrong. He felt it clearly and it
made him nervous. What could've happened to Mark? Was he not feeling better?
Had he lost too much blood in the struggle with those men? Or worse, had he….
No, Roger wouldn't allow himself to think of that possibility. It would not
happen.
Roger jumped up as the nurse came to
check on Mark. "Excuse me, miss?" he asked quietly, moving to stand beside her.
"Can I go in?"
"As long as I'm in the room as well,
yes."
She opened the door and smiled,
watching Mark straighten himself up considerably. Mark did not want to seem
weak. He hated always being feeble and frail.
"Hello, Mark," said the nurse
entering. "How are you feeling?"
"Better." Mark's eyes lit as he saw
Roger entering. "Roger!"
"Hey, pal," replied Roger, taking
his usual seat by his bedside. "Sorry about earlier…. Collins didn't –"
"I know." Mark forced a smile. "Did
they all leave?"
"Yeah. They had –" The nurse moved
in front of him to take out a few needles and let some medicine run through
some tubing. Roger waited until she'd moved and then he continued. "They had to
go to work. Consider yourself lucky I don't have work," he grinned.
"Are you sure that's lucky?" Mark
retorted with a smirk.
Roger laughed and leaned back in the
chair, watching as the nurse marked things down on her clipboard and replaced
it to its holster.
"I'll be back to check on you again
in a little while and give you you're lunch, Mark. Call if you need anything."
Mark nodded and smiled. "Okay.
Thanks."
Turning to Roger, she raised a brow.
"Try not to send him into shock this time, okay?"
"Oh, okay," Roger replied,
embarrassed.
She left quietly and swiftly,
closing the door behind her.
"So, where's Benny? Didn't I see his
smiling face leering over me yesterday?" Mark asked.
"Yeah, he had to go to work." Roger
shook his head. "You wouldn't believe what happened last night, Mark…."
"What?"
"When I left the hospital – since
our friendly neighborhood doctors decided I shouldn't stay because I was
damaging to your health – I went home to find Maureen, Joanne, Benny, Collins,
and Mimi all there together. Mark, it was amazing. It was like last year's
Christmas, minus Mimi nearly dying and all…." He sighed. "I missed you,
though."
Mark gave a cockeyed smile, lowering
his eyes. "Aw, shucks."
"No, I mean it. It wasn't the same,
y'know? I mean, everyone else was there, but it just wasn't home without you,
Mark."
"I'll be home soon, Roger," he
whispered, shrugging as much as his muscles would allow. "Don't be too
downhearted." After a moment of silence, he continued. "Thanks, though…. I really
didn't think you cared that much."
"What? How could you ever think
that? God Mark, you saw me last night – I was a wreck!"
"Yeah, I know… I just didn't believe
it. But, I do now. Thanks."
Roger nodded in response and sighed,
leaning back again.
"So, where's my camera?" Mark asked,
eagerly.
"Oh, it's right here. Collins left
it for you." He picked it up off the floor and handed it to Mark. "Be careful
now… Can you hold it?"
Mark laughed. "Can I hold it? Geez,
Roger, I'm not an invalid." Mark's slender hands grasped the 16mm camera
tightly, shaking a little as he struggled to hold it up. Roger was careful to
hand it to him in such a way that their hands would not brush. He didn't want
Mark to freak out again. Not ever again, if he could help it. Mark flicked it
on and started filming, narrating in his quiet way. "Close on Roger…" Mark
inhaled deeply, setting the camera down, his hands trembling. "Ha! Imagine
that… You were right…"
Roger reached out and took the
camera, filming Mark. "Zoom in on Mark, who pretends to be strong to impress
Roger, but it never works." He smirked from behind the lens. "Here, in the
flesh, I present to you Mark Cohen: the leader of a cult movement of
underground porno videos – homemade, you know! – that feature not only the
controversial filmmaker but his lesbian counterpart, Maureen Johnson, as well!"
Mark laughed, shaking his head.
"Shut up, Roger."
"Ah, the truth comes out! Do you
deny or come out with it?"
"I plead the fifth."
"That's as good as saying, 'I'm
guilty', Mark." Roger smirked, about to turn it off.
"No, no… Keep filming. If I can't do
it, someone's got to."
Roger nodded. "What shall I film,
Mr. Filmmaker?"
Mark looked pensive for a moment and
then smiled gently. "Life."