Disclaimer: Not my characters. Don't I wish. *imagines having Mark & Roger all to herself -- mmm, happy thought!*
Oh yeah. Story. Here it is.))
Anything But Lonely
Chapter Three: The Time It Takes To Fall
Time seemed to fly with Collins gone. Almost a month passed and I barely noticed. I saw a lot less of Joanne and Maureen, since they decided to get a civil union in Vermont. They left for a week at the beginning of December, and after their return the couple was decidedly less social than before. Not that it really mattered, considering Roger and I never went out with them anyway. He was still sitting on the sofa, ignoring me. I was still taking care of him.
Christmas Eve came and went, leading to an equally uneventful Christmas morning and afternoon. I found myself once again staring at Roger, who himself was intently focused on the carpet. The irony of the moment hit me and I held back a laugh. Mark's alone, Roger's depressed, and everyone else is gone -- things are back the way they always were. We're fools, I thought cynically, doomed to repeat ourselves interminably.
Suddenly Roger stirred. That was unusual. I watched curiously as he reached for the pocket knife lying on the floor, where it had fallen through a hole in my coat last night. Nothing registered in my brain. "What are you--" I began blankly. Then Roger flipped it open and lifted the knife toward his wrist. "What the fuck, Roger?" I screamed, finally catching on to his intentions.
The silver blade sliced through the air in what seemed like slow-motion, drawing dangerously closer to his flesh. I leapt at the songwriter like a mad man. No, he was the mad man, I was entirely sane. Why was he doing this? I threw myself on top of him, forcing his arms out and away from his body. He toppled backward but maintained his grip on the knife. For a minute or two we wrestled. In the scuffle the knife scraped against my arm but I didn't stop to check for blood. Finally I pinned Roger down. (I may be small, but when I have the will to do something -- watch out!) We glared at each other, our chests heaving as we both gasped for breath. "What the hell are you thinking?" I asked. "Get a grip on yourself. Don't be stupid."
Roger's eyes grew cold and he easily tossed me off of him. Damn it, even with my will, my strength was no match for his. "Leave me alone, Mark!" he shouted, his facial features distorted by rage. Not quite what I hoped his first words to me would be. I lay on the floor beneath him, trembling, partly from anger and partly from fear. "Don''t you understand? You're not my fucking mother!" He stormed over to the table and sat cross-legged on top of it. His arms shook as he reached for his guitar.
Carefully I pushed myself up off the floor. Warm blood trickled down my forearm but my thoughts were too scattered to realize I should clean up the wound. All I could think about was my musician and reaching out to him. "Roger --" I began shakily. "For somebody who thinks he only needs himself, who's dying without my help?"
I had intended to sound caring and helpful, but I should have known from experience that a comment like that would only upset him more. "Oh, you want to play that game?" Roger spat back. "I can play just as well as you. For someone who wants to connect with his friends, who's on the outside looking in through a lens? Or, how about this: For someone who analyzes the past, who always sees his own mistakes last?'
That hurt more than the gash on my arm. "What's that supposed to mean?" I asked. He didn't answer. I felt my eyes sting with hot tears. I won't let him get to me, I thought. Then the tears began flowing freely. So much for that plan. "Why do you do this?" I asked, choking on my words. "Why do you alienate yourself from me? All I ever do is try to help you. Can't you see that? I'm trying to be your best friend and you won't let me! You're all I've got anymore, Roge. You're all I care about."
"That's bullshit," he replied. "All you care about is your damn movie. You couldn't connect with me even if you tried, because that camera's always in the way. That stupid, cheap, falling apart, 16 millimeter, God-damned camera!" He swung his arm out violently, striking the tripod next to the table.
Involuntarily I reacted with a desperate wail as I watched my precious camera crash to the ground, broken pieces scattering everywhere. I stifled a sob and turned back to Roger. He was looking at me with wide eyes, his expression rendering shock, terror, and rage all at once.
My face took on a cold, stony demeanor. "How dare you?" I growled. "I hate you. I never want to see you again!"
"Well that's just fine, cuz I don't need you," he said, his volume rising. "I don't need you!"
"Fuck you, Roger! You think you don't need me? You depend on me for everything! You wouldn't even be alive if it werenÕt for me!"
"Maybe IÕd be better off that way!" I heard a tone of despair as he spoke; the momentary glint of sadness in his eyes practically cried out for help, tearing at my heart. I wanted to hold his body close to mine and let him sob into my chest, longed to assure him that I would always be there for him and we would get through this together.
But as quickly as it had appeared, the moment was gone again. "Then I'd get away from you!" Roger yelled, and the only emotion I could sense was hatred.
"Fine!" I retorted. "I'll leave. For all I care, you can shrivel up and die alone."
"Yeah, alone -- a concept you should know well by now!"
That was it. Through tears I managed to stumble to the door and escape. I slammed it shut and raced down the stairs, into the freezing night. I kept running, running and getting nowhere, running until I thought my lungs would burst. Better them than my heart.