This is Part II of "Bitter" written in Mark's perspective. I've decided to make this into a series, each part from a different character's point of view. I'm writing as fast as I can, trying to improve on everything. In order to make my writing better...I need your reviews! Send 'em to me at Drama_Kitten_NY@yahoo.com
"Burnt By the Wind"
"Collins! This is sort of a bad time."
I cradle the phone between my shoulder and ear juggling two tea mugs at the same time. I hate trying to get rid of him, it's not often that he calls, but Roger needs me. He needs a shoulder to cry on. God, holding this phone is really uncomfortable. I can vaguely hear some sort of commotion in the background. Collins surrounded by trouble, usually caused by him. It brings back memories. I stand there, slightly mesmerized by what he's saying. Moaning and whimpering noises drift over the static from the vicinity of the bathroom. I hope he's alright in there.
"Wait...what!? You're downstairs? I thought...okay, right. Give me a second to find it."
I dig around in a tiny drawer and eventually pull out the slightly rusted old key. Stretching the phone cord to its limits I lean over the balcony and let the key drop. I can vaguely make out a familiar skull cap and a coy smile through the dim light of the street lamp. Collins is back, for one reason or another, but why for only one night?
Just as I'm about to check on Roger the door bursts open and I find myself immobile. He must be in a good mood. Usually Collins only bruises my muscles. My throat begins to constrict and I make an attempt to wriggle out of the tight bear hug.
"Collins! Choking!"
And suddenly there was oxygen! He ruffles my hair and I duck away, pale as death. It's not going to be easy retelling the terrible tale of Maureen and her lawyer. We sit on the battered couch and talk for a good half hour before a distinct sound of pain comes from the bathroom. I'm on my feet in a second, hurrying to Roger's side. Oh god...
***
Mark stood in the doorway, dim light illuminating his lanky figure. He placed both hands over his mouth and watched in silent horror as a razor blade clattered across the tile. Roger collapsed back against the porcelain tub, sobbing soundlessly into his arms. It wasn't the first time, but he had promised the filmmaker it would never happen again. He wasn't very good at keeping promises.
"You fucking make me sick! You promised me last time was really the last time! Why!? Why do you insist on hurting me Roger? Go ahead! Give the knife in my back just one more twist!"
Mark stalked away without another word, pushing past an alarmed Collins and into his room. The door slam echoed for several minutes before the tall teacher peeked curiously into the bathroom. He wasn't at all alarmed by what he saw. In one swift move the razor blade was lying at the bottom of a garbage can, and Roger was on his feet again, supported by strong arms.
"You're going to give him a heart attack one day."
***
So here I am, abused by Roger once more. I collapse exhaustedly onto my tiny bed and sigh. I know he doesn't mean to hurt me, but it's been months. You would think he'd be out of that initial grieving stage by now. Not Roger. He's got a major grudge against God and me. If I hadn't kept him those extra ten minutes at the florist...
But the past is in the past. You can't fight fate, and much as I hate to even think it, maybe she needed to go. April was beginning to wear a bit thin. It wasn't just the drugs. Roger was beginning to act jealous, and she had been confiding in me more often. She was trying desperately to quit, but dating someone who wanted the opposite wasn't helping her in the least.
I remember a few days before she died, we had a long conversation. I had just gotten up to make breakfast and there she was, cereal already poured and milk set on the table. She was always beautiful. I don't think Roger told her that often enough. I sat down across from her and sifted my spoon aimlessly through the Captain Crunch.
"April..."
***
"...I never pegged you for a morning girl."
The mere shadow of a girl blinked at the thin filmmaker. The makeup under her eyes did little to hide dark circles, and even less for the angry red wounds on her arms. She chewed thoughtfully on a spoonful of processed sugar before replying.
"You and me both. I couldn't sleep. The shaking was too violent. I was so frightened Roger would wake up and find out." She sullenly ladled out another heap of cereal and watched milk drip back into the bowl. "I thought maybe if I kept my hands occupied..." She gestured to the wide expanse of shining rooms.
Mark grimaced in worry. April never cleaned, and she hardly ever ate. She detested Captain Crunch, though if Roger found that out he would be crestfallen. He reached across the table and forced her chin up. Staring her in the eyes he frowned.
"Are you okay?"
After moments of intense quiet, a single tear rolled down her cheek. Mark gently wiped it away and smiled softly. Ever so slowly, April opened her mouth to speak.
"No. But I will be."
***
Maybe I should have paid attention to those words. They could have been some sort of warning. Did she even know then that she would kill herself in two days? I lay back against my pillow, head swimming with unanswerable questions. What if we had gotten home ten minutes sooner?
I've had plenty of time to consider suicide since that day. Some people are just crying out for help. April was the kind of person who would ask for help straight out. I believe she sincerely wanted to die. What I don't understand is why she wanted to get clean if she was planning on killing herself anyway. Maybe when she found out about the AIDS it just grew to be too much. We'll never even know.
Those words still echo in my mind, her telling me that she was going to be alright. If only Roger could have heard that. It might ease his pain somewhat. How can I possibly be so upset with him after all he's gone through? Why I am such a moron? I yelled at my best friend when I should have helped him. I'm worthless.
Then again, if he knows how much it hurts me to see him like this, why does he do it? Why does he purposely force me out of his life? Why am I the one who's all alone? I sigh and roll off the mattress, feeling the need for some sort of closure. Hopefully Collins won't have to play "go-between". Hopefully Roger will speak to me. I wouldn't blame him if he didn't. After what I said...
I shake my head at the rash, tactless, quality of those words. How could Roger ever make me sick? I wish I were more like him; strong, handsome, talented. All I have is my camera. I can't even capture what I set out to film. Why am I such a failure? Maybe I should be the one holding the razor blade.
***
Mark carefully inched his way out to the living room, eying a somewhat disgruntled looking Collins. He played with the bottom of his sweater, tugging gently at the coarse material. The scholar smiled consolingly at his friend, patting an empty spot on the couch.
"Is he--"
Collins cut him off with a finger to his lips, pointing in the direction of Roger's room. Mark cringed visibly, once again mentally berating himself for ruining Roger's life. It was an ongoing cycle, a vicious circle, this friendship of theirs'. Roger would do something to stir Mark's repressed anger. Mark would lash out, Roger would yell. Mark would run away, Roger would sleep. Mark would cringe, or cry, or bang his head against a wall for "ruining" the friendship. Roger would brood, Mark would apologize, all would be well.
How could all be well when Roger never apologized? He left everything on Mark's shoulders. The filmmaker was always the one to concede, to give in, to sumbit to Roger's demands. It wasn't fair. Why did Mark insist on doing this to himself? *Because I'm the one who's always wrong. Roger just needs his space...* *Roger needs, Roger wants, Roger takes. He always gets what he wants. What about you?*
What about Mark?
He shook his head softly and ambled towards the kitchen, dragging his feet along the cold, wooden, boards. Selective hearing was a good thing. He didn't have to listen to the disgusted sigh coming from Collins. Didn't have to hear the wail of police cars down on the street. For once, he didn't even hear the soft crying drifting in from Roger's room. He could never escape the voice inside his head though. The voice that knew everything about him. Knew how he was a failure as a friend and as a filmmaker. This voice knew his secret desires and needs. It drove him crazy, always taunting and teasing. *What about Mark? Why can't Mark ever have what he wants? Why is Mark never good enough?*
With a loud crash, the tea mug dropped from his hands, porcelain pieces scattering across the floor as hands covered ears. Footsteps quickly came towards him, causing a gut reaction. Backed up against the counter, shoulders hunched down, tears beginning to sting at the corners of his eyes. Arm around the shoulders...Collins...leading him to the couch...telling him everything would be okay. He was shaking, shaking like the leaves that rattled when Maureen echoed that awful voice.
*You weren't good enough for me Marky. You were a failure as a boyfriend. Now you're a failure as a friend too...*
He sobbed outright, letting the scholar rub his back, shove tissues into his hands, croon words of comfort in that warm baritone voice. Collins was always comforting, always fixing things, always talking sense. He was the only one who talked sense. He managed to drag Mark back into his room, cover him up with the comforter, turn out the lights.
Mark wouldn't sleep, couldn't sleep with the voice. *Failure...not good enough...weak...* He listened to the words attentively, curious, wanting to drive them away, but at the same time...believing they were true.
Collins cast one more look on the shaking Mark, then walked back towards the kitchen, beginning to clean up the broken mug. Fixing things...as usual.
***
After staring numbly at the ceiling for what seems like hours, I manage to drift into a light sleep, but that doesn't stop the thoughts. Sleep...something I can't even define. I know too little about it...too little of it. How can I sleep when my thoughts plague me so much? I really am a failure. I failed Roger. It was my fault that we didn't get home earlier. Why haven't I felt guilty until now? God, my life is such a sham. I pretend...I always pretend to be something I'm not. I feign strength and supportiveness. I act as if I'm productive and alive. I haven't been alive in so long...
*You're so weak Mark...so very weak...and selfish...alone...*
What if I did kill myself? Who would care? I'm sure Roger would hardly even notice. Collins would clean up after me. Maureen would probably be overjoyed. Benny...I haven't seen Benny in two months. I can picture it now. He'd be sitting there, reading some yuppie newspaper, and happen across my obituary. He'd flip to the next page and continue sipping his coffee. Apathetic. That's how I imagine Benny's reaction. Even if I did kill myself, no one would worry about it. They all have their own lives, seperate agendas, I wouldn't want to interrupt them with funeral preparations. I guess I'll just have to sit here, with the thoughts, playing my role in this twisted game.
"Burnt By the Wind"
"Collins! This is sort of a bad time."
I cradle the phone between my shoulder and ear juggling two tea mugs at the same time. I hate trying to get rid of him, it's not often that he calls, but Roger needs me. He needs a shoulder to cry on. God, holding this phone is really uncomfortable. I can vaguely hear some sort of commotion in the background. Collins surrounded by trouble, usually caused by him. It brings back memories. I stand there, slightly mesmerized by what he's saying. Moaning and whimpering noises drift over the static from the vicinity of the bathroom. I hope he's alright in there.
"Wait...what!? You're downstairs? I thought...okay, right. Give me a second to find it."
I dig around in a tiny drawer and eventually pull out the slightly rusted old key. Stretching the phone cord to its limits I lean over the balcony and let the key drop. I can vaguely make out a familiar skull cap and a coy smile through the dim light of the street lamp. Collins is back, for one reason or another, but why for only one night?
Just as I'm about to check on Roger the door bursts open and I find myself immobile. He must be in a good mood. Usually Collins only bruises my muscles. My throat begins to constrict and I make an attempt to wriggle out of the tight bear hug.
"Collins! Choking!"
And suddenly there was oxygen! He ruffles my hair and I duck away, pale as death. It's not going to be easy retelling the terrible tale of Maureen and her lawyer. We sit on the battered couch and talk for a good half hour before a distinct sound of pain comes from the bathroom. I'm on my feet in a second, hurrying to Roger's side. Oh god...
***
Mark stood in the doorway, dim light illuminating his lanky figure. He placed both hands over his mouth and watched in silent horror as a razor blade clattered across the tile. Roger collapsed back against the porcelain tub, sobbing soundlessly into his arms. It wasn't the first time, but he had promised the filmmaker it would never happen again. He wasn't very good at keeping promises.
"You fucking make me sick! You promised me last time was really the last time! Why!? Why do you insist on hurting me Roger? Go ahead! Give the knife in my back just one more twist!"
Mark stalked away without another word, pushing past an alarmed Collins and into his room. The door slam echoed for several minutes before the tall teacher peeked curiously into the bathroom. He wasn't at all alarmed by what he saw. In one swift move the razor blade was lying at the bottom of a garbage can, and Roger was on his feet again, supported by strong arms.
"You're going to give him a heart attack one day."
***
So here I am, abused by Roger once more. I collapse exhaustedly onto my tiny bed and sigh. I know he doesn't mean to hurt me, but it's been months. You would think he'd be out of that initial grieving stage by now. Not Roger. He's got a major grudge against God and me. If I hadn't kept him those extra ten minutes at the florist...
But the past is in the past. You can't fight fate, and much as I hate to even think it, maybe she needed to go. April was beginning to wear a bit thin. It wasn't just the drugs. Roger was beginning to act jealous, and she had been confiding in me more often. She was trying desperately to quit, but dating someone who wanted the opposite wasn't helping her in the least.
I remember a few days before she died, we had a long conversation. I had just gotten up to make breakfast and there she was, cereal already poured and milk set on the table. She was always beautiful. I don't think Roger told her that often enough. I sat down across from her and sifted my spoon aimlessly through the Captain Crunch.
"April..."
***
"...I never pegged you for a morning girl."
The mere shadow of a girl blinked at the thin filmmaker. The makeup under her eyes did little to hide dark circles, and even less for the angry red wounds on her arms. She chewed thoughtfully on a spoonful of processed sugar before replying.
"You and me both. I couldn't sleep. The shaking was too violent. I was so frightened Roger would wake up and find out." She sullenly ladled out another heap of cereal and watched milk drip back into the bowl. "I thought maybe if I kept my hands occupied..." She gestured to the wide expanse of shining rooms.
Mark grimaced in worry. April never cleaned, and she hardly ever ate. She detested Captain Crunch, though if Roger found that out he would be crestfallen. He reached across the table and forced her chin up. Staring her in the eyes he frowned.
"Are you okay?"
After moments of intense quiet, a single tear rolled down her cheek. Mark gently wiped it away and smiled softly. Ever so slowly, April opened her mouth to speak.
"No. But I will be."
***
Maybe I should have paid attention to those words. They could have been some sort of warning. Did she even know then that she would kill herself in two days? I lay back against my pillow, head swimming with unanswerable questions. What if we had gotten home ten minutes sooner?
I've had plenty of time to consider suicide since that day. Some people are just crying out for help. April was the kind of person who would ask for help straight out. I believe she sincerely wanted to die. What I don't understand is why she wanted to get clean if she was planning on killing herself anyway. Maybe when she found out about the AIDS it just grew to be too much. We'll never even know.
Those words still echo in my mind, her telling me that she was going to be alright. If only Roger could have heard that. It might ease his pain somewhat. How can I possibly be so upset with him after all he's gone through? Why I am such a moron? I yelled at my best friend when I should have helped him. I'm worthless.
Then again, if he knows how much it hurts me to see him like this, why does he do it? Why does he purposely force me out of his life? Why am I the one who's all alone? I sigh and roll off the mattress, feeling the need for some sort of closure. Hopefully Collins won't have to play "go-between". Hopefully Roger will speak to me. I wouldn't blame him if he didn't. After what I said...
I shake my head at the rash, tactless, quality of those words. How could Roger ever make me sick? I wish I were more like him; strong, handsome, talented. All I have is my camera. I can't even capture what I set out to film. Why am I such a failure? Maybe I should be the one holding the razor blade.
***
Mark carefully inched his way out to the living room, eying a somewhat disgruntled looking Collins. He played with the bottom of his sweater, tugging gently at the coarse material. The scholar smiled consolingly at his friend, patting an empty spot on the couch.
"Is he--"
Collins cut him off with a finger to his lips, pointing in the direction of Roger's room. Mark cringed visibly, once again mentally berating himself for ruining Roger's life. It was an ongoing cycle, a vicious circle, this friendship of theirs'. Roger would do something to stir Mark's repressed anger. Mark would lash out, Roger would yell. Mark would run away, Roger would sleep. Mark would cringe, or cry, or bang his head against a wall for "ruining" the friendship. Roger would brood, Mark would apologize, all would be well.
How could all be well when Roger never apologized? He left everything on Mark's shoulders. The filmmaker was always the one to concede, to give in, to sumbit to Roger's demands. It wasn't fair. Why did Mark insist on doing this to himself? *Because I'm the one who's always wrong. Roger just needs his space...* *Roger needs, Roger wants, Roger takes. He always gets what he wants. What about you?*
What about Mark?
He shook his head softly and ambled towards the kitchen, dragging his feet along the cold, wooden, boards. Selective hearing was a good thing. He didn't have to listen to the disgusted sigh coming from Collins. Didn't have to hear the wail of police cars down on the street. For once, he didn't even hear the soft crying drifting in from Roger's room. He could never escape the voice inside his head though. The voice that knew everything about him. Knew how he was a failure as a friend and as a filmmaker. This voice knew his secret desires and needs. It drove him crazy, always taunting and teasing. *What about Mark? Why can't Mark ever have what he wants? Why is Mark never good enough?*
With a loud crash, the tea mug dropped from his hands, porcelain pieces scattering across the floor as hands covered ears. Footsteps quickly came towards him, causing a gut reaction. Backed up against the counter, shoulders hunched down, tears beginning to sting at the corners of his eyes. Arm around the shoulders...Collins...leading him to the couch...telling him everything would be okay. He was shaking, shaking like the leaves that rattled when Maureen echoed that awful voice.
*You weren't good enough for me Marky. You were a failure as a boyfriend. Now you're a failure as a friend too...*
He sobbed outright, letting the scholar rub his back, shove tissues into his hands, croon words of comfort in that warm baritone voice. Collins was always comforting, always fixing things, always talking sense. He was the only one who talked sense. He managed to drag Mark back into his room, cover him up with the comforter, turn out the lights.
Mark wouldn't sleep, couldn't sleep with the voice. *Failure...not good enough...weak...* He listened to the words attentively, curious, wanting to drive them away, but at the same time...believing they were true.
Collins cast one more look on the shaking Mark, then walked back towards the kitchen, beginning to clean up the broken mug. Fixing things...as usual.
***
After staring numbly at the ceiling for what seems like hours, I manage to drift into a light sleep, but that doesn't stop the thoughts. Sleep...something I can't even define. I know too little about it...too little of it. How can I sleep when my thoughts plague me so much? I really am a failure. I failed Roger. It was my fault that we didn't get home earlier. Why haven't I felt guilty until now? God, my life is such a sham. I pretend...I always pretend to be something I'm not. I feign strength and supportiveness. I act as if I'm productive and alive. I haven't been alive in so long...
*You're so weak Mark...so very weak...and selfish...alone...*
What if I did kill myself? Who would care? I'm sure Roger would hardly even notice. Collins would clean up after me. Maureen would probably be overjoyed. Benny...I haven't seen Benny in two months. I can picture it now. He'd be sitting there, reading some yuppie newspaper, and happen across my obituary. He'd flip to the next page and continue sipping his coffee. Apathetic. That's how I imagine Benny's reaction. Even if I did kill myself, no one would worry about it. They all have their own lives, seperate agendas, I wouldn't want to interrupt them with funeral preparations. I guess I'll just have to sit here, with the thoughts, playing my role in this twisted game.