Yeah. This is chapter five. Everybody be happy and rejoice. Or, you know, not. Um… read/review. Please. Unless this chapter really sucks, in which case save my injured self-esteem and remain silent. Thanks.

Disclaimer: Still not mine. Sorry.

Through My Blood

By Alison

Chapter Five: Deafened By The Fight

I didn't know how I'd gotten there or how much time had passed. My head still spun wildly as I opened the door to the loft and stumbled inside.

"Roger, where'd you--" Mark stopped abruptly. He inched towards me, looking very much like he was approaching a crazed murderer. "Are you okay?"

"Sure, fine. Never been better." I laughed and threw myself onto the couch. My landing made a funny "plop" sound and I giggled again.

Mark's voice trembled as he spoke. "Um, you sound... you sound like..."

"Like what?" The reality of the situation hadn't quite hit my drug-hazed brain yet.

"Where'd you go?" he asked, his tone gravely low.

I swallowed, trying to think clearly. "Nowhere."

Before I could react, the filmmaker was nearly on top of me. He grasped my arm firmly and tugged my shirt sleeve up to my bicep.

"Jesus," he breathed, wincing at the angry red needle prick. His eyes ventured upward to meet mine inquisitively. "Why?"

I jerked my arm away. "You don't understand. I had to, okay? I--"

"Fuck that! Don't give me any of your shitty excuses, I've heard them all!" he shouted, visibly hurt. "I can't believe you would... after all this time... you promised, Roger, you promised you'd never use again!"

His shouting made my mind began to clear just slightly, enough to send a wave of dread rushing over my stomach. "I -- I know. Mark, I'm sorry..."

"You're sorry?" His brow shot up in disbelief. "You're sorry? You have some nerve, thinking that's gonna make everything okay!"

"It's your fault, you know!" Realizing what had just left my mouth, I paused and turned pale. "Shit, I didn't mean--"

"Get out." Mark turned away, shaking his head.

"What?"

"Get out. This is my apartment and I don't want a junkie living in it."

God, did he mean...?

He did. The expression on his face, sad and angry and betrayed, spoke more than words ever could. Wordlessly I stood and trudged to the door. My hand lingering over the doorknob, I prayed silently that he would change his mind and call me back.

He said nothing. It was over. "See ya," I muttered under my breath before leaving.

He hated me. My best friend -- my Mark -- hated me. He wanted me out. I was a disappointment to him, to everyone. Why did I always hurt the people I loved?

And I did love Mark. Apparently it took losing him to realize that for certain, but now it seemed clearer than daylight, the most natural and obvious thing in the world. I loved him. But not just that... I was in love with him.

The drugs hadn't helped. The filmmaker's face still haunted my thoughts like a wraith. There had to be some other way to forget.

At the back of our building, in the lower left corner of the wall, was a loose brick. I used to hide my stash there before Mark found out about my addiction. After I got clean, I still kept a few things there -- it was the only storage area I had that absolutely nobody knew about.

I pried the brick out and reached into the hole that remained. A twenty dollar bill and a switchblade knife lay in the dark crevice. I pocketed both and replaced the brick snugly.

Within minutes, I found myself in front of a nearby pub. It was too early to be crowded, but the lunchtime crowd was beginning to filter in so I wouldn't be noticed too much.

I set my money on the counter and ordered the hardest liquor they had. Three shots and five agonizing minutes later, the torture in my head had yet to relent. There was no release, anywhere I turned. Was I condemned to spend the rest of my life -- however short it might be -- away from the one person I truly loved? How the hell could I survive without Mark to take care of me, to fix my coffee and tell me stories and listen to my music and calm me down and hold me out of harm's way?

There was only one solution, and it was becoming steadily more obvious with every drink, every passing second. I ran my fingers over the cool steel of the knife in my back pocket, then stood up with determination. I had to do this, had to ease the pain and forget Mark and Mimi and everything else…permanently.

Movement came slowly -- the heroin and alcohol were taking their toll on my body. It was a dangerous combination; even when I was a junkie I knew better than to drink and shoot up in such close proximity. Not that it mattered now. Soon, nothing would.

I wandered down the streets, not sure where I was going. The loft was out of the question, for obvious reasons. I didn't know anywhere else. My thoughts were scattered, jumbled into an incoherent, drugged mess. For a moment I even forgot why I was outside, why I was clutching a switchblade knife in my shaky, sweating palm.

Outside Tompkins Square Park I remembered my purpose. Dodging the children and homeless people that inhabited the park, I found a partially secluded spot, where fences and tall bushes would provide the privacy I needed. Just as I reached the area, my legs gave out and I tumbled to the ground. It took me a few minutes to regain enough stability to sit up. I channeled every remaining ounce of energy into flipping open the blade and placing it against my wrist.

As I began to apply pressure, a distant voice called my name, and suddenly I was afraid to continue. What if the voice was someone important? What if somebody needed me?

But nobody needed me. Not Mimi -- she'd probably just run back to Benny the moment she heard I was gone. Not Collins -- if he needed anybody, it was Angel, not me. Certainly not Maureen or Joanne -- they were too concerned with each other to realize that anyone else existed, especially me.

And Mark? Mark didn't need me. He never had. It was I that needed him – when I nearly overdosed and came home too high to even move, when I was going through withdrawal, when I got the flu, when Mimi and I broke up, when I felt depressed and angry and hopeless -- I had always needed him. I liked to play tough, to pretend I was strong and mature and in control, but nothing could have been further from the truth. I was pathetic. For Christ's sake, I couldn't even make my own blood cells function properly!

Mark, on the other hand, was and always would be a survivor. Healthy, intelligent, hardworking, caring, devoted, stable, a great friend, a great person in general... maybe that was why I loved him. Because he was everything I wanted to be but could only ever dream of.

What was I to him? A dying, strung-out, worthless excuse for a man who had only ever hurt him and take up his time with my own problems. How could anybody ever love someone like me? No, it wasn't possible. Mark had done the right thing, kicking me out. And he knew it. He deserved better.

The voice rang out softly again. Hallucinations, I assured myself. Just get this over with.

The sound seemed to grow louder, or maybe it was my mind trying desperately to focus on something that wasn't the digging pain in my arm. Warm, tainted blood spilled out of the long gash, staining my skin and clothes.

"Roger! Where are you?"

The other wrist was next. It cut easier and seemed to bleed faster than the first. I was drowning in it, I thought vaguely, surrounded by my own blood and sweat and tears and now vomit... I began convulsing uncontrollably, my body rebelling and my thoughts fading and --

"Roger!" A hand grabbed my shoulder.

Mark? No, it couldn't be. He hated me, he wouldn't be wrapping his arms around my chest like this person was. I tried to speak but could manage only a choked, wordless whisper.

"God, Roger, I -- I'm so sorry, this is all my fault! Jesus..."

Time and events became a blur. My attention began to zone in and out, catching only brief words and phrases, fragments of action as Mark screamed for help. Later -- was it seconds, minutes, hours maybe? I didn't know – he mentioned "AIDS," then cried out in protest as somebody tore him away from me. I moaned weakly.

There was a stretcher, though I didn't know where it had come from, and several strong hands lifting onto it. People were calling random words, something like medical gibberish, to each other, but I didn't pay attention. The last thing my brain processed was Mark lunging forward, despite the warnings that echoed all around me, and grasping my bloodstained hand tightly.

Then everything went black.