A/N:  This story isn't going well at all, I apologize for that. I think this will be the last chapter, at least for now. I'm taking a break from it for a while, I'm not sure if I'll come back to it yet or not. If anyone's still reading this, thanks for sticking with it this far. I know it hasn't been great, but hopefully after taking some time away from it I'll be able to come back and improve, and finish it. There are some other ideas running around in my mind so hopefully I'll be starting on a new fic pretty soon.

Mark POV:

             "Roger!" I yell for the third time as I bang on his door. I sigh and then just walk in without waiting for a reply. I'm not surprised when I see him lying on his bed, doing nothing, just staring out into nothingness.

            "Roll up your sleeves," I demand, walking over to him.

            "What?"

            He sits up looking scared now.

            "Let me see your arms." I repeat, reaching out for an arm.

            He pulls back sharply. "No! Don't you trust me at all? I don't do it anymore!"

            "Then why do you always wear long sleeves?" I question, knowing he's just getting himself in deeper and deeper with each lie.

            He pauses and then says, "Because of the old scars…there isn't anything new!"

            Knowing he'd never let me see willingly, I grab his arm and roll up the sleeve, pointing to all the "old scars."

            I literally have to bite my tongue to prevent a gasp from escaping my lips. Oh my God, they're so bad, the cuts are so bad… Okay, don't act shocked, don't act scared…be calm.

            There are a few, the most recent ones I'm guessing, that are still open and bleeding. It seems like it's just getting worse and worse, the cuts getting deeper and more severe each time he does it.

            "Shit Roger," I whisper, unable to mask the hint of sadness that creeps into my voice.

            He yanks his arm back and glares at me, rolling the sleeve down again quickly. He doesn't say anything, though, doesn't scream or yell or make excuses like I had been expecting.

            "How long?"

"What?"

            "How long have you been doing if?"

            He shrugs. "I don't know."

            I shake my head and reach for his arm again, pushing the sleeve back up. I have to blink back tears when the scars come into view again. How could he do this to himself? Why does he do this to himself?

            "Roger, you know, you should really get these checked out," I say, motioning to his arm again.

            He pulls away. "What do you mean?"

            "I mean you should go to the hospital. You need stitches or they'll never heal completely and you'll have bad scars for life."

            "No!" he shouts, much louder than I had expected.

            I back away slightly, afraid that if he gets angry enough he might hit me.

            "Why not?" I ask in a small voice.

            "I'm not going to any fucking hospital! I don't want anybody finding out about this!"

"But the only people that would know would be doctors…"

            "And you don't think they'd make me see a shrink? Or keep me there? They'd think I was fucking crazy! People don't understand Mark, they just don't understand. I'm. Not. Going."

            "But Roger, theses are really bad," I say, motioning to his arm, where, thankfully, the wounds have been covered by his long sleeves. "You're going to have scars for life if you don't go. And nobody else needs to know about it."

"I already have scars for life. A few more won't hurt. And doctors don't treat…us…very nicely. You don't understand about this, Mark. People, even doctors, just don't understand. Doctors are the worst. A lot of them don't give any anesthetic if we need stitches, they talk down to us like we're crazy, they're just overall cruel and misunderstanding. And I'm not going to a place with people like that."

            I sigh. He's right. People can be cruel, and the last thing he needs right now is someone confirming his fears that he's crazy. Even though he's not, he's right about how people would think he is.

            "Well, if you won't go to the hospital, will you at least let me take care of them?"

"No. No way."

"Why not?"

"I don't need your help. I'm fine. I can do it by myself."

            "Yes you do need my help, no, you're not fine, and you're not going to do it by yourself. You never do. So it's either me or the hospital."

            After he doesn't say anything for a few seconds, I grab him by the wrist, being careful not to hurt him, and drag him into the bathroom with me where I clean and bandage his wounds.

            Fifteen minutes later we're sitting in his room again. Or, correction: I'm sitting and he's standing over me, yelling for me to get out.

            "No fucking way, Roger. I'm not leaving you alone until we talk."

            He sighs and then plops down on his bed.

            "Fine then," he says and grins wickedly. He reaches for his guitar and then starts playing the first six notes to Muesetta's Waltz over and over and over again.

            After a while, he gets bored of this and starts playing a song I've never heard before.

...You told me you loved me and said that you cared,

but that's not what I saw in your dark eyes' harsh glare.

You "loved" me, you hurt me, turned your back one me...

Roger POV:
            As I continue to play my song, I notice Mark staring at me and I begin to get uncomfortable. The day is uncommonly hot for mid-September and he insisted on short sleeves, so my bandaged arms are in full view. He's staring at my arms.

            I know what he must be thinking. After a while I stop singing and just play the chords, watching his face for any signs of horror or disgust or…just anything at all to let me know what he's thinking. But his face is just blank. Expressionless, showing no emotion at all. Finally, I can't take it and I yell, "What the hell are you staring at?"

            He looks taken aback for a second and stares at me in confusion.

            "What are you talking about, Roger? I wasn't staring at anything, I was just watching you play."

            I give him a look, knowing he's lying but I don't say anything. I reach for the sweatshirt lying crumpled on my floor and slip it over my head, glaring at him again.

            "Roger…" He sighs. "You're going to by dying in that."

I shrug and go back to my guitar, but I'm starting to get really uncomfortable with him in here, staring at me. I decide to forget about my guitar for now and I reach for a book instead and open it up to some random page, pretending to read from it.

            This goes on for a while and eventually Mark says, "Do you realize you haven't turned the page in about a half hour?"

I glare at him again and hastily turn the page.

            He sighs. "Roger…"

"What?" I ask innocently without looking up.

            "You know, I won't pass judgment on you or tell anyone anything you say. You shouldn't be embarrassed or ashamed that you cut yourself. I just want to help."

I just stare at him, not believing a single word that came out of his mouth. He doesn't want to really talk about it. No person in their right mind would. He's only doing this because he feels obligated to. What he doesn't know is that I really do want to talk about this. But I just can't, it's so hard. He wouldn't understand anyway and I don't want him to think I'm disgusting or crazy. So even though I want nothing more than to talk about this, to let him help me and help me to stop, I don't because I know I would just gross him out or get him mad at me again.

            I finally say, "I know you don't really want to talk about this, Mark. I swear I won't ever do it again, you don't have to worry."

            "But Roger, I do want to-"

            "No you don't. You want to because you feel obligated to, you feel like you'll be a bad friend if you don't. And anyway, you wouldn't understand."

            "I know I don't have to be here right now. But I am. If I didn't really want to help you and talk about it I would have given up a long, long time ago. I wouldn't have sat in your room for the past two hours, waiting for you to open up and talk to me, I wouldn't have tried, consistently, for so many months to get you to talk, and I wouldn't be refusing to leave right now until you do. You're right, I probably wouldn't understand firsthand what it's like, but I do understand that it's like an addiction, and I know that you can't just stop. And I also understand that you're not crazy or sick…you just need help, and talking will help. I swear, I won't be disgusted by anything you tell me, and I won't tell anyone or pass any judgment at all. I'll just listen and be there for you. I just want to help."

            I don't say anything for a while, not really knowing what to think. I don't know whether or not to believe him. I want to, I really really want to, but can I believe everything he just said? That he won't think I'm crazy, or get disgusted, or tell anyone?

            I sigh. Finally I just say, very quietly, half hoping that he doesn't hear me, "Okay."

            He looks at me expectantly and when I don't say anything he begins asking questions to make it easier on me.

            "Why did you start?"

            "I, uh…was going to kill myself but didn't. So I cut myself instead." I close my eyes, praying he won't hate me or yell or get upset.

            I see a flicker of sadness cross his face but he quickly covers it and says, "Why were you going to kill yourself?"

            I shrug. "Mimi and I broke up, the band split up, my music sucked, I just thought life wasn't worth living anymore." I look down at the floor where there are still a few droplets of blood from earlier in the day.

            "But, Rog…your music doesn't suck at all. It's great!"

            I shrug again. "Well, that's not what I thought…think. It doesn't matter now anyway. I didn't kill myself. I…" I let my voice trail off, not wanting to have to say the words again. I cut myself. That would make it seem so much more real.

            "What did you do?" he asks quietly, even though he already knows.

            "I…cut myself," I say just as quietly.

            "And?"

            "And, it felt… I liked it." I bow my head, praying that he doesn't think I'm crazy now and won't hate me for doing these things to myself and getting pleasure out of it. Even though I knew Mark knew all of this from the beginning, it didn't seem real if I pretended like it didn't exist and if I didn't talk about it. I could almost believe that everything was normal, almost believe that I didn't have a problem and needed help, and that Mark didn't know about it. And now by talking I'm admitting all of that. That I'm sick, that I have a problem, that I need help…  I'm opening myself up to him, letting him see my vulnerability, and making it that much easier for him to hurt me.

            He rubs my back and doesn't say anything for a second. I look up at him hesitantly, trying to see what he's thinking, and surprisingly, I don't see the hate or disgust that I was expecting to see on his face. Just concern, sadness, and something resembling disappointment.

            Finally he says, "It's okay, Roger. You know I already knew most of that anyway, right?"

I nod, looking down at the floor again. There are so many questions running through my mind.

'Do you hate me?' 'Did I freak you out?' 'Are you mad at me?' 'Are you going to tell anyone?' 'Do you think I'm crazy?'

            But I don't ask, mostly because I'm too afraid of what the answers may be.

            He keeps rubbing my back and trying to comfort me, because he knows what a hard time I'm having right now, and asks slowly, "Do you want to stop?"

I shrug, not really knowing the answer myself. Yeah, I guess I do want to stop…but this is all I have. I can't not do it. It'd be like saying, 'Stop breathing.' Or 'Stop crying.' This is how I let go of the hurt inside of me. Some people turn to drugs or alcohol, some people take the hurt and inflict it on other people or things, some people cry. I cry in my own way: through my wounds. My blood is the tears that I can't seem to find anymore. And I can't give that up. Because without it I'd have no way of letting go of all the hurt I feel, no way to release everything that builds up inside me and needs a physical action to be let out.

            "Roger?"

I look up at him again, realizing that I haven't said anything in about five minutes.

            "Rog, do you want to stop?" he repeats.

            I shrug again, not wanting to commit myself to anything.

            "Okaaay…well, you remember that program I was telling you about a few months ago, right?"

I nod, knowing exactly where he's going with his.

            "Well, do you think you could consider trying it out? I really think it might help you…"

I look at him wearily. "I thought you said you'd help."

"I will help! But…well, it's just not the same. You went to rehab to get off smack, why can't you go to get off this? I mean, isn't it sort of like an addiction?"

Sort of like an addiction? This is just as hard to get rid of as heroin was. I nod slowly.

            "I want to help, and I think the best way I can help is by making sure the get the right kind of help. Tell me the truth Roger, do you really think that I alone can get you to stop?"

I look down, not wanting to answer that. No, I know he can't make me stop. I don't know if anything can at this point.

"It's a 30 day program. You just go for a month and, I don't know…do whatever it is you do there, learn how to stop doing it, and then when you come home I'll help you stay away from it, just like I did with heroin. If you honestly think you don't need to go, and all you need is my help here, than I won't force you to go. But I think this would really help you…more than I ever could."

            I think about this for a second. Is he saying that he doesn't want to help me? Does he just want to send me away for 30 days to get rid of me and then expect me to come home cured?

"And when I got home? What then?"

            "Then I'd help you get better. But you need to go for the initial 30 days, just to help you stop cutting at first. When you're home and you're not doing it anymore, I'll help you continue to not do it, I'll be there if you ever do want to do it again, I'll talk with you when you need it…I'll do whatever it is that I need to do to help you get better."

            I let this all sink in and pause for a few seconds. He sounds so sincere…but can I really believe him? It really does seem like he cares… But how could someone care so much about me? It just doesn't seem possible. All I've ever done is hurt him, I've made him suffer so much, and yet he's always always there for me no matter what. Suddenly something he said months ago, in a half forgotten argument, comes back to me.

            Even though you're the one taking a fucking razor and cutting yourself open, I'm the one that's gotten hurt the most. Because I've had to sit here and suffer all those months watching you do it!

            I've hurt him the most out of anyone…by doing these things to myself. He's right when he said I didn't think of anyone but myself. It's true. And I have to start thinking of other people now…of him. I have to do this, if not for me then for him.

I take a deep breath, knowing I'm going to regret this, and hesitantly say, "Okay. I'll go."

He looks confused for a second. "You'll…you'll go?"

I nod. "Yeah."

            He looks shocked and then happy, and suddenly he grabs me in an unexpected embrace. "That's great! That's so great! You won't regret this Rog, I promise."

            He smiles and I offer a tentative smile in return, praying that he could possibly be right about this.

            He digs a small piece of paper out of his back pocket and hands it to me. It's so crinkled that I can barely make it out, the folded lines are white and about to rip off. I give him a look and say, "How long have you had this thing?"

He shrugs. "A while. I always carried it on me, just in case you changed your mind."

I stare at it closely, trying to make out the name and the phone number scribbled in Collins' messy handwriting. "S.A.F.E. Alternatives," I read out loud. "What does S.A.F.E. stand for?"

            "Self Abuse Finally Ends."

A/N:  If anyone's still reading this, thanks for sticking with it and please leave a review! Let me know that at least a few people are reading it, and let me know what you think, whether or not I should continue or drop it, blah blah blah. : )