Copyright: All
characters from RENT belong to Jonathan Larson and whoever owns the rights
now. Without his play, I'd never have
my stories or anything to obsess over.
The Bohemian Offspring and Dulcinea belong to me. Oh, and I gotta give credit to Victor
Hugo. One story line is similar to a
story line in Les Miserables (if you've seen or read Les Mis, you'll
understand what I'm talking about).
I reworked my stories and combined them together. There are a few obvious changes, as you soon
will see. I finally had time to update
– hope ya like.
December 24, 1996. 10:30 pm.
"The power
is officially restored," Collins announced as he grabbed a seat on the
couch. "I say let's order in some
Chinese food and watch Mark's film."
Mimi
snuggled herself into Roger's chest.
"I'm game."
"Are you
sure?" Roger asked worriedly. "You
probably should get some rest." If I
ever lose her again, someone better shoot me.
Mimi kissed
her boyfriend's cheek. "I'm feeling
much better, honey." She turned to
Mark, Joanne, and Maureen. "What do you
think? Chinese food and Mark's film?"
Joanne and
Maureen agreed (for the first time in their entire relationship) that it was a
very good idea.
Roger
called up the Chinese restaurant, and within fifteen minutes, everyone was
sitting around the projector.
"Marky,
turn the projector on," Maureen ordered.
Mark
glanced quizzically toward where the voice was. It was a female voice, and it sounded familiar. He heard the sound of the voice, but he
couldn't connect the sounds into any logical sentences. He wished he at least could connect the
voice with a name. He saw her brown
eyes, her curly black hair, and her full lips.
It meant nothing to him and he couldn't figure out why.
"Mark … earth to Mark!" Maureen said.
Mark
blinked. "Sorry, um, what did you say?"
"The projector."
He was
barely able to make any sense of what the woman was saying, but he heard the
word projector. He turned it
on.
The images
on the screen were brighter than he had expected. The colors were almost too vibrant, and he recognized nothing he
had filmed. The brightness was killing
his eyes. What the hell is wrong
with me? Is there some kind of drug
hidden in the egg rolls? His senses
were playing tricks on him. He closed
his eyes so he wouldn't have to look at the bright fragments of nothingness.
Roger
stopped stroking Mimi's hair to give his best friend a worried look. The filmmaker was ashen-faced, and his eyes
were tightly shut. "Mark?" He nudged his friend. When he didn't respond, he grabbed his
shoulders and shook him. "Mark!" he
shouted.
Damn
it! I know that voice, too, Mark
thought grimly to himself. He felt
something – pins and needles? Voodoo sticks? – poke him. He forced himself to open his eyes. "Hey… just… I'm fine… watch," he
mumbled. Is someone making noise
next door? "Will you shut the fuck
up!" he screamed towards the wall. "You
folks are way too loud!"
"Who's too
loud?" Joanne asked.
"The people
next door!"
"Um, there is
no 'next door'," Mimi said quietly.
"And everybody is in this room."
Maureen
giggled. "You must be hallucinating, Mark."
Mark loves to joke around with us. Deep down, her ex-boyfriend's behavior was worrying her. The look in his eyes was one of genuine
confusion and fear. She lowered her
voice. "Are you alright, Marky?"
Why is everyone
staring at me? He wanted to scream
or run or do anything but be in here, with these people staring at him. "Um, you know. Maybe bed… a sleep… sounds
good," he stammered. He stood up and
staggered to his room. "I'll see you in
the morning."
Roger
watched Mark leave the living room. He
was fine earlier. He glanced around
at the rest of his friends' faces. They
were all staring in the direction of Mark's room. Even Mimi, who had almost – no! Don't even think about that! – even Mimi looked concerned. He stood up and walked towards his best
friend's room. "Mark?" he called.
"I'm
sleeping," Mark answered. "I'll feel
better in the morning, alright, Roge?"
* * *
December 24, 1996. 11:58 pm.
Collins pulled
his overcoat tightly around his body, trying to keep out the bitter chill. The impromptu screening of Mark's film had
been a success, even if the filmmaker himself had not stayed to view it. He wondered what Mark's behavior tonight had
been about. Tonight was not going to be
an easy night; they knew that long before Maureen and Joanne arrived with Mimi. It would have been his one-year-anniversary
with Angel. Mark was having a difficult
time handling his death. Hell,
Collins reminded himself. We all
are. Mark had used his film as an excuse,
but they all knew the truth. Mark had
buried himself in his work – didn't even eat or sleep for two months straight –
in order to avoid showing his emotions.
As he
passed the phone booth, he could almost picture Angel sitting there, pounding a
gentle rhythm on the pickle tub drum. You
okay, honey? … I'm afraid so …Be my lover – and I'll cover you. He blinked back the hot tear forming in the
corner of his eye. God, how he wished
he could hold his Angel again!
"Live in my
house – I'll be your shelter," he found himself singing softly under his
breath. He swallowed and let his voice
rise a little. "Just pay me back – with
one thousand kisses." His deep, booming
voice carried across Avenue B. "Be my
lover – and I'll cover you …"
He was interrupted
by a quiet moan. He nearly jumped when he
saw the small figure huddled against the side of the phone booth. He slowly approached it, and knelt down. It was a young girl, with latte colored
skin, thick raven-black hair matted to her cheeks, and large amber eyes that gazed
at the intruding philosopher in terror.
Her burgundy dress, ripped and shredded, was soaked in blood. She had cuts all over her forehead and
neck. Blood and snow mixed together and
dripped down her hair.
Jesus!
Collins said to himself. Where's the
monster that hurt this kid?! He
gently lay a hand on her shoulder.
"Hush,
hush," he soothed. "It's gonna be okay."
The girl
recoiled, and attempted to scoot back against the phone booth. Unfortunately, she could barely move as it
was.
"My name is
Collins," he told her. "I'm going to
call the paramedics." He ducked into
the booth, hoping the medical dispatchers wouldn't bug him with too many questions. He didn't want to leave the girl alone. As soon as the call was completed, Collins
sat down next to the child. He removed
his coat and pressed it against the girl – partly for warmth and partly to stop
the loss of blood.
"Dulcinea,"
she said. Her voice was barely above a
whisper.
"Excuse me?"
Collins asked.
"Dulcinea,"
she repeated, a little more forcefully.
"My name is Dulcinea."
Collins
smiled. "That's a beautiful name," he
assured her. "She's a character in Man
of La Mancha. Have you ever read
it?"
Dulcinea
nodded. "My brother used to read it to
me. It was his favorite book because my
name was in it."
"It was my
boyfriend's favorite book, too," he said softly. Before Angel had gotten sick, they would read to each other. Angel almost always requested that Collins
read Man of La Mancha.
He decided
he should do anything to keep the girl awake and alert. "I'm sure your brother is a very nice man," he
said.
He saw a
faint glimmer of a smile begin to form on Dulcinea's face. "I was gonna visit him on Halloween," she said. "It being his favorite holiday and all. I – I couldn't find him." She looked up at Collins, her amber eyes soaked
in tears.
Her eyes … they
reminded him of Angel. Angel's eyes,
once shining and full of hope, had become dull and frightened. She even looked like his deceased boyfriend. He shook his head and pushed the futile
thought aside.
"Can you
tell me your brother's name?"
"Angel," she
answered. "Angel Dumott Schunard."
Collins mouth dropped open. "That's – that's my boyfriend!" he exclaimed. He had almost said was my boyfriend,
but decided that this was not the time to tell the child her brother was
dead.
"Do you
love him?" Dulcinea pressed.
"Of course
I love him," Collins said. "Your
brother is the best thing that's ever happened to me."
She asked him
where Angel was. Luckily for Collins,
the ambulance arrived and saved him from having to formulate a difficult lie.
* *
*
December 25, 1996. 8
am.
"Silent
night, holy night," the alto and baritone voices sang. "All is calm, all is
bright."
Mark wrapped
his pillow against his ears. "Go 'way!"
he mumbled. "I'm sleeping!"
"Don't you want
to open your presents?" Roger asked.
Christmas morning was the only time of the year he ever woke up before
noon. When all he got in response was a
groan, he yanked the covers off the film maker's body. "Jesus, Mark!" he said. "You slept in your clothes?"
Mark nodded
and curled up into a ball. "Go away,"
he repeated.
Roger
turned to Joanne. "I think we should
take his arms and drag him into a nice cold shower." He grinned at her.
It was enough
to get Mark to sit boltly upright in bed.
"Okay, okay, I'm up!"
Joanne
rubbed at her eyes, trying to force herself to stay awake. She had spent most of the night in the
hospital with Collins. No, Collins wasn't
hurt or ill – he had found a girl that had been badly beaten. The ironic thing was, not only had she been
left near the beloved phone booth, but Dulcinea was also Angel's sister. The sixteen-year-old had been beaten up by her
pimp over a money issue. Joanne couldn't
believe it. Why do good people have to
go and get mixed up in bad business?
It pained her to see the child – and yes, that is how she thought of her
– crying in pain and asking repeatedly for Angel. Collins hadn't left her side all night, and he wasn't going to do
so until Dulcinea's condition improved.
Joanne and Maureen had slept over at the loft. This was partly because by the time Joanne returned at 2 am, Maureen
was already snoring on the pullout coach.
Roger had decided that their lives would be in less danger if they let
Maureen stay where she was (the drama queen was a classic bitch when she was
half-asleep).
"I'll have
to return to my apartment to get your gifts," Joanne informed the boys. She navigated her way through boxes of leftover
Chinese food and film reels. This
place is a pigsty! Not that it bothered
her anymore. Now if this was her
apartment - that would be different. As
she left the loft, she knelt down and kissed her girlfriend on the lips.
"Wakey, wakey, Honeybear," she cooed. "Santa Claus is here."
Maureen opened a lazy green eye and
smiled. "Morning, Pookie," she said, and
returned the kiss. "Merry Christmas."
* *
*
December 27, 1996. 3:45
pm.
"Room 204,
please."
The receptionist
looked up at the curly-haired Latina woman standing before her. "Second floor, last door to your left hand
side."
Mimi
thanked her and ran to the elevator.
She couldn't believe she was finally meeting Angel's sister. He had always spoken with great pride about
her. Despite the
three-year-age-difference, the Schunard siblings were inseparable. Angel used to talk about his plans to sneak
into his family's apartment and see his Dulce while his parents were gone. She wished Angel was here now, and she was
almost sure Collins did, too. She wasn't
sure if Dulcinea knew about her brother yet.
That would be Collins job. She had
enrolled for the spring term at NYU this morning. She was on probation due to the drugs screwing her up last semester,
but that didn't faze her. Even though
she was only twenty-years-old, she was a senior, because she had skipped the
third grade. She even put in a request
to change her major. She had been a
psychology major, but now she wanted to add women's studies. Her NA sponsor told her to put a dollar in a
jar every time she felt the urge to shoot up.
She was to use the money (which would have been wasted on smack) for
something worthwhile. Mimi wanted to
help young girls avoid what she herself had gone through. She had nowhere to turn to after her father's
death – until she found heroin and AIDS. Despite what some people thought, she had actually started working
at the Cat Scratch Club to pay her tuition.
It was only recently that she had started using the money to pay for
drugs. Angel chica, you should be
here to help me.
Mimi pushed
all thoughts aside when she arrived at her designation. She knocked quietly on the door of Room 204, and
then pushed it open with her foot.
"Hey Collins,"
she greeted the worn-out philosopher. The
man looked like he hadn't slept in days – not a big exaggeration. He was sprawled out on one of the hospital's
hard wooden chairs.
Collins
stood up and gave her a hug. He gestured
to the bed, where Dulcinea lay, her head swathed in bandages. Mimi pulled up a chair.
"Hey there,
Dulcinea," she said. "I'm Mimi. I'm – I'm a friend of Collins and Angel."
Dulcinea
limply shook her hand. "Nice to meet
you," the teen said. She narrowed her
eyes, as if she had recognized Mimi from somewhere.
"I dance at
the Cat Scratch Club," Mimi offered. "Handcuffs?"
Dulcinea
shook her head. "No, I think my brother
talked about you. We met once for lunch
last year. I skipped school and met him
at the Life Café." She turned her face
toward Collins. "Where is Angel,
anyways?" She bore her amber eyes into
Collins' velvety brown ones. "I want to
know – now! What are you trying
to hide?"
Mimi and
Collins looked at each other. They had
to tell the child sometime.
Collins knelt
down and grasped Dulcinea's hand. "Honey,
Angel passed away in October," he said softly.
"He had AIDS."
"I knew he
had AIDS. Oh – oh my god!" Mimi bent down to give her a hug, but she
pushed the dancer away. Her voice
quivered. "He-he talked about you and your
friends nonstop. Especially you,
Collins. He raved about you." She blinked back tears. "Mami and Papi had kicked him out of the
house cause he was gay. You – you were more
family to him than we were." She
stopped to take a breath and force a flow of tears back into her eyes.
"Shhh ..
shh … it's okay to cry," Mimi whispered. She and Collins gathered
the young prostitute into their arms and let her soak their shirts with her
tears. Mimi ran her fingers down Dulcinea's
cheek. "Let it out. We're here for you."
After a few
minutes, Dulcinea looked up at Collins, her amber eyes reminding him of a stray
puppy. "When did he die?" she asked.
"His
memorial service was on Halloween morning," he answered.
Dulcinea's eyes
grew wider and she gave a short gasp.
"We know," Mimi
told her. "Halloween was Angel's favorite
holiday."
Dulcinea
shook her head. "It's not that," she
told her new friends. She took a
breath. "That was the morning my
daughter was born." She realized they
were puzzled and continued. "I-I named her
Angel Musetta Schunard. You know, it
being Angel's favorite holiday and all."
They didn't
have to ask where Musetta came from.
Angel had been obsessed with La Boheme ever since he had learned
that a character had his last name.
Mimi felt a
lump rising in her throat. She suddenly
had an idea as to why this girl had been on the street soliciting herself. Too many girls she knew had been kicked out
of their homes because they were pregnant.
If the Schunard's strict Dominican father could cast his only son out of
the family for being gay, then he certainly would have no qualms about kicking out
his only daughter because she was pregnant.
She couldn't believe that two of the sweetest people she'd ever met had
such cruel parents. She was interrupted
by Collins' bass voice.
"Where's
Angel now?" he was asking the girl.
"She lives
with my pimp's brother Tenny," she replied.
"He-he runs a motel up in Poughkeepsie.
I pay him $40 a month."
Just then, a
nurse peered her head in the door. "Visiting
hours are over," she announced.
Mimi gave
Dulcinea a hug. "I'll see you tomorrow,
chica," she promised the girl. Dulcinea
smiled. As she walked out of the room,
she made a mental note to talk to Joanne about Dulcinea's child.
* *
*
December 30, 1996. 7
pm.
Roger sat
on the table, struggling to pick out a chord on his guitar. It amazed him to see how quickly Mimi had
recovered from her brush with death.
She woke him up during the night with her withdrawal pains, but he knew
from experience that those fits would grow less frequent with time. At the moment, she was quitting her job at
the Cat Scratch Club. Her NA sponsor
had recommended she distance herself from potential relapse situations. She didn't need the job to pay tuition,
anyways – Benny was taking care of it. At first, Roger had been suspicious of Benny's motives – how could
anyone blame him after all the shit the guy pulled? But he realized that Benny was genuinely sorry – he was only human
and humans tend to screw up sometimes. Right
now, he was worried about Mark. The
filmmaker had been in his room all day, just staring at the ceiling. Several times, he had complained to Roger that
it was too loud. Except for the TV
turned low, there was no other noise in the loft. He didn't know how to explain the reason behind Mark's strange
behavior this week. Probably shaken
up cause of Mimi, he told himself. Hell
– we're all shaken up cause of what happened to Mimi. He hoped that this was a phase. Mark would be back to himself in no time.
A knock on
the door brought him back to his senses.
Got a light? … I know you – you're – you're shivering …
Instead of finding Mimi, he saw Collins. His philosopher friend sprawled himself onto
the couch.
"So, I hear
Mimi's quitting her job."
Roger
nodded and joined Collins on the couch.
"Yeah. I'm gonna miss those outfits
though." He grinned at Collins. "But we still got the handcuffs!"
Collins
cuffed him on the ear. "Oh, I bet you would,
wouldn't you? There's a lot that can be
done with handcuffs, you know."
Roger
laughed. "Oh yeah!" He immediately grew serious. "Tell me, how's Dulcinea?" By this time, all
of Angel's friends had seen his sister.
It was hard not to be endeared to her.
She had all of the qualities that made them love her brother. The only one who hadn't become friends with
her was Mark. He had taken one look at his
dead friend's sister (who looked very much like Angel himself) and bolted from
the room.
"They're
discharging her tonight," Collins answered.
"I'm gonna take her to my apartment."
Since the
summer, Collins had been living in a tenement on the Lower East Side. It was a tiny space compared to the
loft. A living room held a couch, a
desk, a computer, and a TV. A shower
stall accompanied the kitchen. The bedroom
was so tiny, there was barely enough room for a bed and a dresser.
"How's
Mark?" Collins asked, glancing in the direction of Mark's room.
Roger
pinched his lips together. "Not good. I'm starting to worry about him."
"Give him
space," Collins said. "He'll come around eventually."
The two
friends chatted for a few more minutes.
Collins looked at his watch and stood up. "I'd better get to the hospital before they release Dulcinea."
"Hey, I'm
meeting Mimi over at the Life around 10," Roger informed him. "Wanna drop by?"
Collins
shook his head. "I don't want to leave
Dulcinea by herself."
* *
*
December 30, 1996.
8:15 pm.
When
Collins arrived at the familiar Room 204, he was surprised to see himself
greeted by a forlorn doctor.
"I'm Dulcinea
Schunard's friend," he explained. "She's
supposed to be released tonight."
The doctor
motioned him over to a chair in the hallway.
"Yes, Mr. Collins, I know who you are," the doctor said. He extended his hand. "My name is Dr. Lewis. I think you should sit down, sir."
Collins
gulped back the fear in his chest.
Whenever a doctor told you to sit down, it meant they had bad
news. "Is-is Dulcinea alright?" Collins
struggled to get the words out. Please
let her be okay. C'mon, girl.
Dr. Lewis
shook his head. "She had an infection –
a blood clot in her lung – as a result of the beating she took. She passed away around 4 o'clock this afternoon."
Collins blinked
to keep the linoleum floor from swimming.
"Dead?" he whispered. The news
was a shock to him. "She's – she's dead?"
Dr. Lewis
placed a hand on the Black man's shoulder.
"I'm sorry."
"She was
supposed to go home tonight, damn it!"
Dr. Lewis
cleared his throat. "She left me a
note," he said. "Wanted me to give it
to you." He handed Collins a folded
piece of paper. Collins could almost make
out the hospital logo and curvy handwriting.
"Thanks,
doc," he said. He slipped the note into
his pocket and allowed himself to grieve.
Damn it, Angel! It's not fair! It's not fuckin' fair! He took a few deep breaths and forced his
legs to carry him out of this god-forsaken hospital. As soon as he felt the cold New York air biting his cheek, he
reached into his pocket and looked at the note Dulcinea had left him.
Dear Collins,
he read. Thank you for
everything. I never knew what love
meant until I met you, Mimi, Roger, Joanne, and Maureen. I wish I knew how to thank you. I know that I'm gonna die soon (I'm not dumb
ya know). I can see why my brother
loved you so much. You are a beautiful
person, inside and out. Love
always, Dulcinea Ani Schunard.
Collins
felt a tear trickle down his face and stain the paper. So were you, Dulce, so were you. His eye caught a p.s. at the bottom. P.S. Take care of Angel for me.
* *
*
December 30, 1996. 10:15 pm.
Mimi tapped
her foot impatiently against the floor of the Life Café. Roger was supposed to meet her fifteen minutes
ago. Her boyfriend's tardiness didn't shock
her. Roger was notorious for being
late. She drank a cup of decaf coffee
while she waited. Quitting her job
proved more difficult than she originally expected. Her manager looked like he was going to grovel at her feet, the
way he kept begging her to stay and telling her that her handcuff act drew more
customers than any other. She simply
told him to teach one of the other dancers the act, and walked out.
She looked
up when she saw the figure of Collins enter the Café. "Oh my god! Collins!" she shouted, waving him over to the
table. "Roger told me that you weren't coming." She stopped herself when she saw the defeated
look on his face. "What's wrong?" she
asked.
"It's over,"
Collins whispered. "Dulcinea's dead."
The two
friends stood there for almost five minutes, crying into each other.
"Do you want
something to drink?" Mimi asked between sobs and I'm sorry's.
Collins
shook his head and broke the embrace. "No
time," he answered. "There's something
I gotta do." He gazed at Mimi to see if
she understood. "There's something I
need to take care of – in Poughkeepsie."