...The Fighter Still Remains
-------------------------------------------------------------------
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. If you want to use
them, you'll have to talk to someone else
-------------------------------------------------------------------
I dreamt of the way that my mom used to slice peaches into her cereal
in the mornings. One by one they would get systematically wedged and
thrown, bobbing helplessly, into a bowl of Cornflakes and low-fat
milk. I dreamt of being one of those thin slices, allowing the milk to
soak into my firm orange flesh before the spoon came down, barely
missing me. I awoke to Mark's quiet voice muttering with a doctor.
"How much longer, Dr. Berdann?"
"He's very sick. You don't look so good yourself-"
"Look, Doctor, when is he going to die?"
"Probably within the week, sir."
"Well, fuck you," Mark exclaimed as he stormed into my room. He looked
like shit. He had been with me every waking moment, and though I told
him to get his pale ass out of the hospital, he refused to let me slip
away.
How many times had I told him, or Mimi or Joanne to go home? They
needed to sleep in their own beds, at home. Sleeping in chairs in a
waiting room is bad for the soul. But they insisted on staying to fend
off the people coming to see me with flowers and balloons and wishes
from people I hadn't seen in years. What is it about dying that makes
everyone come out? Is there some huge buzzard that sits in the
hospital basement calling people? How do they find out?
"Hey," I offered weekly.
"Hey. How they treating you?"
"Good enough, good enough," I told him. "Marky, is there anyway you
could get me some fresh fruit? A peach, an apple, a pear? I need
something."
I saw the look on Mark's face before I remembered. The tube. My hand
went to my nose, where the goddamn thing was eating for me. I wasn't
allowed to eat solid food anymore. My system, the doctors said,
couldn't handle it. Fuck the doctors.
Mark covered his face with his hands and took a deep breath. He hated
being here, he hated seeing me. He and I had been friends forever- god
knows how he must have felt. I reached out and took his hand.
"Don't be scared," I told him, feeling him recoil a bit at my touch.
Right, infection. Fuck that. If I was already dying, who cared if I
got more infection? Stupid doctors.
"Scared? Scared? I'm not scared. There is nothing left to be scared
of."
"Sure there is. Life. Death. Hate. Love. AIDS."
"Oh, fuck that. I've lost three people to it already. You expect I'll
worry about losing myself? Fuck that!"
"You don't worry about losing me?"
"I worry about that the most these days."
I held back a tear. Mark and I had met in grade school, where he was
the geeky boy who liked to take pictures and I was the kid who beat
all the computer games within a week of getting them. No one else
liked us, so we gravitated to each other. He taught me about art, and
I taught him about pong. It was a beautiful friendship. It had gome on
like that for years- Mark and Tommy, the class losers. By the time we
got to High School, talking to us was basically a social death
sentence. But who cared what a bunch of doped up assoles thought of
us?
And now I was dying. I knew it, he knew it, and Mimi and Joanne knew
it.
A wave of dizziness overtook me, and I closed my eyes. When I opened
them again, Mark was still peering down anxiously, my hand clenched
tightly in his.
"Marky," I whispered, causing him to lean closer. "Remember that
Christmas? The one before we met Angel? The one where we just settled
around the bush you and I had stolen from central park with Roger,
April, and Maureen and talked about what we would give if we could?
And then April came in with that huge plate of cookies that she got at
the bakery where she worked? And we all ate them, but they crumbled in
our hands, and we were covered with cookie crumbs and laughing and
making horrid puns about having an crummy Christmas?" He nodded
slowly, a sad smile spreading across his face.
"How could I forget? And then Benny came in with actual presents. That
was the best Christmas ever."
I nodded and reached over to the bedside table, where Mimi had placed
a small box.
"This is for you, Mark. It's what he gave me that day. You need it
now."
I watched as he opened it slowly, and pulled out the ornate pocket
watch. Gently he flipped over the inscription on the inside. "Because
time is measured in more than seconds."
Well, someone had to remind him. Mark's time was growing short, and he
still hadn't found what he needed.
Mark let a tear trace its path down his cheek and put the watch into
the pocket of his old cords.
"Keep it in health," I told him. "Forever."
And with that, I sank back on my pillow, surrounded by machines that
counted my heartbeats and monitored my brain activity. And there,
nestled in my safe, digital haven, I closed my eyes and I wept.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
A note on the title: I bought a CD that I haven't stopped listening
to. As I was finishing this story, a song came on, and that's where the
title comes from. The context? Look below.
In the clearing stands a boxer
And a fighter by his trade
And he carries a reminder
Of every glove
That laid him down or cut him
'Til he cried out
In his anger and his shame
"I am leaving, I am leaving"
But the fighter still remains.
~Simon and Garfunkle, The Boxer (copyright 1968)
-------------------------------------------------------------------
Thanks to Emily and Rachael who beta'd this one. You guys are great!
-------------------------------------------------------------------
Okay, a quick note.... as those who have read my old crappy SailorMoon
stories may recall, I left them hanging after two chapters of a story.
(Which I have no intention of finishing.) If I stop posting stories, it
is not because I don't love all of you, because I do. I start school
again on the 4th, and I recently got majorly busted for doing something
bad, so downtime may be scarse, and devoted to placating angry parents.
So, if you need me in the future, send me out a review with a "REPLY
PLEASE" stuck somewhere in there, and I'll e-mail you back. Okay?
Thanks, all.
~Karsa
-------------------------------------------------------------------
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. If you want to use
them, you'll have to talk to someone else
-------------------------------------------------------------------
I dreamt of the way that my mom used to slice peaches into her cereal
in the mornings. One by one they would get systematically wedged and
thrown, bobbing helplessly, into a bowl of Cornflakes and low-fat
milk. I dreamt of being one of those thin slices, allowing the milk to
soak into my firm orange flesh before the spoon came down, barely
missing me. I awoke to Mark's quiet voice muttering with a doctor.
"How much longer, Dr. Berdann?"
"He's very sick. You don't look so good yourself-"
"Look, Doctor, when is he going to die?"
"Probably within the week, sir."
"Well, fuck you," Mark exclaimed as he stormed into my room. He looked
like shit. He had been with me every waking moment, and though I told
him to get his pale ass out of the hospital, he refused to let me slip
away.
How many times had I told him, or Mimi or Joanne to go home? They
needed to sleep in their own beds, at home. Sleeping in chairs in a
waiting room is bad for the soul. But they insisted on staying to fend
off the people coming to see me with flowers and balloons and wishes
from people I hadn't seen in years. What is it about dying that makes
everyone come out? Is there some huge buzzard that sits in the
hospital basement calling people? How do they find out?
"Hey," I offered weekly.
"Hey. How they treating you?"
"Good enough, good enough," I told him. "Marky, is there anyway you
could get me some fresh fruit? A peach, an apple, a pear? I need
something."
I saw the look on Mark's face before I remembered. The tube. My hand
went to my nose, where the goddamn thing was eating for me. I wasn't
allowed to eat solid food anymore. My system, the doctors said,
couldn't handle it. Fuck the doctors.
Mark covered his face with his hands and took a deep breath. He hated
being here, he hated seeing me. He and I had been friends forever- god
knows how he must have felt. I reached out and took his hand.
"Don't be scared," I told him, feeling him recoil a bit at my touch.
Right, infection. Fuck that. If I was already dying, who cared if I
got more infection? Stupid doctors.
"Scared? Scared? I'm not scared. There is nothing left to be scared
of."
"Sure there is. Life. Death. Hate. Love. AIDS."
"Oh, fuck that. I've lost three people to it already. You expect I'll
worry about losing myself? Fuck that!"
"You don't worry about losing me?"
"I worry about that the most these days."
I held back a tear. Mark and I had met in grade school, where he was
the geeky boy who liked to take pictures and I was the kid who beat
all the computer games within a week of getting them. No one else
liked us, so we gravitated to each other. He taught me about art, and
I taught him about pong. It was a beautiful friendship. It had gome on
like that for years- Mark and Tommy, the class losers. By the time we
got to High School, talking to us was basically a social death
sentence. But who cared what a bunch of doped up assoles thought of
us?
And now I was dying. I knew it, he knew it, and Mimi and Joanne knew
it.
A wave of dizziness overtook me, and I closed my eyes. When I opened
them again, Mark was still peering down anxiously, my hand clenched
tightly in his.
"Marky," I whispered, causing him to lean closer. "Remember that
Christmas? The one before we met Angel? The one where we just settled
around the bush you and I had stolen from central park with Roger,
April, and Maureen and talked about what we would give if we could?
And then April came in with that huge plate of cookies that she got at
the bakery where she worked? And we all ate them, but they crumbled in
our hands, and we were covered with cookie crumbs and laughing and
making horrid puns about having an crummy Christmas?" He nodded
slowly, a sad smile spreading across his face.
"How could I forget? And then Benny came in with actual presents. That
was the best Christmas ever."
I nodded and reached over to the bedside table, where Mimi had placed
a small box.
"This is for you, Mark. It's what he gave me that day. You need it
now."
I watched as he opened it slowly, and pulled out the ornate pocket
watch. Gently he flipped over the inscription on the inside. "Because
time is measured in more than seconds."
Well, someone had to remind him. Mark's time was growing short, and he
still hadn't found what he needed.
Mark let a tear trace its path down his cheek and put the watch into
the pocket of his old cords.
"Keep it in health," I told him. "Forever."
And with that, I sank back on my pillow, surrounded by machines that
counted my heartbeats and monitored my brain activity. And there,
nestled in my safe, digital haven, I closed my eyes and I wept.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
A note on the title: I bought a CD that I haven't stopped listening
to. As I was finishing this story, a song came on, and that's where the
title comes from. The context? Look below.
In the clearing stands a boxer
And a fighter by his trade
And he carries a reminder
Of every glove
That laid him down or cut him
'Til he cried out
In his anger and his shame
"I am leaving, I am leaving"
But the fighter still remains.
~Simon and Garfunkle, The Boxer (copyright 1968)
-------------------------------------------------------------------
Thanks to Emily and Rachael who beta'd this one. You guys are great!
-------------------------------------------------------------------
Okay, a quick note.... as those who have read my old crappy SailorMoon
stories may recall, I left them hanging after two chapters of a story.
(Which I have no intention of finishing.) If I stop posting stories, it
is not because I don't love all of you, because I do. I start school
again on the 4th, and I recently got majorly busted for doing something
bad, so downtime may be scarse, and devoted to placating angry parents.
So, if you need me in the future, send me out a review with a "REPLY
PLEASE" stuck somewhere in there, and I'll e-mail you back. Okay?
Thanks, all.
~Karsa