My Glory
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I don't own Rent. I don't even rent Rent. That belongs to Mr. Larson.
I'm just borrowing his characters for my story.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
I sat on the table, running my hands over the guitar strings. He
plucked these just last week, as he lay prone on his hospital bed. He
had plucked a chord and looked up at me, pulling one of my curls and
saying over and over that the song was coming. The song that would
change our lives, he said. It would come, he'd get some money, and we
would have real heat in the apartment. And we'd be happy, with real
heat and a real song.
What could he write that would be better than the song that brought
me back to him? I was so near to losing him forever. Or maybe he was
close to losing me? I have no idea.
Mark, as usual, had his camera turned on me. I lowered my eyes to the
neck of the guitar. "Turn the damn thing off, Mark."
"Mimi, some things need to be recorded."
"This is not one of those things," I shot back, laying the guitar
aside.
He shut off the camera, but I knew that image would come back in his
next film. The broken ex-junkie, her body riddled with death,
cradling the guitar of the man she loved. It was too damn poetic for
Mark to just let it go. Damn him.
"He's been gone before," I began, stil not meeting Mark's penetrating
gaze. "He's been gone for months. We'll survive." I looked up, but
was only able to stare at the top of Mark's head. Of all the odd
things to remember, I recall how much gel Mark used. Maureen once said
it was like he poured wood glue on his head. But Maureen was gone,
too.
"He can't come back, Mimi," Mark told me, fiddling with some buttons
on his camera.
"Why not? I did, didn't I? I came back!"
"Angel didn't come back. Maureen din't come back. You're the
exception."
"Roger will come back."
Mark sighed in desperation, and gave me a look I despised. A look of
pity. "You shouldn't be here, Mimi. You're only twenty-one. You
shouldn't be here, you shouldn't have to see this."
"Bull shit. I've seen a lot worse."
"When I was 21, someone told me they never wanted to get older. That
he just wanted to live in his crappy flat forever and never get any
old, and never change. And then everything exploded."
"Roger said that," I told him, before I thought. That stupid comment
rated up there with what I said about April, that night when I first
met Roger.
I saw a tear spring to the filmmaker's eye, but he blinked it back
and turned his damn box back on. "C'mon, Mimers, tell your adoring
public what you really want from life."
He crawled up on the table with me, as I had seen him do so many
times with Roger. He pulled the camera up, too, zooming in on some
remote part of my face. An eye, a freckle, a pore. I wiped the sweat
from my brow and looked straight into the camera, wherever it was
pointing. "I want Roger back."
He flicked off the camera and set it between us, next to Roger's
guitar. That was a bit of symbolism that, for once, Mark was not
getting on film. I was oddly grateful. "Me too," he said, reaching
for my hand, which I pulled away, shaking my head. Physical contact
with Mark was fine, but not when I was dying.
"You always said you'd outlive him. Why are you upset?"
Swallowing again, Mark choked back what must have been a sob.
"Because, Mimi, saying something and doing something are very
different."
"I know," I whispered, a tear rolling down my cheek. "I didn't want
him to die, Mark, I didn't."
"None of us did." He choked back another sob and enfolded me in his
strong arms. "And none of us wanted to lose Maureen or Angel."
"Why?" It was a rather stupid thing to ask, but it was all I could
choke out between the oppressive waves of emotion washing over me.
"We don't want to lose them because we love them. We love them
because they loved us. We lose them because we can't control anything
in this damned world. And if we could, it wouldn't be nearly as much
fun to live."
I felt his hands gently rubbing my back as he spoke, but I ignored
the comforting sensations. "Roger said he was sick of fighting," I
said, needing more than anything to tell Mark everything. "he said he
had been fighting all his life, and he was ready to go."
"Roger went through a lot, even before you knew him. His dad died
when he was twelve, all the other children his mom tried to have were
miscarriages, and with April, Angel and Maureen all going in five
years, he was ready to go. He couldn't fight life anymore, so he let
life win."
"Since when is dying letting life win?" I asked, pulling out of his
embrace and wiping away my tears with the back of my hand.
"Since Roger decided the it had to be the end," he answered.
"What a crappy end." I closed my eyes, and sighed. "Mark, turn on
that damn box of yours." He did as he was told and lifted it to his
eye. "Zoom out to get the whole of me." I watched him climb backwards
off the table, never taking the camera from my face. He gave me the
thumbs up, and I picked up the guitar again.
"Roger, baby, you once played a song. You played a song to a
fever-riddled body, already ravaged by a disease that you shared. You
sang it to someone you loved, and that person came back because she
loved you, too. So where the hell is the song I get to sing to you? I
had a tough life, too. But I didn't go giving up just when I found
someone to love. And then you, you prick, had to leave me. And I
would hate you, if I could. But I can't and I love you. And I can't
sing, or play the guitar. I tried writing you poetry, but it was all
drivel. I tried writing a performance piece, and I tried blowing up
some virtual realty equipment, but none of it made you better or
brought you back. So, I'm making Mark film this. I love you Roger. I
love you. You picked me up out of hell, and made me into someone who
was loved and loved in return. And, Roger, baby, you didn't have to
do any of that. You never had to love me or bring me back to life or
give me a reason to continue to live. And now I'm sure I won't last
much longer, and maybe I'll be with you again, but in case I'm not,
I'll say it now. You always have been, and you always will be the man
I care about." I sighed gently, and let the tears overtake my tired
body as I sunk sobbing to the table.
"Mimi-" Mark began, pulling himself onto the table and putting my
head into his lap. "Mimi, that was perfect. That was your song. You
are beautiful."
"I am empty," I said, looking up through my blurry eyes, and choking
down another sob. "I am empty."
-------------------------------------------------------------------
This story was inspired by the picture on my desktop, of Mark on the
table with his camera in Roger's face. Anyway, why do all the fics
have Mark die? That makes me angry.
This is my first fanfic since my sailormoon stuff, which I haven't
done for a little over two years, so if it really sucks, let me know,
I need to be told.
Thanks to all the folks who give me courage and a reason to go on
(and if I forget anyone, you may strike me): Eggy, Anh, Henry, Natty,
Kevin, Benny, David, Ian, Claire, Jack, Petra, Noah, CornPopp, and
the crazies I talk to late at night in the Bravenet chat (Renata,
emily, Kevin, and all the others who complicate our evenings.) I care
about you all.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
-------------------------------------------------------------------
I don't own Rent. I don't even rent Rent. That belongs to Mr. Larson.
I'm just borrowing his characters for my story.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
I sat on the table, running my hands over the guitar strings. He
plucked these just last week, as he lay prone on his hospital bed. He
had plucked a chord and looked up at me, pulling one of my curls and
saying over and over that the song was coming. The song that would
change our lives, he said. It would come, he'd get some money, and we
would have real heat in the apartment. And we'd be happy, with real
heat and a real song.
What could he write that would be better than the song that brought
me back to him? I was so near to losing him forever. Or maybe he was
close to losing me? I have no idea.
Mark, as usual, had his camera turned on me. I lowered my eyes to the
neck of the guitar. "Turn the damn thing off, Mark."
"Mimi, some things need to be recorded."
"This is not one of those things," I shot back, laying the guitar
aside.
He shut off the camera, but I knew that image would come back in his
next film. The broken ex-junkie, her body riddled with death,
cradling the guitar of the man she loved. It was too damn poetic for
Mark to just let it go. Damn him.
"He's been gone before," I began, stil not meeting Mark's penetrating
gaze. "He's been gone for months. We'll survive." I looked up, but
was only able to stare at the top of Mark's head. Of all the odd
things to remember, I recall how much gel Mark used. Maureen once said
it was like he poured wood glue on his head. But Maureen was gone,
too.
"He can't come back, Mimi," Mark told me, fiddling with some buttons
on his camera.
"Why not? I did, didn't I? I came back!"
"Angel didn't come back. Maureen din't come back. You're the
exception."
"Roger will come back."
Mark sighed in desperation, and gave me a look I despised. A look of
pity. "You shouldn't be here, Mimi. You're only twenty-one. You
shouldn't be here, you shouldn't have to see this."
"Bull shit. I've seen a lot worse."
"When I was 21, someone told me they never wanted to get older. That
he just wanted to live in his crappy flat forever and never get any
old, and never change. And then everything exploded."
"Roger said that," I told him, before I thought. That stupid comment
rated up there with what I said about April, that night when I first
met Roger.
I saw a tear spring to the filmmaker's eye, but he blinked it back
and turned his damn box back on. "C'mon, Mimers, tell your adoring
public what you really want from life."
He crawled up on the table with me, as I had seen him do so many
times with Roger. He pulled the camera up, too, zooming in on some
remote part of my face. An eye, a freckle, a pore. I wiped the sweat
from my brow and looked straight into the camera, wherever it was
pointing. "I want Roger back."
He flicked off the camera and set it between us, next to Roger's
guitar. That was a bit of symbolism that, for once, Mark was not
getting on film. I was oddly grateful. "Me too," he said, reaching
for my hand, which I pulled away, shaking my head. Physical contact
with Mark was fine, but not when I was dying.
"You always said you'd outlive him. Why are you upset?"
Swallowing again, Mark choked back what must have been a sob.
"Because, Mimi, saying something and doing something are very
different."
"I know," I whispered, a tear rolling down my cheek. "I didn't want
him to die, Mark, I didn't."
"None of us did." He choked back another sob and enfolded me in his
strong arms. "And none of us wanted to lose Maureen or Angel."
"Why?" It was a rather stupid thing to ask, but it was all I could
choke out between the oppressive waves of emotion washing over me.
"We don't want to lose them because we love them. We love them
because they loved us. We lose them because we can't control anything
in this damned world. And if we could, it wouldn't be nearly as much
fun to live."
I felt his hands gently rubbing my back as he spoke, but I ignored
the comforting sensations. "Roger said he was sick of fighting," I
said, needing more than anything to tell Mark everything. "he said he
had been fighting all his life, and he was ready to go."
"Roger went through a lot, even before you knew him. His dad died
when he was twelve, all the other children his mom tried to have were
miscarriages, and with April, Angel and Maureen all going in five
years, he was ready to go. He couldn't fight life anymore, so he let
life win."
"Since when is dying letting life win?" I asked, pulling out of his
embrace and wiping away my tears with the back of my hand.
"Since Roger decided the it had to be the end," he answered.
"What a crappy end." I closed my eyes, and sighed. "Mark, turn on
that damn box of yours." He did as he was told and lifted it to his
eye. "Zoom out to get the whole of me." I watched him climb backwards
off the table, never taking the camera from my face. He gave me the
thumbs up, and I picked up the guitar again.
"Roger, baby, you once played a song. You played a song to a
fever-riddled body, already ravaged by a disease that you shared. You
sang it to someone you loved, and that person came back because she
loved you, too. So where the hell is the song I get to sing to you? I
had a tough life, too. But I didn't go giving up just when I found
someone to love. And then you, you prick, had to leave me. And I
would hate you, if I could. But I can't and I love you. And I can't
sing, or play the guitar. I tried writing you poetry, but it was all
drivel. I tried writing a performance piece, and I tried blowing up
some virtual realty equipment, but none of it made you better or
brought you back. So, I'm making Mark film this. I love you Roger. I
love you. You picked me up out of hell, and made me into someone who
was loved and loved in return. And, Roger, baby, you didn't have to
do any of that. You never had to love me or bring me back to life or
give me a reason to continue to live. And now I'm sure I won't last
much longer, and maybe I'll be with you again, but in case I'm not,
I'll say it now. You always have been, and you always will be the man
I care about." I sighed gently, and let the tears overtake my tired
body as I sunk sobbing to the table.
"Mimi-" Mark began, pulling himself onto the table and putting my
head into his lap. "Mimi, that was perfect. That was your song. You
are beautiful."
"I am empty," I said, looking up through my blurry eyes, and choking
down another sob. "I am empty."
-------------------------------------------------------------------
This story was inspired by the picture on my desktop, of Mark on the
table with his camera in Roger's face. Anyway, why do all the fics
have Mark die? That makes me angry.
This is my first fanfic since my sailormoon stuff, which I haven't
done for a little over two years, so if it really sucks, let me know,
I need to be told.
Thanks to all the folks who give me courage and a reason to go on
(and if I forget anyone, you may strike me): Eggy, Anh, Henry, Natty,
Kevin, Benny, David, Ian, Claire, Jack, Petra, Noah, CornPopp, and
the crazies I talk to late at night in the Bravenet chat (Renata,
emily, Kevin, and all the others who complicate our evenings.) I care
about you all.
-------------------------------------------------------------------