Mark POV:

            I stare at Roger sitting on the couch in jeans and a sweatshirt and shudder, just imagining how hot he must be. It's the middle of July, we're in the middle of a heat wave, and the loft is like a sauna. He's been acting so weird lately and I'm really starting to get concerned.

            "Roger?"

            "Hm?"

            He looks up at me and I can see the beads of sweat on his forehead.

            "Why the hell are you dressed like that? You must be sweating!"

            He bites his lip. "Um…yeah, I dunno…all my short-sleeved shirts are dirty."

            "So…? You wear a sweatshirt instead of none at all? Roger…you go shirtless in the winter… What's wrong with you? Do you feel okay?"  I begin to worry that maybe he's getting sick, and that's the reason for the sweating and winter clothes, despite the temperature in the loft.

            "Um, no…I'm fine…"

            I go over to him and put a hand to his forehead.

            "You know Roger, if you're getting sick... Jesus Roger, you're burning up!"

            He pulls away quickly.

            "It's not a fever, I'm just really hot..."

            I look at him in confusion. "Then...why are you dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt?"

            He throws the magazine he was reading on the floor and stands up angrily.

            "God Mark, just leave me alone for once! Stop being so fucking suspicious all the time! Geez... So I'm wearing a long-sleeved shirt...so fucking what?! God!"

            He stomps angrily to his room and slams the door, leaving me alone staring at the closed door in shock, wondering what in hell just happened.

Roger POV:

            Once in my room I savagely dig my hand in my pocket and pull out my razor quickly, wasting no time in yanking up my sleeve and dragging the cool blade across my skin several times before collapsing on my bed in relief.

            There...that's better. So much better...

            Alright, so maybe I overreacted a little. I feel bad for shouting at Mark like that when I'm sure he had only my best interest at heat, but did he have to call attention to it like that? I feel bad enough as it is already without getting the third degree from him.

            Two months ago I promised myself I would stop being so reckless in my behavior but since then I've only gotten worse, cutting more and more often and deeper every time. I don't mean to keep doing it, I really did try to stop, but I just can't...I have this feeling inside of me like I'll go completely insane, out of my mind if I don't do it. All the feelings I hold inside of me all the time...all the anger and rage and hurt and anguish just brim to the top, threatening to explode if I don't get them out, and the only way to do that is by bleeding them out.

            The problem is that that feeling is coming more and more lately, and as often as every half hour. If one little thing upsets me - like what just happened with Mark - all the others suddenly rise up in me as well, begging to be let out, to be released by the steady flow of my blood which seems to be the only thing that can comfort me anymore.

            But…I have to stop. If Mark wasn't suspicious before, after my outburst a few minutes ago, he is now. And I can't let anyone find out about this…it would be so embarrassing if everyone knew the things I've been doing. They would think I'm crazy, disgusting, sick…no one would understand how good it feels…they just wouldn't understand.

Which is why I'm going to stop…tomorrow. Tomorrow I will definitely stop, no more excuses. I can start again in the winter, when I won't be expected to wear short sleeves all the time, but for now I have to cut back because I know my friends are already starting to suspect.

Mark POV:

            I sit at a table in the Life Café with Collins, Maureen, Joanne, and Mimi, watching everyone around me and sensing the tension in the air. Roger was asked to come but, of course, he was "busy." Yeah, busy sitting around all day in his room with the door locked doing God knows what.

            I have to say, I'm a little surprised to see Mimi here. Since she broke up with Roger, she hasn't really been hanging around any of us very much. She started dating Benny again officially and I think she still feels pretty bad about dumping Roger for supposedly cheating on her when she had been seeing Benny on and off the whole time.

            As soon as the waiter comes with our food, mumbling something better being able to pay the bill, Collins clears his throat and looks at me.

            "Um, how's Roger doing, Mark?"

            I shrug.  "I don't know. He never talks to me anymore. He yelled at me a few days ago but since then he's barely said a word."

            Mimi sighs and looks down at her food.  "What was he mad about?"

            I shrug.  "I have absolutely no fucking clue. I asked why he was dressed in a sweatshirt and jeans when it was over 90 degrees outside and he just snapped…for no reason…he just started yelling at me."

            "Oh no…he's wearing long sleeves?"

            I nod, confused at why Mimi looks so upset all of a sudden.

            "Oh God, I think I know what's wrong…"

            I look at her anxiously. "What is it?"

            "…I think he's using again. He was acting so weird when we broke up and I asked him about it, I asked if he was using, and he denied it, but he was really acting like he was. And now the long sleeves…"  She lets her voice trail off.

            Collins nods. "Yeah, that's what I was thinking too."

            I don't say anything for a while, not really knowing how to respond. I have to agree with their suspicions as to why Roger dresses the way he does, but I don't think he's shooting up again. For one thing, he never leaves the loft anymore, and therefore has no access to smack. And I lived with him for the two years he was on drugs, and he definitely is not acting the same way he did back then.

            When he was a junkie he was constantly begging me for money, trying to sneak out of the loft, angry at me consistently and always snapping at me, throwing up all the time when he didn't have access to his drug…  He's not acting that way at all now.

            Now he's just withdrawn, never leaving his room, never speaking, always clad in long sleeves and pants…and the only time he yelled at me was when I questioned him about the way he dressed. But I don't say this out loud, because I'm too scared to admit what I really do suspect.

            It's stupid really, I know I'm just being ridiculous, worrying over nothing. Roger's smart, he wouldn't…do that. He's probably just having a hard time right now, depressed about Mimi and his band. Maybe he's feeling a little left out. There's no reason to suspect he's doing anything that stupid, I'm sure I'm just being paranoid.

            A few days ago I promised myself I'd start spending more time with him, to try and get him to open up about what's wrong and to try and cheer him up. But he always pretends to be asleep and his door is always locked, he doesn't come out no matter how much I yell or beg. Well, from now on I'll just have to try a little harder. Maybe I can get Benny to take the lock off his door…or break it down myself.

            If that's what it comes to, that's what I'll do. I have to prove to myself that Roger's not doing what I think he's doing.

*~2 Weeks Later~*

            "Roger! Get the hell out of there!"

            I bang on Roger's door loudly, trying to get him to come out. But it's no use. He's holed himself up in there for the day and there's no getting him out.

            Every day for the past two weeks I've tried to spend more time with Roger. I've invited him to movies, asked him to play games, play his guitar, go to the Life, I even asked him if he wanted to go clubbing, something the old Roger would have never turned down.

            But he did, and has turned down every other invitation I've offered. I bang on his door once more, trying one last time to get him out of there, but the door doesn't budge and the room on the other side is silent.

            I sigh and go into the bathroom where I open up the medicine cabinet and take out his AZT bottle. I'm about to call out to him to remind him to take his AZT when I notice a few drops of blood on the sink near the cabinet. Okay…he probably just had a nosebleed…or cut himself shaving. There's no reason to suspect anything else…right?

            Lately I've been finding small traces of blood around the loft. I try to convince myself that there's nothing out of the ordinary going on…that he probably is just sick and has been having nosebleeds, and that's the reason he's sleeping so much also. And that the reason for the long sleeves and pants is because he's cold from a fever. There's no reason to think anything else…right?

            Right. Roger is sick and there's nothing more to it. Nosebleeds, fatigue, and hypothermia. Nothing else.

            I sigh as I carefully clean up the blood and decide that enough is enough. I walk over to Roger's door again and knock on it.

            "Roger, if you don't come out right now, I swear to God, I'm taking the hinges off the door!"

            I hear shuffling on the other side of the door and hear him cursing under his breath as he unlocks the door and glares at me angrily.

Roger POV:

            I stare at the little rivers of blood that flow down my arm at a quick pace and jump, startled, when I hear Mark banging on my door again.

            I sigh. Why won't he just leave me alone? I stay quiet, hoping he'll assume I'm sleeping and just go away. But, of course, he doesn't.

            "Roger, if you don't come out right now, I swear to God, I'm taking the hinges off the door!"

            Oh shit…he wouldn't… He can't see me like this!

            I quickly clean up the blood on the floor, hiding all the evidence of what I had been doing, and throw on a gray sweatshirt, not even bothering, in my hurry, to make sure that the bleeding has stopped. I open the door and glare at him.

            "What the hell do you want?"

            " I wanted to know if you wanted to see a…"  His voice trails off and he stares at me with an expression I can't quite read.

            "What's wrong?" I ask, trying to act normal so as not to give him any clues.

            He continues to stare at me with that same expression on his face for a few more seconds and then just simply says, "You're bleeding," and walks out, closing the door quietly behind him.

Mark POV:

            Okay, that was no nosebleed. And unless he suddenly decided to shave his arms, he didn't cut himself shaving. I sigh as I sit down on the couch, angry at myself for not seeing this sooner, for not doing anything about it. I have to stop denying it to myself. Roger's really in trouble, and I have to confront him about it before it gets any worse. I should have done it from the beginning, when I first suspected he was having this problem. I shouldn't have let it get as bad as it is…and judging from the amount of blood soaked on his sweatshirt, I'd say it's pretty bad.

            The thing that upsets me the most about this is that I knew…I knew for quite a while now but I kept denying it to myself. I didn't try to help, I didn't even ask him about it, or ask what was bothering him. Some best friend I am.

            I lie down on the couch and cover my face with a pillow, wishing I hadn't just seen what I had. I shudder as I remember the image. Roger's entire arm was covered in blood seeping through his sweatshirt.

            I stand up with a new determination. I can't ignore the problem any longer, can't blame it on nosebleeds, or sickness anymore. Roger needs help, and he hasn't been getting it because I've been too stubborn to admit to myself that he has a problem. Well, I'm not doing that anymore. Roger needs help, and dammit, I'm going to make sure he gets it.

Roger POV:

            Oh. Shit. I look down at my sleeve and shudder when I see what had gotten Mark so upset. Oh great, another shirt ruined. I shrug it off carefully, making sure not to get blood on anything else, and take out a dark towel from under my bed, and try to get the bleeding to stop so I can go out there and tell Mark I fell on something sharp, or scratched myself on a piece of metal sticking out from my bed.

            But, to tell you the truth I'm pretty sure that Mark already knows that I didn't "fall on something sharp", or "scratch myself on a piece of metal." He didn't seem shocked, or angry, or even upset. He was just emotionless.

            You're bleeding.

            And then he had walked out, not saying anything else.

            Oh my God. The realization that Mark knows what I'm doing hits with sudden force and I begin to get that feeling again. My head is screaming at me, my heart is pounding and all the anger and frustration is just begging to be released.

            I grab the razor from my pocket and drag it across my skin, not bothering to try and control my emotions so as not to cut myself too deep.

            Mark knows, he knows what I do to myself… He's probably known all along, he must think I'm crazy now…disgusting, insane, sick…

            As I watch the blood flow steadily from the wounds in my arms, I begin to numb out, not even realizing that I'm still cutting myself, not acknowledging the sounds outside my room: the footsteps, the knocking, the calling of my name or the opening of my door until it's too late and Mark is standing in my doorway, a mixed expression of horror and angry concern on his face.

            "Oh my fucking God Roger, what the fuck are you doing??"

            I come out of my daze and look up at Mark, still somewhat numb to the world and what's going on around me. I come fully out of it though, as I look down and realize how much I'm bleeding…more than I ever have before. Oh great, and Mark just had to choose this time to walk in on me didn't he?

            "Um, I just…I scratched myself on a piece of metal on my bed…"

            He comes all the way into my room and grabs for my arm, wrapping a shirt around it to stop the blood flow.

            "Oh my God Roger, you tried to kill yourself!"

            "What?? No I didn't!"

            He looks at me in confusion.

            "Then…"

            I pause, my mind racing, searching for any possible excuse as to why my arm would be bleeding as heavily as it is right now. But I can't think of any so after a long pause I look away from him and say quietly, praying he won't hate me and think I'm crazy, "I was trying to stop the pain."

            He's quiet for a second, probably surprised that I actually told him the truth, but then I can see all the anger and horror in his face again as he screams, "You were trying to stop the pain by tearing open your arms?!"

            I knew it, I knew he would react like this…he doesn't understand, I don't know why in hell I actually thought for a second that he might.

            I try not to cry, I really do, but all I can think about is how I probably just lost my best friend. Who would want to be friends with someone that "tears open their arms"? Who wants to be friends with a disgusting, crazy, psychopath? My eyes fill with tears and I try as hard as I can not to let them escape my eyes, but I can't help it as they spill down my cheek, thinking all the while about how Mark must hate me now and think I'm crazy and disgusting.

            Wow, I haven't cried since all this started. Lately my blood has been my tears, my scars the words I can't say, and my razor my only source of comfort. I don't like this, I want to stop crying, I want to bleed, I need to bleed…I have to escape, but Mark is blocking my path to the door and my razor is on the other side of the room.

            So I wrap my arms around myself instead, attempting to make myself invisible, trying to disappear and escape from everything until I can be alone and make my emotions and hurt and pain go away with my blood and razor.

            I can see Mark's face soften as he notices the tears on my face and he reaches out, putting his arms around me to comfort me as he says, "I'm sorry Roger, I didn't mean to say that…"

            I shake my head and try to blink back the fresh tears that are forming in my eyes. "Yes you did. I'm crazy, I know I am. I know you think I am. You don't understand."  I angrily wipe my tears away, hating myself for being so weak.

            "No Rog, I don't think you're crazy. I was just…upset. I was worried, I was mad at myself. Not you."

            "Yeah right. Go away Mark, I have AIDS."

            He hesitates. "I know…but I'm not going to let you do this to yourself anymore. I'm not leaving."

            I pull away from him. "I'm serious Mark, go away. I don't want you catching AIDS because of me."

            He shakes his had. "No, I'm not leaving until you talk to me. Please Rog, let me help you…"

            I sigh and stare at the blood seeping through the shirt wrapped around my arm. I don't say anything for a while and eventually Mark just starts talking, obviously not caring whether or not I want to talk about it.

Mark POV:

            "Why…um, when did you start cutting yourself, Roger?"

            I try to avoid asking "why", because I know this is uncomfortable for him and I know he doesn't even want to talk about it at all.

            "Um, not long…maybe two weeks."

            I sigh and grab his other arm, pulling up the sleeve, and point to the scars that look like they were from months ago. I wince when I see how bad some of them are – a lot look like they could have used a few stitches – but I try to keep the look of shock and fright from registering on my face.

            I raise an eyebrow and look at him. "Two weeks?"

            He sighs and refuses to meet my eye.

            "Just leave me alone, I don't want to talk about this."

            "I know Rog, but I'm not asking all that much. I just want to know how long it's been."

            He sighs. "I don't know. A few months maybe…  Since Mimi dumped me."

            I try not to gasp, try not to let all the shock and concern and fright I feel inside show on my face.

            "Roger, that's been almost half a year…"

            He nods sadly but doesn't say anything.

            "You have to stop…you know that right?"

            He nods again.

            "I know. But, um, I tried already. And I just can't."

            I don't know what to say to this. I have no idea what it's like, my knowledge on the subject is minimal, at best. But there is one thing I know and that is that no matter what, I'm going to be there for Roger and get him the help he needs to get better.

            "You can stop Roger, and I'm going to help you. I know I haven't been a good friend up until now, but I swear, just give me a chance and I'll make sure you get the help you need to stop."

            "No, I don't need help, I'm fine."

            I look down at his arm wrapped in the now blood-stained shirt and back up at him again and sigh.

            I take his non-bloody arm and pull him into the bathroom with me, despite his protests, and take out gauze and bandages from the medicine cabinet.

            "Mark, stop, I have fucking AIDS!"

            I sigh and open the cabinet again, putting on a pair of latex gloves.

            "Better?"

            He nods slightly and I can tell that he's upset now about not having an excuse to not let me help him.

            I unwrap the shirt form his arm and shudder when I see how bad the cuts are. I can't for the life of me, fathom how someone can do this repeatedly to themselves and get pleasure from it. The concept is just so foreign to me, and I know Roger's right when he said I didn't understand. I don't understand, and I know I can't help Roger until I get a little better understanding of the subject.

            I bandage his arms, after swabbing them with hydrogen peroxide so they wouldn't get infected, and then send Roger to his room again after making him hand over his razor to me.

            I wait until he falls asleep, which doesn't take very long considering how exhausted he is after everything that's happened today, and then call Collins to let him know that I'm on my way over.

            I knock on Collins' door, looking at my watch and frowning. I had come as soon as I had the chance but it's still pretty late and I hope I'm not disturbing him. But I'm at a loss here, I have no idea what to do about Roger and before I can help him, I need to get help for myself to understand about cutting and why Roger's doing it.

            Collins opens the door looking a little groggy, but concerned nonetheless.

            "Hey Mark. What's up?"

            I walk in and sit down at the table in front of the coffee cup he set out for me.

            "Um, I'm sorry to come by so late and everything. It's just…Roger's…"  I let my voice trail off.

            He takes a seat next to me and looks into my eyes.

            "What's wrong with Roger?"

            "He's cutting himself," I say quietly.

            Collins leans back in his chair and says nothing for a moment.

            "Are you sure, Mark?"

            I nod. "Yes, I'm positive. I…I've known for a while now I guess. I didn't want to believe it…but this afternoon I walked in on him cutting himself and… Oh God Collins, it was so bad…"

            Collins shakes his head sadly.

            "So that's why…with the long sleeves?"

            I nod. "I don't know what to do, Collins, I have no idea how to help him."

            He pauses for a second and then gets up and walks over to a big bookshelf in the corner and takes out a few books.

            "Read these," he says as he hands them to me. "That'll help a lot, just showing that you care and understand what he's going through goes a long way."

            I nod and I stare at the titles, shivering a little when I read the backs of some of the covers. Oh my God, how could Roger do this to himself?

 "I have a friend who works at a program at a hospital in Chicago…it's the only program in the nation that specializes in self-injury. There's a pretty long waiting list though, and I don't know if Roger would even get in. It's voluntary, they don't accept anyone who doesn't want to be there 100% on their own. They have to want to get better."

            I nod, taking this all in.

            "I don't think Roger would even consider going. He kept telling me tonight that he's fine and didn't need my help or anyone else's."

            Collins nods. "Yeah, that's what I thought. Do you know if he wants to stop?"

            I shrug. "I'm not sure…it kind of sounded like he did want to but didn't want to put in the effort to change."

            Collins nods again. "It's like an addiction, you know. So he's not all at fault there."

            I look at him in surprise. "It's an addiction?"

            "Addictive-like. So yeah, he's gonna go through hell trying to stop."

            I shake my head sadly and try to hide the tears that are forming in my eyes. First heroin and now this… How many addictions is he going to go through? How many am I going to have to go through with him, watching his every move, getting no rest, never going out of the house just to make sure he's not hurting himself again?

            Collins seems to sense my feelings and asks, "Mark, are you okay?"

            I shrug, trying to hold back the tears. "I don't know. I mean, Collins, he's cutting himself… I don't even know if he wants to stop, and even if he did, it's going to be impossible to keep him form doing it. I can't watch him all the time. As much as I'd like to, I just can't and the truth is he doesn't even want my help in the first place. How the hell can I help him if he doesn't want to be helped?" My voice cracks at the end of the sentence and a few tears escape my eyes and splash down the sides of my face.

            Collins puts an arm around me consolingly and rubs my back. "The truth is though, even if he doesn't want your help, or claims he doesn't, he still needs it. There has to be some small part of him somewhere that knows he needs your help and wants it. Otherwise he wouldn't have ever opened up to you in the first place…even if it was only a little bit. It's going to be hard, yeah, but not impossible. And we'll all be there to help however we can…  He'll get better Mark, don't worry."

            "Thanks Collins," I say through my tears.

            He nods. "If there's anything else I can do, let me know okay? Call me if he decides he wants to try out that program and I'll call my friend and get all the info you need."

            "Okay, but I doubt he'll ever agree to that."

            He shrugs. "You never know. Just let him know it's an option, and even if he doesn't agree to it right away, he may eventually come around."

            I nod and stand up, still not quite believing that all this is happening. I pick up the books and hug Collins before heading home, all the while planning in my head what I could possibly say to Roger to convince him to go to this program, and praying for the strength to get through this together.