Reflections: Mitigating Mark's Mind

by TLRAMP

RENT-fic numero tres! ;-) Can ya believe it? It's longer (in word count) than my first epic fic! I just upped the rating (again) to R, since I use too many curse words to count and it gets steamy. I am --this-- close to being done.

4. Is This Real Life?

***One more thing: sappiness is my forte, and I'm damn proud of it! Also, Trinity Cemetery is a very real place in a very fictional setting. It's actually on 155^th, but there are only about three cemeteries in NYC. So sue me. On second thought, please don't.***

CHAPTER IV: Is This Real Life?

After the premier of Confessions, at St. Vincent's Hospital…

         "So, what'd you think of it?" I ask, turning off the television in Collin's room. I convinced one of the nurses, with all the charisma and charm I could muster, to let me in at this late hour to show him my film, and somehow it worked.

         "Mark," he breathes. I see a few tears falling down his cheeks… "It was great…perfect…"

         I smile, albeit sadly, as I take a seat on the edge of his bed, taking his hand in mine and rubbing it gently. "A compliment from you, pal, is better than one from anyone else."

         "Even…Roger?" he asks, his eyes imploring.

         I nod. "Most definitely."

         "He saw it…right?"

         I nod again. "Yeah." I sigh, shrugging. "He saw it."

         "Did you…two talk?"

         "Shh," I coo softly. "C'mon now, Collins, you don't really want to hear about that, now do you? I mean, you should be resting and –"

         "Please…? Tell me." He's still crying. Damn it; make him stop – right now.

         "I can't deny a face like that," I say, trying to be humorous. "He apologized and so did I and we worked everything out. But…"

         "But?"

         "He's moving to Santa Fe – for good. He promised to call, but somehow I harbor doubts about that promise."

         "Why?"

         I look down at Collins and shake my head. "I don't know… We're just-I don't know, not as close as we used to be – Hell, we're not close at all, anymore. He says I've changed and he's changed, and I guess he's right. We've all changed lately."

         "He is right…and you know that…"

         "I know." I force another smile. "But, let's talk of something else until the nurse kicks me out. We're not going to dwell on the bad."

         "But, Mark…" he trails off sleepily.

         "What is it, Collins?"

         He grasps my hand tightly, with more strength than I thought he had right now, and his eyes glisten with tears as I fight to control my own. "Don't ever do…anything like what you…said in the-the film… Okay?"

         I was confused only for a few moments, until I realized that he meant my lecture on suicide. Around the 30-minute mark of Confessions, I spoke of my attempts at killing myself and why I wanted to do it again. But, somehow now, I don't want to ever do it again – not if Collins doesn't want me to. "O-okay…" I'm choking, lost in darkness as I watch the fire in his eyes fading.

         "I love you, Mark…" he continues, tracing my cheek gently with his trembling hand. I grab it and hold it to my skin – damn it, I need to feel that he's still alive; that he'll always be alive.

         "I-I know," I reply, fighting my muscles so they won't let me frown, but I can't stop them. My tears slip down my pale cheeks and some run over his fingers there. "Oh God, Collins, I'm so sorry!" I cry suddenly, pressing the buzzer frantically for the nurse. "I'm so sorry…" She'll come in and everything will be fine. No, he's not dying. No, he's not crying – Collins isn't crying…. He's fine, damn it – he's healthier than I am, for Christ's sake!

         "For what?" he asks, the pressure of his fingertips decreasing and I panic.

         "For anything and everything I've never done or that I have done that hurt you or that I never thought of doing at all and I should have done or maybe things that I can't control or what I can but don't choose to or what someone else could and never did and never wanted to but should've or could have if they wanted to – or-or…Hell I don't know, Collins! I just…God, please don't leave me…"

         Collins sobbed, his hand falling off my cheek. I grabbed it, putting it back there and stroking it gently. "Is that…what I'm…doing?" he asks, closing his eyes. My tears flow steadily now as I frenetically press the button for the nurse.

         "Damn it! Nurse!" I call out hysterically, weeping as I do so. "Goddamn it; nurse, get in here – please!" I hold his hand on my cheek, tightly pressing it against me to feel his pulse as it beats so slowly. "You're gonna be fine, Collins…. I know you will. You're so strong and intense and intelligent and-and—" He struggles to breathe. "No! No, please…." I press the button twenty times at once, fifty – I don't know! Where the hell is she?

         "I meant it…" he murmurs so quietly.

         "Meant what?" My lips tremble as I feel the tears in my mouth, tasting that salty bitterness that I despise.

         "That I-I love you."

         "I know. Oh God, I know, Collins… I love you, too – so much that you'll never know." I swallow, shivering. He can't leave me; not now – not ever! He just can't! "You mean so much to me, pal, you-you just can't go and-and leave me, okay?" He just nods, moaning softly. "Jesus, you can't—you just can't, Collins…"

         "Keep filming…okay?" I have to lean down to hear him.

         "I will, but-but you'll be here to see them all. I know you will, I just know it…" I give up on the buzzer and pull Collins into my arms. He hugs me so lightly that I feel like I've lost him already. "Please don't die," I finally whisper, choking and gasping for words. "I don't think I can hang on much longer, Collins, I really don't. Without you here, there's nothing to hold me together. You've always been such a great friend… Remember way back when we first met…Tom?" I ask gently, jokingly calling him by his first name that I so rarely use.

         "Y-yeah…"

         "Remember how the first thing you said to me was, 'Friends call me Collins'?"

         "Yeah…"

         "I've always called you Collins, you know. I've always done that for you… And then…" I laugh, sniffling to be rid of these horrible tears. "…And then you hit on me – thinking I was gay." I smile, shaking my head.

         "I…I re…member…"

         "And I remember thinking how lucky I was to have such a good friend. And I've thought that same thing every day ever since. You always taught me to think outside the box, and I did damn it… Look where I am now, right? I mean, I have you to thank for it all. Don't even think of denying it, because you're the only one who's always believed in me, even when I didn't think I could believe. Remember when Maureen dumped me how you and Roger took me out for beers and tried to buy me a hooker? I'll never forget that…. And when I came down with the chicken pox at age 18 how you made your famous chicken noodle soup with that special ingredient in it? And when Roger left the second time and I felt alone how you came to stay with me until I felt better? And-and… Jesus, everything you've ever done for me, Collins. There's never been a bad moment with you. I've never once seen you upset enough to do harm – verbally or otherwise. I've never seen you get angry with me, no matter how stupid I may be sometimes, and I know I am… I don't know how you even put up with me sometimes, but you did, and you always seemed to have a moment to spare, even when I know you were really too busy for it. God, you've always been there, and I've treasured you always; maybe not as much as I should have, but I do now, and I'll never ever forget you… Never…."

         Suddenly, I realize that he hasn't replied to anything I've said in quite a while and I look down to find his eyes closed as if he were in a sleep, but his chest isn't moving up and down, as it does with gentle breaths. His arms are limply hanging, one draped over my shoulder and the other halfway crooked on the bed. His head rests against my other shoulder, and as I pull away, it slides back with one languid movement. I cradle him in my arms, moving so that his head rests against my chest, so that it won't fall back anymore. I bow my head and press my wet cheek against his head, crying with childlike ease.

         The room begins to spin in a dizzying spiral, and I feel myself plummeting downward into the void of some unknown black hole that is intended to devour me – and it is. My head aches and there's this ball of anxiety that's growing inside my chest somewhere. It's deeply rooted, and has been so for years upon years: so long that I can't remember when I first felt like this. I'm drunk with apprehension and intoxicated with melancholy. I'm shivering and shaking and the ball keeps growing and growing until it's a huge knot, rising to my head, burning my eyes with it's thorns, making me remember everything I've never done.

         I've never done anything. That confession is one that I hate and don't want to admit, but it circles in a cylindrical fashion around my brain, sloshing in the darkness until I see the light. But, what does this light mean? Goddamn it, I don't know.

         I realize faintly that I'm being pulled away from the bed and that there are nurses and doctors standing all around now, taking Collins' pulse, checking his tubes and needles and machines and trying to shock him back to life. I weakly cry out for them to stop hurting him – that he's dead and there's nothing they can do – that he's gone up to Heaven now where he belongs and it's all their fault, and I truly believe this. All the doctors who've ever tried to help have only hindered this poor man who's dead before me. He died because the damned scientists can't find a fuckin' cure for a disease that will eventually have killed all my friends. In the future, it might be that everyone in the world will be infected with AIDS and we'll all have to look forward to a painful and agonizing death that will spread out over years and years, and we'll suffer so much that we wish we were dead while at the same time praying for life.

         And I think now…what the hell is life?

         It's black. Everything is black. My tuxedo, Toby's tuxedo, Maureen's dress, Joanne's pantsuit… Hell, even the sky is black today.

         I keep thinking this isn't real. Nothing is real, I tell myself. Life is fake, these trees are fake, those black clouds that threaten to spill rain and thunder and lightning are fake, and if it rains today, so help me God, I will kill someone. Collins never liked the rain, and so it will not rain.

         I look over to the preacher I hired – some bum of a man who doesn't even care that the man who's being laid to rest today was just such an amazing friend. He doesn't know all the wonderful things Collins did while he was alive. He doesn't know about all the inside jokes we shared. He doesn't know that Collins' favorite color was blue or that his favorite food is soy burgers or that he loves the sound of the ocean and helping tourists find their way through the city. He doesn't know Collins had AIDS – doesn't care and wouldn't care if I told him. He only cares about money, which he'll get plenty of. I couldn't care less how much is left now – what the hell do I need it for? I'm a sell-out and a screw-up, and nothing I've ever done has ever made sense, so why should I ever keep the money that I've always despised. Roger was right to call me a sham.

         The preacher's mouth is moving. His words are not important though. I can't seem to make myself hear them. I watch Maureen's mouth, moving as she steps up to give her elegy. Jesus, she's always had the prettiest little mouth – so dainty and pouty at the same time. I remember the taste of those lips against mine – strawberry. She always wore this strawberry chapstick, and I remember falling in love with just the scent of her. She would always tease me with those lips, playing little kisses all over my face but never letting them touch my lips until I was begging and pleading with her to.

         I see Joanne now, giving a speech of her own, and I think to myself that she didn't even know him well enough to make any kind of speech. She's always absorbed in her work, never has time for Maureen, let alone for a funeral. I begin to hate her, slowly but surely, until it grows into a raging hate. I watch her move to stand by Maureen and they hug, crying to each other. Now, I hate them both. Let them cry and sob and wine. Just…let them do whatever.

         My attention is caught by Toby. Hell, why is he even here? He never knew Collins like I did. He doesn't have the right to be standing here and he most definitely doesn't have the right to say anything! I want to run up there and kill him, stomp him into the ground, strangle the very life out of him. I need to release this anger – this rage – somewhere on someone.

         "I know I didn't know Collins very well," he begins. He's so quiet and soft-spoken that I'm inclined to listen, "But he was always such a good friend to me. He never asked any questions. He just befriended me from the start… I remember when Mark first introduced us, I just kind of stood there and said hello. He came right up to me and just hugged me, slapping my back heartily as if I were his brother, which is what I soon became. He took me around the city that day, showing me all the sights and explaining the importance of them all. I felt like such a tourist. But, he was so sweet about everything he did that I wasn't embarrassed for long. Soon, I was laughing and joking with him and we became good friends. He's always been there for me, and introduced me to colleges and friends and…heck, even drag queens." He smiles and I cringe, grimacing, but his smile fades to a frown. "I never really knew him as well as the others here, but I sure was off to a good start, and I loved him all the same." He looks up to the sky, his eyes twinkling from behind those glasses. "I'll miss you, Col."

         He walks back to stand beside Maureen and Joanne who pat him gently on his back. The preacher motions for me to come up and I refuse with a shake of my head, even as I gain odd looks from everyone. Yes, all those fuckin' idiots who came just for the free food want to see me whimper and cry up there in front of them all, but I won't give them the satisfaction – I can't. My legs feel like jelly and my heart has sunk so far down that it's in my stomach now. Tears burn my eyes, but I don't let them fall. My breath comes slowly. My head spins with dizziness as I feel Maureen leading me up to the front of the crowd. I struggle. Goddamn it, I can't do this! I push her away and she stares at me with wide eyes.

         Mark, are you okay? I run, tearing at the tears that fall from my eyes. Mark, come back! Faster and faster still I run, stumbling over dirt and graves and flowers and rocks and stones and trash and-and…Hell, who cares? Nothing matters now – not one damn thing, save my fear. My fear matters because it controls me. I'm racing with nimble feet, carried into the air, crashing, falling, and getting back up again. Arms hold me back, but I break free from them. Suddenly, I think it was a bad idea to have all those drinks earlier today. Mark! Mark, please don't run off! It's Toby's voice, beside me now. He's holding me back, pulling me towards Collins' gravesite. Goddamn it; leave me alone! I wrestle free, knocking him down to his feet, and I continue to run – over empty, unmarked graves that I fear could be my own; over flower patches that are rotting and dead because of poor upkeep; over paved roads with cars screeching to miss me as I ignore the 'no crossing' signs; and into people who are shoved aside as I race into my house: the loft – that secure little loft on the corner of 11^th Street and Avenue B – my safe haven – my solace – the only true thing left in my life that I'm not afraid of – the only thing that won't change – my-my…

         I stop. Roger is here. Roger is here, standing before me. There are two suitcases to either side of him. He turns and…oh dear God – he's crying. He's home and he's crying. He's looking at me with those tear-filled eyes, not trying to hide them or wipe them away or berate me for crying too; he's just here and he's crying and I'm crying and-and…. Jesus, if I don't stop thinking I'm going to kill someone…

         I don't even think about what I do – I just run to him, throwing my arms around him, pulling him close and feeling the sobs wrack his muscular frame against mine. Damn…I just need to feel him alive – to just know that he's okay and I'm okay and maybe then everything will be okay, because he's okay and I'm okay and-and… My thoughts aren't making sense. Damn it, they're scrambled like bad frequency waves on the radio, like eggs, like-like…

         "Mark, calm down!" he cries, shaking me a bit.

         I am dimly aware that I've spoken aloud some of my thoughts, accidentally. "Shut the fuck up!" I pull away, wrapping my arms around myself. "Goddamn you! Why the hell are you here?"

         "I-I heard about…about Collins."

         "Y'know, what about him, Roger?" My eyes are intense, fiery, red, bruised – angry…

         He looks at me very strangely. Why the hell do I keep getting looks like that? "Mark… Tony called me."

         "Jesus, Roger," I scream, my voice cracking, "You'd think you could get his fuckin' name right after all this time. It's Toby, Goddamn it."

         "I-I'm sorry, Mark…"

         "Y'know what? I couldn't care any less what you are, Roger." I nearly fall backwards, but I grab the folding chair to steady myself. As I stumble woozily into my bedroom, I'm aware that Roger follows. He places a hand on my shoulder, but I turn too fast, slapping his hand away roughly, stepping up to him with a low growl. "Don't you fuckin' touch me."

         "Mark!" he cries, trying to balance me, but I tumble, nevertheless, backwards onto the bed. "Mark, what the hell's the matter with you?" He leans down and sniffs me as I try to smack him away, but my vision has become so blurred that I see a few dozen Rogers swimming around me in a pool of goatees and blonde tendrils and blue sweatshirts and those friendly twenty-four eyes of his… "You're drunk!" he scoffs.

         "Am not," I half-chuckle to myself, almost giddily, as I lean back, still trying to swat the…wow – fifty Rogers away.

         "Damn it, Mark!" he berates, grabbing my wrists.

         "Ouch…that hurts."

         "You're gonna be hurting a lot worse tomorrow morning when you wake up with your head in the toilet throwing up all over the place. Jesus, Mark…"

         "Fuck you. As if you care that I'm depressed…. Damn it, let me go…you-you…" I trail off, letting my hands go limp. I can't even move. I'm numb through-and-through. Any insults I come up with for him must be coming out of my mouth in the form of words because he's giving me that look again, and I can feel my mouth moving a bit. I must be talking. "…Egotistical shithole of a friend…who left me without a…a…"

         "Mark, please, just calm down. If you keep this up, you're going to be bruised, too, from the way I'm holding your wrists."

         "F-fuck you…." I open my eyes hazily, watching the visions of Roger dancing around in circles, whirls, cylinders, coils, twirls, loops, curls, tendrils, helixes, twists, corkscrews, whorls, spirals… "Why don't you go home?" I whisper with determination as my eyes sadden. He's taken aback and flinches slightly. Unknowing, I continue. "Go home, Roger." I let my head fall against the soft cushion that I weakly pray is a pillow and – Christ…again, everything is black….

         I force myself to pry my eyes open and a dim light shines through something…something I can't recognize yet…but that something makes the light glare and shine and dance in my eyes that burn and throb with pain. I'm lying in my bed; I comprehend with diffused acknowledgment. That soft cushiony thing is still positioned behind my head and I sigh, leaning back onto it. It feels different now, just slightly…harder somehow and not as comfortable as I remember it being last night. I moan softly, feeling that knot tightening in my stomach and falling deeper down into…well, into places it shouldn't be.

         Suddenly, I'm aware of a face beside mine. Craning my head up, I see Roger, sitting on the edge of my bed, leaning back against the headboard, his eyes closed tightly and his mouth opened as he breathes gently in sleep. Turning some more, I note that his arm is the pillow I'm sleeping on and I raise my head, wondering just how uncomfortable that must be. Did he sleep like that all night?

         As I sit up, I feel a swirling grossness in my digestive tract, moving upwards to my throat, burning and stinging it with some unknown liquid. It continues to rise and my eyes widen painfully in realization – I'm about to throw up.

         I bolt from my position on the bed and race towards the bathroom, feeling the knot tightening and the taste of liquor and vomit rising in my throat as black dots play all over my eyes, causing me to stumble, and I'm faintly aware of how much the room is spinning and how much my head seems to pound with the pitter-patter of my own feet on the tiles of the bathroom floor as I fall to my knees before the toilet, gagging as I feel the vile flavor nipping at my esophagus as it all erupts forth from my mouth with a horribly disgusting sound – like some kind of weird moose call or something…. As I watch the vodka and liquor swirling together in a mix of throw-up, my body is wracked with tremors that cause my back to arch and my limbs to tremble violently. A few stray tears make their way from my eyes because of the intense pain this brings me, and I forget why I had been drinking yesterday in the first place.

         I feel my hair being pulled back, out of harm's way, and I glance up to note Roger's holding it, slipping a rubber band over my disheveled mess of locks to keep it as far away from my mouth as possible.

         "Whoa, Mark," he cries, turning my head back to the toilet and slanting it downward. "I don't want that on me, so let's keep it in the can, okay?"

         I nod gradually and try to respond, but before I can even get a word out, I feel the nasty bitterness rising again, and as I groan, vomit explodes again, more viciously than the first time, and I gag on it, feeling more tears slip out of my eyes.

         After about a consecutive half hour of this, my stomach pulls with emptiness and I stand to my feet, nearly toppling over, but Roger's hands steady me again. He hands me a towel and I wipe at my mouth as I feel him leading me out of the room.

         "C'mon, pal," he whispers with a short laugh. "You should probably go sit down or get something to eat or –"

         "No," I protest faintly, placing a hand on my brow as I'm helped into a folding chair. "No food…."

         As I look up, watching him go to the fridge, I note his smile – so evidently etched into my memory. "I'll get you some water?" he asks calmly.

         "O-okay…" I close my eyes, moaning quietly to myself. Jesus, he was right about being in pain. I feel like I'm dying over here, and there's not a damn thing I can do about it. And now I recall why I drank to begin with, and I feel worse for remembering… I must feel that I need to make things worse, so I ask, "Is this permanent or temporary?"

         "Huh?" he questions, grabbing a glass and placing it under the water.

         "Your being here…" I ease the pain in my abdomen with a soothing rubbing motion. "I remember seeing two suitcases…or, I guess it could've been one, because there were about a hundred of you before I passed out…"

         He chuckles slightly and brings the water in, helping me hold it steadily, for I realize my hands are quivering. "I don't know yet."

         I nod, thinking perhaps he's setting me up for a big let-down in the future, but it doesn't matter – what matters is that he's here now, and he stood by me while I puked my guts out: if that's not a friend then I don't know who is. I don't answer him, but instead take the water and guzzle at it, trying desperately to fill that empty void in my stomach.

         "Whoa, slow down, Mark," Roger, laughing, regulates my drinking with his own hands. "You'll choke."

         "Will not," I mutter between sips – all that he'll allow.

         After a few minutes, I take the cup by myself and set it down. Our eyes meet. "Better now?"

         I nod with a shrug. "Physically or mentally?"
         His frown is one of desperation as he lowers his gaze. "Either or both."

         "How about neither?" I don't mean to be this rude. I don't want to make it sound like I don't care he's here, helping me. I don't…but it just comes out this way. "I'm depressed and rotting from the inside out. How's that?"
         "Not good, I'd say."

         I sigh. "What happened to Santa Fe?"

         He takes a seat beside me on another folding chair, pushing back his hair swiftly. "What do you mean?"

         "Well," I begin, turning to face him straight on, "You're sitting back in the loft – a place you haven't been for a year or so now. You're sitting here, talking to me, helping me out, getting me water – why?"

         "Do I have to have a reason?"

         "Well, frankly, yes – I'd like to hear one."

         He crosses his legs, leaning back comfortably. "I told you why I came back – because of Collins."

         My eyes narrow and my brow furrows. "Then, why'd you bring two suitcases?"

         He stiffens, rubbing the back of his neck. "I was planning to stay in the city until after they buried him, but my train was late, so I missed the whole thing."

         "Because of me, too," I remind him dutifully. "Don't forget about last night."

         "I haven't." He looks up and I meet that lonely gaze. Damn it – he seems so lost, so…depressed?

         "Roger, about last night… I just want to thank you for staying. I mean, you didn't have you, y'know."

         "Of course I did," he whispers.

         "No, you didn't. You could've left… Anyone else would've left."

         His eyes narrow and he shakes his head swiftly, crying, "What the hell's the matter with you, Mark?"

         "What?" my voice cracks.

         "You think no one cares about you. Oh, poor Mark – he's always alone and depressed and nobody likes him."

         "Screw you."

         "No, why don't you listen to me for once first?" I'm silenced by that tone of his; reminding me just how weak I can be sometimes. "Do you know how many calls you got last night from friends who were worried out of their fuckin' minds? Maureen and Joanne called – twenty-five times. Toby rushed in –" I realize that he got the name right, "—a little after you passed out, running around like…well, like you would. He called the doctors, even after I protested numerous times; he called Maureen and Joanne and his girlfriend to tell them all you were okay. Then, he called Benny – of all people! – and told him about Collins. You wouldn't believe the way that kid can persuade people to do anything – he got Muffy –"

         "Allison," I interject with a half-smile.

         "—to come with Benny down to Collins' gravesite. Hell, Mark, if you think no one would've stayed with you last night, you're just fuckin' wrong."

         I laugh lightly, bowing my head with a slight blush. "Thanks."

         "Don't thank me, Mark. We're beyond thank you's, aren't we?"

         I nod, just a little bit. "So, where is Toby?"

         "He slept in my room last night…I mean, he slept in my old room… Anyway, I'm not sure where he is now."

         I bite my lip gently with a small laugh. "How's your arm?"

         He blushes a bit and shrugs, rubbing it. "It's okay…. Would've felt a hell of a lot better if you hadn't have fallen asleep on it."

         "You should've wakened me."

         "You were out cold, Mark. Not even a train hauling ass through the loft would've waken you."

         I look up and smile at Roger, my heart swelling. There's this intense moment of silence, where no words are needed to be spoken. In this short amount of time, perhaps only a few seconds or so, we say everything we need to with our eyes. Mine have always been a giveaway, but Roger has never been like that – he's always trying to hide those eyes of his, fearful as I am – but more careful – that his secret's out, but now it seems he doesn't care: it's almost as if he wants me to see that fear that's written plainly on his face. I see the scar April's death left in his heart. I see the hole in his soul that Mimi left there, and I see a wound that's deep cut inside that Collins put there. I see his own death wavering in the near future, despite my attempts to look aside from that fact. I see his fear that he's going to die tomorrow and leave everything behind, without anything to show for it, and I think, 'hey, isn't that my fear, too?'

         With a quivering voice, I break the silence, shaking my head defiantly, "I miss him, Roger…. Goddamn it, I miss him…."

         "Me too, pal," he replies sadly. "Me, too."

         "So what the hell are we supposed to do?" I continue. "I can't stand this pain…. I can't stand the not-knowing who's the next to go, y'know?"

         "I do." It's now his turn to bow his head, looking away. After a moment's pause, he clears his throat. "I saw the doctor yesterday…"

         My heart stops and my eyes widen. Whenever Roger willingly goes to the doctor, there's something wrong – something horribly wrong. "Any…any news?" I manage to say, although my fear is given away in that shaky query.

         "Just…just that I'm sick." He looks up, his eyes filled with tears. My heart is dropping, farther down in my stomach and even lower until I swear I'm not breathing nor is my heart beating. "Mark, I'm real sick," he whispers, clenching his jaw.

         His voice continues, but I barely hear him. Something about AIDS and sickness and months and years and about love and loss and something mixed in there about me, too, but I don't hear any of it. I waver, my lip trembling. This can't be happening. It's all such a rotten nightmare. Roger…my best friend Roger Davis is not going to fuckin' die!

         "…and so, I just gotta keep taking my AZT and hopefully everything'll work out…"

         "Yeah…" is my only reply. I swallow, trying to think up something else. "Look, I-I got a lot of money left from my contract with Alexi, so if…if you need a good treatment center, I'll be happy to take you – no matter where, no matter how much."

         He smiles, nodding. "Thanks."

         "We're beyond thanks now, aren't we?" I ask, returning the smile as much as I can.

         "Yeah…. Yeah we are."

         "So, are you –" Suddenly, my stomach tightens and I feel liquid again rising in my chest as I bolt from the chair towards the bathroom…once again to throw up.

         It's been a week: a whole week of having Roger back with me; a whole week of waking up to see him tuning with that same old guitar; a whole week to remind him to take his AZT and to write more than he wants to; a whole week to just be his best friend again. This week has been almost wonderful. If not for the fact that we went to visit Collins' grave together, I would have considered it to be the highlight of my present status. He's even become friends with Toby, if I can believe that. I think he only does it for my benefit, however…or maybe it's the fact that he's dying and he just wants more friends or to be more like Collins was – free with friendship and love. Maybe he doesn't even try to do anything; maybe it just happens this way. I've always been a firm believer that we choose our destinies by the options we select through life, but perhaps this time it's simply manifest destiny at work. I don't know, and for once I don't seem to care either. I just know that he's here and we're friends again. Isn't that all that matters, anyway?

         It's like I'm clinging to him. I can't seem to let him go, no matter what his plans are for life. He keeps telling me that Santa Fe was the best place he's ever been to – I don't buy it. He says he's going to move back there in a few weeks – once I'm settled and back to "normal", I guess – and that he's going to make a name for himself in his own way, without the help of a manager or agent or anything like that: all his terms – I don't believe him. He says he's going to write more songs and made a demo CD by himself and send it out to record producers and label companies around the country – I don't understand him. He says he's going to help people, like Collins and I did, when he gets enough money together and that he's going to give to charities and do fundraisers for needy groups and give to the homeless and be like Santa Claus – I don't believe it. I don't believe him. And I don't believe a word he says.

         I keep telling myself that he's not going to leave. I mean, NYC's his home, right? How could he leave all this behind? It's his life, his past, his present… I don't think I could ever really just pick up and leave it behind like he's asked me to do so many times recently. He said I should come with him and that we can get an apartment – or even a home – in Santa Fe. I'm not sure what he meant by that. I'm not sure exactly what he wanted me to say in reply, either. Did he really think I'd jump at the chance to leave all my memories behind? As bad as they are, I can't seem to leave them alone.

         Lately, I've been walking over to Collins' grave. It's a long walk, but it gives me time to think – and for once, I know thinking is a good thing. Today, I'm again making the trek to Trinity Cemetery on Trinity Place and Pine Street. It's around thirty-three (long) blocks to walk, but as I said, I can think and interpret and dissect and obsess on my way. So, I guess it never seems like thirty-three blocks. Time flies, as Roger would say.

         So, as I pass the Life Café and Tompkins Square Park with four different colored roses, I frown, watching the ghosts of my past flutter about there before me. Ghosts of Christmas, New Year, Valentine's Day, Halloween – each holiday means so much to me, but not for the reasons that it may to normal people. I watch Maureen's protest flash before my eyes… Only thing to do is jump over the moon… I see Benny, excitedly telling us about his Cyber studio… You'll see… I see Joanne, busy as always, never really giving anyone the time of day if she can help it, hiding in her own way… We're okay. I'm on my way!… I see Toby, forever trying to be like I am, to write that one good script, and to see life for what it is… Sometimes, Mark, life is only what you see… I see Collins returning from MIT with Angel… Today for you; tomorrow for me… I see Roger running away, returning, running again, and returning yet again… You'd miss New York before you could unpack… I see Mimi, as she died, too young to ever realize the potential she had inside her… I should tell you, I love you… I see myself – the ever-static Mark Cohen filming and disappointing the hell out of himself… If you only knew! I spend so much time obsessing, it's depressing…

         I see some kids, playing basketball in Tompkins Square Park and I smile just a bit to myself. Collins and I would often go up there and play chess on their tables, sitting for hours underneath the shade of a lonely park at midnight, waiting for the guards to kick us out because it was after curfew. We would watch the homeless people take refuge in the dog runs, digging themselves holes to sleep in for the night so that the police's flashlights wouldn't catch them. He'd tell me how he'd always wanted to teach people – not to be a teacher at NYU, but to really reach students and show them the consequences of life's misfortunes. I'd tell him how I wanted to film like that – how I'd always wanted to inspire people with a movie reel; to show them that life was something to be treasured and appreciated, not gambled and negotiated away like a cheap watch in a pawnshop.

         I'm away from all that now, I remind myself as Avenue B merges into Norfolk Street. I continue to walk, oblivious to the walk signs, which may very well read 'don't walk', but I couldn't care less at the moment.

         My thoughts stray to April. Why I keep remembering her lately, I'll never know, but I can take a pretty good guess – Roger. With Roger home and no Mimi around, it reminds me of the days before April, when we were just two kids, running around and getting into trouble. But, I also remember the moments spent with just April, much to my surprise. At the time, I never thought much of it, but now, looking back on the days when we'd go out together to Washington Square or even all the way up to Central Park – I really miss that era of my life. She would take her cute little 70's VW Bug and drive like a madwoman up to wherever we were going. I swear, she was worse than taxi drivers, sometimes. But, she'd always get me there in one piece, no thanks to my cries of, "Please, slow down!" and "April! Oh my God, we're gonna die!"

         I pass East Houston Street and head down Norfolk, recalling the time April had first let her guard down around me. As I said earlier, she was all rough-and-tough around me to begin with, and for a while I just assumed that was all there was. How wrong I can be sometimes. I remember it was November – sometime before Thanksgiving when she rushed into our loft and just fell onto the couch, sobbing. She hadn't seen me, because I was in my room, taking a nap (at that point in time, I had a job as a waiter to get money, and I only worked nights, so I had to take naps during the day to catch up on sleep). But, as I heard noises from the "living room" (as I foolishly referred to it at the time), I made my way out and was immediately taken aback by the sight before me – April? Crying? No….

         "April?" I'd whispered softly, laying a hand on her shoulder. She jumped a mile in the air, craning her head to look at me through red, blurry eyes.

         "Mark!" I'll never forget how distressed that cry was. It still haunts my dreams, even today. But, before I could comment about how sorry I was for whatever happened to her, she stood up, gaining a new sense of determination, and picked me up by my collar roughly. "What the fuck are you doing spying on me like that?"

         I shivered a little and started to come up with dozens of excuses, all of which I traded for the good old-fashioned truth. "I was just taking a nap, April. I wasn't spying on you!" She eyed me, looking for any signs of weakness or lies. "I would never do that. I swear!"

         That was the moment. When she saw the truth lit in my eyes – that was when she dropped me and flopped onto the couch again, shivering as she tried to hold in her tears. "Mark, do you ever feel like life isn't what you thought it would be?" When hadn't I? "I mean…when you were a kid, didn't you think sixteen was the biggest deal? Or twenty-one?"

         I smiled then, sitting next to her, feeling, for once in my life, completely at ease around another human being. "Of course. We all did." I shrugged lightly. "But then when you reach those goals, there's really no other landmark."

         "Exactly," she breathed, giving me a small smile. Ah, I will never forget it either, because it was the first time she really smiled. Her smile could light up a room. Roger had told me that a million times, but it was only at that moment that I truly understood him – and agreed with him, wholeheartedly. "I'm nineteen years old, Mark… And I'm waiting tables in Greenwich Village, living with roommates, who – no offense to you – don't know what the hell they're doing in life."

         I shook my head. "We all know what we want to be doing, April."

         "That's not the same…." She sighed helplessly, folding her arms and turning away, her eyes clouding with tears. "Never mind."

         I just sat there for a minute, studying her sleek form as she adjusted her position beside me, sitting on her heels. Though the pose was very unladylike, I remember thinking how beautifully feminine she looked that day. Maybe it was because she was crying, and I'd never seen this side of her before. Or maybe it was because she was saying things that I'd often thought about but was still, at the time, too afraid to admit. Maybe it was just…her – the way she moved, talked…hell, even breathed was amazing to me at that moment. It was just her.

         I reach Seward Park at Norfolk and Canal and glance over my shoulder at the long distance I've covered. Cars roll down these streets, taxis honk, and people mull around me, bumping into me and hitting me accidentally with their baggage. I can't even see Tompkins from here. Hell, I can't see anything… I think to myself what a long way this is from home, but I'm not worried. That gives me courage. Maybe that means someday I'll have enough guts to get away from New York and try Santa Fe out for myself. Maybe even go with Roger…

         I turn and continue on my way, traveling down East Broadway, watching some street kids throwing punches as friends attempt to hold them back. I smile sadly, recalling the times when my best friend Brian and I, back when I was in grade school, would go through those kinds of fights. Brian Neeham – hell, I remember that kid as if he were standing before me now. Our fights were always over one of three things: a girl that we both thought was cute, something someone said we said to someone else that wasn't true at all, or over why I was right and he was wrong. I remember the time spent with Brian as an eye-opener. We were both shy and withdrawn most of the time, and when he moved away when I was thirteen, I cried for the first time…. But this memory is wiped from my mind as I realize that if he hadn't have left, I would have never met Roger or Maureen or April or Joanne… Nothing would've been the same. And yet, I miss him. After how many fuckin' years of not remembering, I choose now to recall his smiling face, his silver braces, and his long, unruly hair? It seems unnatural. I mean, I haven't seen the guy since I was thirteen! Jesus, that seems like ages ago…

         Just as I said to April, you await these milestones in your life like turning sixteen so you can drive and once you pass them up, you can't have them back – ever. I remember thinking twenty-one was a huge deal back in high school. I mean, that's the time you go out and party 'til you're falling over, puking and reeking of booze and whores, right? Wrong. When I turned twenty-one, I got a card from my mom saying, "Happy Birthday to my favorite son: One day closer to thirty!" It was supposed to be a joke card, but it just depressed the hell out of me. I mean, 'one day closer to thirty' is like saying, "One day closer to death, son! See ya when you get there!"

         Maybe I'm thinking too much again…. Probably. My biggest problems in life would be solved if I just dove right into situations, headfirst, without looking before I leap. And where did I ever pick up that notion, anyhow? I mean, my dad always tried to push me into things and my mother was the very definition of a pacifist. And my sister…well, she was too busy with makeup, cooking, and boyfriends to give a damn about the rest of the family. I guess that's why she fit in so nicely; because she was just like the rest of them… And screw it, because I'm not going to be forced to love and honor my family, damn it! I'll hate them if I please….

         But, no…I don't hate them. I could never hate them, which makes me hate myself for who I've become. Jesus, I don't even have my own thoughts anymore.

         I notice that I've already merged onto Park Row and have passed City Hall Park and the New York Downtown Hospital. As I make my way onto Canyon of Heroes, the words of the streets mush in my brain, leaving only one word out: heroes.

         When I was in high school, we all had to write these ridiculous papers on who our hero was and why. I couldn't think of one person to write about. It was the first assignment I flunked. I've never had a hero. I mean, why do we even need one to begin with? They're usually these intangible people who we don't even know: movie stars, sports players, foreign ambassadors, presidents, historical figures… None of that bullshit is real, so why bother with it? If I were to write that paper now, I still wouldn't have a damn hero… Or would I? The thought of Collins as my hero turns through my head now, but I dismiss it, not wanting to even put his name in my thoughts until I can control them.

         I'm here… I see the gravesite coming up before me as I turn onto Trinity Place, watching where it crosses with Pine Street. I almost turn away, as I've done everyday now, but, as always, I strain to keep going. I know once I get there the anxiety will melt into sobs and cries and weariness… As I enter through the large steel gates, I follow the curved path that takes me to the back of the site, where Collins' small grave. For such an important part of my life, he occupies such a small plot of earth in his death.

         I bend, letting the four roses slip from my fingertips onto the cool ground beside his tombstone.

         "One red rose: to symbolize the simple words of "I love you". Red is normally for passion and romantic love, but today, it is for love of my dearest friend.

         "One white rose: to symbolize innocence, purity, and youthfulness. Most of all, it is labeled as the "keep a secret" rose. You've kept my deepest darkest secrets locked inside of you for all your life, and will continue, I'm sure to do so in death… And I thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for it. Without you, everyone would know me so quickly and judge with contempt.

         "One yellow rose: to symbolize friendship and my deepest caring for you, Collins. Also, and more importantly, it stands for remembrance. Your memory will always be in my heart, and I cherish every moment spent with you.

         One pink rose: symbolizing the three things it stands for – gentleness, because you were the sweetest person I knew; 'please believe me' to simply say that you know how I felt and I've always told you my feelings straightforwardly, without pause or anxiety, which always helped me through whatever problem I was in; and most significantly 'perfect happiness' because I know that's what you're in right now: in death one is more content than in life, and I hope you rest in peace…"