Disclaimer: Hey, I finally made one! These characters aren't mine; although I
wish they were…blah…the credit belongs to Jonathan Larson and RENT…
"You left
me on a Tuesday."
After
twenty minutes of silence, a raspy voice echoed through the small New York City
graveyard. He had been standing there,
at the small grave under the weeping willow for what had seemed like
hours. The petals from the tree above
sprinkled down like a warm spring rain, leaving pink dots on the tombstone and
on the mossy grass that struggled to grow.
It looked
like rain. The clouds were in the sky,
prepared to unleash their fury onto Alphabet City. But the rain didn't intimidate Roger Davis. He'd neglected to run this errand for nearly
six months. Clutching the small bouquet
of daisies he'd bought with the change in his pockets, he stepped forward
shyly, the tears already forming in his azure eyes.
"That was
the worst Tuesday of my life," he whispered, a lone tear slipping down his
scruffy cheek. "I felt like I lost my
best friend. In fact, I did. I miss you so much. Sometimes I feel actual pain when I think
about you." Roger closed his eyes and
tried to collect his thoughts.
"You
shouldn't be here." He knelt down and sat next to the grave. This cemetery was for crack-addicts and
homeless people, people who didn't have anyone to care about them or love
them. People who didn't have the money
or the faith to get buried in one of those fancy, churchyards with white picket
fences and pretty red roses every spring.
This place had a broken wire fence that had gaping holes in it. The grounds was so infertile and hard that
the only thing that would grow was mossy brown grass and the occasional weeping
willow was planted by the city, but forget pretty red roses. Birds' songs or a gentle wind didn't
serenade it; the only sound heard was smashing glass or police sirens.
Roger
buried his head in his hands. "I'm
sorry things couldn't be better for you.
I'm sorry I had to be such a negligent asshole. Jesus, here I am treating you like shit 364
days a year. And I think writing some
cheesy song about your eyes will make everything all right? I am a fool."
The wind
seemed to offer comfort, blowing the sweet scent of petals towards him.
"Mark
doesn't know I'm here," Roger remarked.
"And if he did he would get all joyful that I left the loft. So I won't tell if you won't." After a brief period of silence, Roger
opened his mouth again. "I haven't left
the loft since you died, you know. Six
months. I just sit and play my
guitar. I play your song, babe. I play 'Your Eyes'."
The bitter
chill of the December wind hit Roger, causing his tall frame to shiver. "Damn, it's cold. It's hard to believe that it's been so long since we first met,
isn't it? It all started on that
Christmas…I don't remember if it rained or not, but it sure was freezing."
The small
talk finally got through to Roger and a sob escaped his throat. "You left me on a Tuesday. Exactly six months ago, but it seems like a
thousand years. You were my true love
and I'm never going to forget you, sweetheart." Roger stood up carefully and placed the bouquet gently on the
grave. "I have to get back before Mark
sees I'm gone. He's out fixing Maureen's
equipment for a protest tonight.
Something about the homeless in the lot next to us. Collins met someone too. His name…her name…uh…it's name is Angel."
Roger brushed the dying petals off the tombstone and hummed the song he had
written.
"I really
like the song I wrote," he remarked tearfully, kissing his fingers and touching
the grave. "I want to use to again
sometime. But no matter who I use it
for, it's always going to be your song."
He scuffed the ground with his boot.
"I don't know how much time I have…so I'll see you soon, either here or…"
He looked up at the sky. "There." Letting out a sigh, Roger gave the grave one
last glance and turned to walk away.
"Merry
Christmas, April," he whispered as the gates shut behind him.
