Author's Notes/Disclaimer: None of the characters are mine, they're all the product of Jon Larson's pure genius! Yes I know Joanne and Mark didn't meet before the break up, but I screwed with the details, oh well.
"Bitter"
Cold, clear air fills my lungs, stinging my already raw throat. For the first time in months, I notice that I'm breathing. Maybe this means I'm finally letting go. It could mean, after spending so much time with Mark, my observational skills are becoming more honed. I sigh softly, letting my eyes drift towards the crescent moon. Maybe it doesn't mean anything at all.
I hate the fall. Too many damn leaves, and the weather just can't settle. The sounds of a night of carousing drift up towards my ears. Is it Halloween already? The neighborhood punks are out smashing pumpkins. Strange. I thought no one in this part of town was good enough to be termed a hoodlum. We're much too poor to have a title. Not even something like 'lowlifes'.
If I lean over the railing, I'll probably spot Mark and Maureen. She managed to drag him out, kicking and screaming of course. There was someone he just had to meet. I think the word 'pookie' is still reverberating off the walls. If you look close enough, her foot left a slight impression on the floor. Leather boots suck that way, and scuff marks are a bitch on wooden floors. Right now the term 'back-stabber' comes to mind. I just didn't have the heart to tell him.
Maureen trusted me for some reason. I've been acting like a vegetable for the past six months. What would I possibly do with her precious secret? Think of it from my perspective: I haven't spoken in months, and I could care less about Maureen and Mark's relationship. The first words out of my mouth are going to be - 'Mark, you need a haircut. Oh, by the way, your girlfriend's gay and she's screwing some lawyer named Joanne on weekends'? Hell no! I may be tactless, but I'm not stupid.
Let Maureen handle her own shit. She knew this, and so she trusted me.
That giddy look on her face is about all I can remember. That and how she said it was a "spiritual experience." She poured out all the details. I heard what every man in the universe dreams of hearing. The truth is, I was too numb to take any of it in. That was a month ago.
Zoom in on the street below. There they are, 'pookie', Maureen, and Joanne the lawyer. I wonder how long it will be before Mark is back up here, crying into the eye-piece of his camera. I give it ten minutes - tops.
***
Brown curls bounce from side to side as Maureen sidles up to Joanne, Mark in tow. Turning to the young filmmaker she plasters a cheesy grin across her face.
"Pookie, this is Joanne," she indicates the stern looking woman with the caramel colored skin, and wraps one arm around her waist. "she's a defense attorney."
A glazed look comes over the young man's face as if an inner monologue has begun. Shaking his head clear he extends a hand to the tightlipped lawyer. She grips it in her own, firmly, noting the slight look of panic in his eyes.
After a few moments of awkward silence, Joanne nudges the other woman softly. Maureen takes no notice and stands there grinning away. "Honeybear--" Joanne prods a bit further, feeling slightly flustered at the look of sheer terror on Mark's face.
Brown leaves skitter nervously along the curb as Maureen lowers her eyes. "Oh. Right." She clears her throat and looks back up at Mark, still clutching tightly to Joanne. "Mark, sweetie, we're through. You just don't see me anymore. To tell the truth, I don't think you ever really did. Joanne helps me express myself. She helps me see my art." She pauses, looking at Mark for some sort of response.
Hurt and scared he begins to back away towards the door. Mark stumbles backwards up the steps, fumbling with words. He tears open the door, still staring at Maureen. "Take your goddamn art and shove it up your ass!" A slam echoes strongly through the street. Mark reappears opening the door wide. He stands, illuminated in the ugly light of the building's entryway, tears streaming from underneath hi glasses. "And make sure you have Joanne help you!"
***
I turn back towards the window after hearing the second slam. Mark's clumsy footsteps are painfully obvious in the silence of the loft. There you have it. Mark couldn't have scripted it any better himself. The narration crackles and pops with incendiary wit. A key scrapes loudly in the lock.
"Roger?"
Here's where I zone out, all too aware of what's about to be said. I climb inconspicuously back through the window just as the key starts on the second lock.
"Roger? Open the damn door!"
Landing on the couch I curl up, pretending to have dozed off. The door creaks open and I stir lightly. Mark walks into the dim light, trying hopelessly to hide his tears. I fake a nice, loud yawn, milking my performance for all it's worth. He stares at me for a minute, eyes searching my face. My face! It's completely scarlet from the cold air. He knows. Of course he won't say anything, but that's Mark.
His coat falls to the floor and I can clearly see he needs someone to talk to. He's managed to rip several buttons off. Mark has that kind of strength? Who knew. He fiddles with the locks for what seems like minutes, the turns dejectedly towards the kitchen. Of course. Now he'll drown himself in tea and go hide behind that camera.
Much to my surprise he yanks the door of the fridge open and pulls out a beer. Does Mark even know what to do with a beer? I wish I could just ignore him, but he is my best friend after all.
Leaning ever so casually over the back of the couch, I clear my throat in his general direction. Not even so much as a sob of acknowledgement. We'll try this again.
"What happened?"
The words sound foreign on my lips. It's an interesting set of first words. Maybe not the best, but what can you do?
The beer promptly drops from his hands, rolling listlessly underneath the counter. I always knew that damn foundation was uneven! There's a general look of astonishment, followed by some groping for words. Finally, he stumbles over and collapses into a chair. Tears start afresh and he hangs his head between his knees. I can barely make out his words through muffled sobs.
"Maureen left me for a lawyer!"
Unconsciously I nod as I turn to face him. "Joanne." Well there's proof of my stupidity. There's not much I can do to take back what I just said, so I shift uncomfortably on the couch. Maybe he won't notice. I'm not making any sense. Mark notices everything.
"Her name's Joanne."
What!? Mark must be really torn up over this. Secretly I'm wishing he'll smash his camera to bits in a fit of rage. I stare incredulously at him, still shocked by his lack of observation.
"Some boyfriend I am. I made my own girlfriend go gay. Maybe it's just a phase. What do you think?"
I stare at him, so empty inside. He always used to come to me for advice, but now I'm hollow. I can't come up with the right words. It's not as if I've been in this type of situation. The great Roger Davis, dumped for another woman? Right. That's the sort of thing that happens to...well, Mark.
"I *don't* think."
He sits there, for several seconds, not even glancing up. Maybe it's the far off look in my eyes that scares him away, but he scrambles up from the chair and into his room, picking up the beer as an after-thought. I collapse onto the couch again, swearing under my breath as the back of my neck fails to make contact with a pillow. Let Mark do what he will. He always bounces back in the end.
My wishful thoughts about the camera's destruction return, complete with a vision of me, tossing metal pieces triumphantly into the trash can. Of course, that would mean going out to celebrate at the Life Cafe... and that means actually leaving the house. The balcony I can handle. No one can see me there. I don't have to interact with real live people. To truly leave the house and be back on the streets...I'm just not ready.
There's so many things I'm not prepared to go through yet. I would feel so foreign and naked down there. I just can't picture myself walking down Avenue B without one arm snaked around April's waist. April. God, it even hurts to think about her. I want to shout at her so badly.
Damn you! Damn you for turning my entire world upside down. Why did you make me fall helplessly in love with you, then leave? You left me alone to pick up the pieces! Everything has fallen so far into the cracks since you died. No. You didn't just die. You fucking killed yourself April! Why? I would have been there for you. We could have gotten through it together. I just don't understand.
Yelling won't bring her back. It won't fix the growing rift between Mark and I. It won't even take away the almost unnoticeable blood stains on the bathroom floor. She was so careful. Just a few drops of blood spilled on those rotting wooden boards. Enough to sting me every time I walk in there. Could she have done it purposely? As if the note wasn't enough pain to put me through.
I still remember that day, so clear it seems each time I think on it, it's happening again. I turn over on the couch, hiding my face in a pillow, trying desperately to block out the memories. It's beginning again, the film in my mind. It looks exactly like one of Mark's films, except in black and white like an old horror movie, and silent. The tears are coming now, searing my eyes, as I begin to shiver on the old, battered couch. I can't stop the film until it has played all the way through. By then I'll be in the bathroom, clutching at the sides of the toilet bowl.
***
A warm, spring wind sweeps through the streets, filling in the pauses between door slams. Laughter spills through the neighborhood, couples and young people strolling about in the sunshine. A young blonde playfully cuffs his friend on the chin, adding his melodic tenor voice to the laughter.
"Don't worry buddy! Everything will go fine. I'm sure she'll love the flowers. Chicks always like that kind of stuff. I know April does."
The view cuts to the stud's nervous looking friend as he adjusts his glasses. One hand clutches a bouquet of daisies, the knuckles almost pure white. His tousled, sandy hair blows freely with the breeze, making him seem all the more at odds.
"I just wish I could have gotten her roses."
They arrive in front of a rundown building, and the blonde starts up the steps, confidence oozing from every pore. He turns to the other man and fights to suppress a bout of laughter. Tossing his leather jacket over one shoulder he begins to pull open the door.
"Mark--"
The nervous looking young man mumbles incoherently for several seconds. It becomes obvious he is talking to himself. The blonde reaches out both hands and shakes Mark by the shoulders.
"Mark, you're choking the flowers! Maureen is not going to appreciate a bouquet of stems."
Mark loosens his grip on the daisies and lets both arms drop the his sides. He pushes past his companion and stops in front of the steps turning with a smile.
"Thanks Roger. For everything."
He continues up several flights of stairs, followed closely by Roger. The source of Roger's toned muscles is apparent as he effortlessly glides up the many steps. Finally arriving in front of a faded, slightly battered door, Mark fits a key into two locks and pushes into the loft. It would appear no one else is home, but for the grocery bags lined along a kitchen counter. No sound can be heard throughout the small apartment, save that of a ceaseless drip in the stainless steel sink.
"April must have just gotten home. I'll go check in the bedroom."
A sly grin spreading across his handsome face, Roger hurries down a short hallway. He disappears behind a door, leaving Mark alone. The young filmmaker stuffs the wilting flowers into the fridge, then addresses the empty room.
"I think I need to vomit."
He turns to a door on the left, musing curiously at the fact it is closed. He sounds three, soft knocks, then decides to attempt verbal communication.
"April?"
After several seconds of silence he tries the handle. Finding it unlocked he pushes the door open. Almost immediately he slams it shut again, teetering backwards into the living room. His lungs constrict, panic causing him to turn white pale. Mark races down the hallway, shoving open the bedroom door with a strange force. Sharp pains begin to eat at his heart and his knees start to go weak.
"A-A-April..."
The name hangs in the air, just barely audible, uttered in a gasp of breath. Roger turns towards the door, a look of curious amusement on his face. Seeing the state of his friend he shoves his way into the hallway, terror fighting its way into his fearless existence. Mark follows close behind, pointing a bone thin finger at the offending door. Unable to walk further he succeeds in collapsing by the phone. Shaking hands pick up the receiver and begin to dial three numbers as Roger slowly turns the handle on the bathroom door.
***
I manage to crawl off the couch and begin making my way to the bathroom. It's been so long since I've gone through this. The images reel about in my head as I slide into the tiny room. My head disappears into the toilet bowl as the film plays on.
***
Red. Everywhere red. The once pure white porcelain bathtub is coated in thick red liquid. Rivers of the substance spill slowly down towards the drain. Roger stares wide eyed at the sight, moving towards the red tub. He climbs in, slipping slightly in the warm, sticky pool.
Blood. Coating her soft skin. The blood around her wrists hasn't even begun to dry. He clutches her small frame in his strong arms, tears spilling into her hair. The sweet smell of her perfume nearly causes him to choke. Roger rocks back and forth on his heels, holding her tightly, whispering into her hair.
"Don't die baby. Please don't die."
He chants the words over and over, clutching April's limp body. Mark appears in the doorway, immediately repulsed by the sight of his friend holding the girl like a rag-doll. Hot tears begin to scald his own cheeks as he notices the bathroom mirror. Loopy cursive covers the reflective surface, spelling out a haunting message in red lipstick. Ruby wine. The color that so often got smeared across Roger's grinning lips. He clutched at the sink for support, his voice barely audible through Roger's sobs.
"Roger-- We've got AIDS. I'm sorry. --April"
Ambulance wails invaded the air and heavy footfalls could be heard heading up the steps. Mark made his way over to the door, pulling it open for the team of paramedics. It took them ten minutes to wrestle her body away from Roger, and when they did he continued to rock back and forth on his heels. His clothes were smeared with blood, as were his hands. Mark stood frozen in the living room, rattling off information to the medics. When they finally exited the loft, a white sheeted frame strapped to the stretcher, Mark pulled Roger out of the tub.
He paused for just a moment to look into the mirror, and read the words printed there.
***
"We've got AIDS."
I choke out the words as my head returns from the void of the toilet. I can't possibly blame her. I love her too much for that. The funeral was small and brief. Mark and I didn't go. I couldn't bring myself to see her in a box. Mark knew if he left me alone I would attempt to join her.
My eyes fall to the wooden floorboards. Several tiny, dark stains lie hidden in the shadow of the bathtub's overhanging lip. I stroke them, almost lovingly, not able to chance a look at the mirror. The sounds of a whistling teakettle break through my reverie. Like clockwork. Mark hears me flush the toilet and he puts on the tea. It's been this way for months. We won't even say a word, we'll just sit in the silence, staring at our broken television set, sipping tea. I attempt to stand, but can't manage it so I just sit with my back against the bathtub. I've always hated this room. Even before...
The phone rings. We screen. I hear Mark curse loudly, and I know he's praying that it's not his mother. The answering machine blares our familiar, sunny little message.
"Speak!"
There goes Mark, stooping over the little machine, and it's now that I realize he's really hoping it's Maureen. She won't come back this time. This time is different. But I don't have to tell him that. Deep down in that observant shell, he knows.
"Happy Halloween boys! Planning something big! I know you're home so pick up the phone."
Mark picks up the plastic receiver, and I zone out again, knowing the conversation will mainly revolve around me. The bathroom walls are paper thin, and the door is open, but I don't hear a word of their little interlude.
***
"Bitter"
Cold, clear air fills my lungs, stinging my already raw throat. For the first time in months, I notice that I'm breathing. Maybe this means I'm finally letting go. It could mean, after spending so much time with Mark, my observational skills are becoming more honed. I sigh softly, letting my eyes drift towards the crescent moon. Maybe it doesn't mean anything at all.
I hate the fall. Too many damn leaves, and the weather just can't settle. The sounds of a night of carousing drift up towards my ears. Is it Halloween already? The neighborhood punks are out smashing pumpkins. Strange. I thought no one in this part of town was good enough to be termed a hoodlum. We're much too poor to have a title. Not even something like 'lowlifes'.
If I lean over the railing, I'll probably spot Mark and Maureen. She managed to drag him out, kicking and screaming of course. There was someone he just had to meet. I think the word 'pookie' is still reverberating off the walls. If you look close enough, her foot left a slight impression on the floor. Leather boots suck that way, and scuff marks are a bitch on wooden floors. Right now the term 'back-stabber' comes to mind. I just didn't have the heart to tell him.
Maureen trusted me for some reason. I've been acting like a vegetable for the past six months. What would I possibly do with her precious secret? Think of it from my perspective: I haven't spoken in months, and I could care less about Maureen and Mark's relationship. The first words out of my mouth are going to be - 'Mark, you need a haircut. Oh, by the way, your girlfriend's gay and she's screwing some lawyer named Joanne on weekends'? Hell no! I may be tactless, but I'm not stupid.
Let Maureen handle her own shit. She knew this, and so she trusted me.
That giddy look on her face is about all I can remember. That and how she said it was a "spiritual experience." She poured out all the details. I heard what every man in the universe dreams of hearing. The truth is, I was too numb to take any of it in. That was a month ago.
Zoom in on the street below. There they are, 'pookie', Maureen, and Joanne the lawyer. I wonder how long it will be before Mark is back up here, crying into the eye-piece of his camera. I give it ten minutes - tops.
***
Brown curls bounce from side to side as Maureen sidles up to Joanne, Mark in tow. Turning to the young filmmaker she plasters a cheesy grin across her face.
"Pookie, this is Joanne," she indicates the stern looking woman with the caramel colored skin, and wraps one arm around her waist. "she's a defense attorney."
A glazed look comes over the young man's face as if an inner monologue has begun. Shaking his head clear he extends a hand to the tightlipped lawyer. She grips it in her own, firmly, noting the slight look of panic in his eyes.
After a few moments of awkward silence, Joanne nudges the other woman softly. Maureen takes no notice and stands there grinning away. "Honeybear--" Joanne prods a bit further, feeling slightly flustered at the look of sheer terror on Mark's face.
Brown leaves skitter nervously along the curb as Maureen lowers her eyes. "Oh. Right." She clears her throat and looks back up at Mark, still clutching tightly to Joanne. "Mark, sweetie, we're through. You just don't see me anymore. To tell the truth, I don't think you ever really did. Joanne helps me express myself. She helps me see my art." She pauses, looking at Mark for some sort of response.
Hurt and scared he begins to back away towards the door. Mark stumbles backwards up the steps, fumbling with words. He tears open the door, still staring at Maureen. "Take your goddamn art and shove it up your ass!" A slam echoes strongly through the street. Mark reappears opening the door wide. He stands, illuminated in the ugly light of the building's entryway, tears streaming from underneath hi glasses. "And make sure you have Joanne help you!"
***
I turn back towards the window after hearing the second slam. Mark's clumsy footsteps are painfully obvious in the silence of the loft. There you have it. Mark couldn't have scripted it any better himself. The narration crackles and pops with incendiary wit. A key scrapes loudly in the lock.
"Roger?"
Here's where I zone out, all too aware of what's about to be said. I climb inconspicuously back through the window just as the key starts on the second lock.
"Roger? Open the damn door!"
Landing on the couch I curl up, pretending to have dozed off. The door creaks open and I stir lightly. Mark walks into the dim light, trying hopelessly to hide his tears. I fake a nice, loud yawn, milking my performance for all it's worth. He stares at me for a minute, eyes searching my face. My face! It's completely scarlet from the cold air. He knows. Of course he won't say anything, but that's Mark.
His coat falls to the floor and I can clearly see he needs someone to talk to. He's managed to rip several buttons off. Mark has that kind of strength? Who knew. He fiddles with the locks for what seems like minutes, the turns dejectedly towards the kitchen. Of course. Now he'll drown himself in tea and go hide behind that camera.
Much to my surprise he yanks the door of the fridge open and pulls out a beer. Does Mark even know what to do with a beer? I wish I could just ignore him, but he is my best friend after all.
Leaning ever so casually over the back of the couch, I clear my throat in his general direction. Not even so much as a sob of acknowledgement. We'll try this again.
"What happened?"
The words sound foreign on my lips. It's an interesting set of first words. Maybe not the best, but what can you do?
The beer promptly drops from his hands, rolling listlessly underneath the counter. I always knew that damn foundation was uneven! There's a general look of astonishment, followed by some groping for words. Finally, he stumbles over and collapses into a chair. Tears start afresh and he hangs his head between his knees. I can barely make out his words through muffled sobs.
"Maureen left me for a lawyer!"
Unconsciously I nod as I turn to face him. "Joanne." Well there's proof of my stupidity. There's not much I can do to take back what I just said, so I shift uncomfortably on the couch. Maybe he won't notice. I'm not making any sense. Mark notices everything.
"Her name's Joanne."
What!? Mark must be really torn up over this. Secretly I'm wishing he'll smash his camera to bits in a fit of rage. I stare incredulously at him, still shocked by his lack of observation.
"Some boyfriend I am. I made my own girlfriend go gay. Maybe it's just a phase. What do you think?"
I stare at him, so empty inside. He always used to come to me for advice, but now I'm hollow. I can't come up with the right words. It's not as if I've been in this type of situation. The great Roger Davis, dumped for another woman? Right. That's the sort of thing that happens to...well, Mark.
"I *don't* think."
He sits there, for several seconds, not even glancing up. Maybe it's the far off look in my eyes that scares him away, but he scrambles up from the chair and into his room, picking up the beer as an after-thought. I collapse onto the couch again, swearing under my breath as the back of my neck fails to make contact with a pillow. Let Mark do what he will. He always bounces back in the end.
My wishful thoughts about the camera's destruction return, complete with a vision of me, tossing metal pieces triumphantly into the trash can. Of course, that would mean going out to celebrate at the Life Cafe... and that means actually leaving the house. The balcony I can handle. No one can see me there. I don't have to interact with real live people. To truly leave the house and be back on the streets...I'm just not ready.
There's so many things I'm not prepared to go through yet. I would feel so foreign and naked down there. I just can't picture myself walking down Avenue B without one arm snaked around April's waist. April. God, it even hurts to think about her. I want to shout at her so badly.
Damn you! Damn you for turning my entire world upside down. Why did you make me fall helplessly in love with you, then leave? You left me alone to pick up the pieces! Everything has fallen so far into the cracks since you died. No. You didn't just die. You fucking killed yourself April! Why? I would have been there for you. We could have gotten through it together. I just don't understand.
Yelling won't bring her back. It won't fix the growing rift between Mark and I. It won't even take away the almost unnoticeable blood stains on the bathroom floor. She was so careful. Just a few drops of blood spilled on those rotting wooden boards. Enough to sting me every time I walk in there. Could she have done it purposely? As if the note wasn't enough pain to put me through.
I still remember that day, so clear it seems each time I think on it, it's happening again. I turn over on the couch, hiding my face in a pillow, trying desperately to block out the memories. It's beginning again, the film in my mind. It looks exactly like one of Mark's films, except in black and white like an old horror movie, and silent. The tears are coming now, searing my eyes, as I begin to shiver on the old, battered couch. I can't stop the film until it has played all the way through. By then I'll be in the bathroom, clutching at the sides of the toilet bowl.
***
A warm, spring wind sweeps through the streets, filling in the pauses between door slams. Laughter spills through the neighborhood, couples and young people strolling about in the sunshine. A young blonde playfully cuffs his friend on the chin, adding his melodic tenor voice to the laughter.
"Don't worry buddy! Everything will go fine. I'm sure she'll love the flowers. Chicks always like that kind of stuff. I know April does."
The view cuts to the stud's nervous looking friend as he adjusts his glasses. One hand clutches a bouquet of daisies, the knuckles almost pure white. His tousled, sandy hair blows freely with the breeze, making him seem all the more at odds.
"I just wish I could have gotten her roses."
They arrive in front of a rundown building, and the blonde starts up the steps, confidence oozing from every pore. He turns to the other man and fights to suppress a bout of laughter. Tossing his leather jacket over one shoulder he begins to pull open the door.
"Mark--"
The nervous looking young man mumbles incoherently for several seconds. It becomes obvious he is talking to himself. The blonde reaches out both hands and shakes Mark by the shoulders.
"Mark, you're choking the flowers! Maureen is not going to appreciate a bouquet of stems."
Mark loosens his grip on the daisies and lets both arms drop the his sides. He pushes past his companion and stops in front of the steps turning with a smile.
"Thanks Roger. For everything."
He continues up several flights of stairs, followed closely by Roger. The source of Roger's toned muscles is apparent as he effortlessly glides up the many steps. Finally arriving in front of a faded, slightly battered door, Mark fits a key into two locks and pushes into the loft. It would appear no one else is home, but for the grocery bags lined along a kitchen counter. No sound can be heard throughout the small apartment, save that of a ceaseless drip in the stainless steel sink.
"April must have just gotten home. I'll go check in the bedroom."
A sly grin spreading across his handsome face, Roger hurries down a short hallway. He disappears behind a door, leaving Mark alone. The young filmmaker stuffs the wilting flowers into the fridge, then addresses the empty room.
"I think I need to vomit."
He turns to a door on the left, musing curiously at the fact it is closed. He sounds three, soft knocks, then decides to attempt verbal communication.
"April?"
After several seconds of silence he tries the handle. Finding it unlocked he pushes the door open. Almost immediately he slams it shut again, teetering backwards into the living room. His lungs constrict, panic causing him to turn white pale. Mark races down the hallway, shoving open the bedroom door with a strange force. Sharp pains begin to eat at his heart and his knees start to go weak.
"A-A-April..."
The name hangs in the air, just barely audible, uttered in a gasp of breath. Roger turns towards the door, a look of curious amusement on his face. Seeing the state of his friend he shoves his way into the hallway, terror fighting its way into his fearless existence. Mark follows close behind, pointing a bone thin finger at the offending door. Unable to walk further he succeeds in collapsing by the phone. Shaking hands pick up the receiver and begin to dial three numbers as Roger slowly turns the handle on the bathroom door.
***
I manage to crawl off the couch and begin making my way to the bathroom. It's been so long since I've gone through this. The images reel about in my head as I slide into the tiny room. My head disappears into the toilet bowl as the film plays on.
***
Red. Everywhere red. The once pure white porcelain bathtub is coated in thick red liquid. Rivers of the substance spill slowly down towards the drain. Roger stares wide eyed at the sight, moving towards the red tub. He climbs in, slipping slightly in the warm, sticky pool.
Blood. Coating her soft skin. The blood around her wrists hasn't even begun to dry. He clutches her small frame in his strong arms, tears spilling into her hair. The sweet smell of her perfume nearly causes him to choke. Roger rocks back and forth on his heels, holding her tightly, whispering into her hair.
"Don't die baby. Please don't die."
He chants the words over and over, clutching April's limp body. Mark appears in the doorway, immediately repulsed by the sight of his friend holding the girl like a rag-doll. Hot tears begin to scald his own cheeks as he notices the bathroom mirror. Loopy cursive covers the reflective surface, spelling out a haunting message in red lipstick. Ruby wine. The color that so often got smeared across Roger's grinning lips. He clutched at the sink for support, his voice barely audible through Roger's sobs.
"Roger-- We've got AIDS. I'm sorry. --April"
Ambulance wails invaded the air and heavy footfalls could be heard heading up the steps. Mark made his way over to the door, pulling it open for the team of paramedics. It took them ten minutes to wrestle her body away from Roger, and when they did he continued to rock back and forth on his heels. His clothes were smeared with blood, as were his hands. Mark stood frozen in the living room, rattling off information to the medics. When they finally exited the loft, a white sheeted frame strapped to the stretcher, Mark pulled Roger out of the tub.
He paused for just a moment to look into the mirror, and read the words printed there.
***
"We've got AIDS."
I choke out the words as my head returns from the void of the toilet. I can't possibly blame her. I love her too much for that. The funeral was small and brief. Mark and I didn't go. I couldn't bring myself to see her in a box. Mark knew if he left me alone I would attempt to join her.
My eyes fall to the wooden floorboards. Several tiny, dark stains lie hidden in the shadow of the bathtub's overhanging lip. I stroke them, almost lovingly, not able to chance a look at the mirror. The sounds of a whistling teakettle break through my reverie. Like clockwork. Mark hears me flush the toilet and he puts on the tea. It's been this way for months. We won't even say a word, we'll just sit in the silence, staring at our broken television set, sipping tea. I attempt to stand, but can't manage it so I just sit with my back against the bathtub. I've always hated this room. Even before...
The phone rings. We screen. I hear Mark curse loudly, and I know he's praying that it's not his mother. The answering machine blares our familiar, sunny little message.
"Speak!"
There goes Mark, stooping over the little machine, and it's now that I realize he's really hoping it's Maureen. She won't come back this time. This time is different. But I don't have to tell him that. Deep down in that observant shell, he knows.
"Happy Halloween boys! Planning something big! I know you're home so pick up the phone."
Mark picks up the plastic receiver, and I zone out again, knowing the conversation will mainly revolve around me. The bathroom walls are paper thin, and the door is open, but I don't hear a word of their little interlude.
***