Mark POV:
I've been staying with Collins for about two weeks now. At first I called the loft every day to check up on Roger and April, making sure they were okay and actually conscious and alive. But eventually they just stopped answering the phone. The first few times it happened I got scared and went over to the loft to check on them. It was always the same. I would knock on the door, receive no answer, and then just walk in to find them sitting together, obviously stoned, and staring into space. Those were not the people I used to know. Those people have been replaced by zombies, and I couldn't stand to see them that way so I never stayed long.
Once I realized that they had just stopped answering the phone altogether I stopped calling. And I never went back to check.
I just couldn't take living in the loft anymore with them. It's so hard watching them do this to themselves and not being able to do a damn thing about it. When they want to get help, I'll be there for them. I'll be by their side in a second. But until then I'm staying out of the picture.
I still stop over there once in a while, just to make sure they're actually still alive, but other than that I don't have any contact with them at all. They've made it clear that that's how they want it and I know there's nothing I can do for them anyway until they want the help. I've accepted that that's how it has to be and try to convince myself that things will get better. That they'll realize what they're doing to themselves and stop, before it's too late.
But there are times when I just lie awake on Collins' couch, unable to fall asleep, and wonder if it's already too late. Is it even possible to hope that Roger and April can get better? Is it too much to hope that they'll even want to?
There's a voice in the back of my head that's telling me to just give up, to forget about them and cut them out of my life since they've obviously cut me and everyone else out of theirs. But I just can't do that. Because as long as there's still that small shimmer of hope that things can get back to normal, I'm not giving up.
Suddenly my thoughts are interrupted by the shrill ringing of the phone next to me. I contemplate screening but decide against it, since Collins is at work and would probably want me to take his messages.
I let the phone ring once more and then pick it up, muttering "Hello," into the receiver, expecting it to be Collins' boyfriend, Steve, who's pretty much the only one who ever calls here.
There's silence on the other end so I say "Hello," again, a little louder this time. I can hear deep breaths and it sounds like the caller is trying to stifle and choke back the sobs evident in the voice but is having a hard time. Finally, the person speaks but I don't recognize it at first through the heavy sobs and sniffles.
"Mark?" the voice asks timidly.
"Yes…who's thi – April??"
Some more sniffling and then a weak, "Yeah."
I don't know what to say at first so I don't say anything. I have to say that I'm more than a little worried that she would call me, and even more so as I hear her trying to choke back her cries. I wonder if something happened to Roger, if he's sick or hurt, and why she didn't turn to him or heroin like she'd always done in the past. I know that something really serious must have happened for her to call me.
Finally, I manage to say, "Is everything alright?"
After a few seconds of silence I barely hear her say, "Just…can you come over?"
"Of course," I say and am about to pry further into the reason for the call and for her wanting to see me, but before I can even open my mouth I hear a click and a dial tone ringing in my ear.
I hang up the phone quickly and don't even bother throwing on a jacket as I rush out of Collins' apartment to the loft as quickly as I can. When I get there and walk inside the first thing I notice is the stale stench of vomit that hits me the second I'm through the door. And then the heaving noises coming from the bathroom.
I look inside to see April collapsed in front of the porcelain bowl, covered in sweat, her thinning brown hair hanging in her face as she continues to throw up, not even aware of my presence in the room.
"April?" I say quietly and when I get no response I get down next to her and hold her hair out of her face.
When she finishes she collapses weakly onto the floor again and I reach up to the sink and snatch a towel to wipe her face with.
"Are you okay?" I ask quietly, not really even needing to hear the answer.
She shakes her head and then begins sobbing into my shoulder, though I'm not sure if it's from the immense pain that I'm sure she must be feeling or something else… I hope it's from the pain because it scares me just thinking about what the something else could be.
All of a sudden she starts rambling on about something. I can't quite make out all the words through her heavy sobs but I can hear "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," and "I love him so much," being repeated over and over again.
Oh God, now I'm really starting to get scared. "April, did something happen to Roger?" I ask anxiously.
"N-no," she chokes out before resuming the sobs. I rock her for a while, unsure if this is doing anything at all for her but at least she knows I'm here. And that I'll help her through whatever it is and won't leave.
"Mark, I'm so sorry about everything," she says after a few minutes. "I never meant for this to happen…it just…I'm so sorry…"
"Shh, it's okay. You don't have to be sorry."
"No, no I do need to be sorry." She starts crying again and through her tears I can see something in her eyes, something that I haven't seen in her in quite some time: Sorrow, regret, and helplessness. But most of all there's the emotion that's been lacking there for months now, and I wonder what caused the sudden change in her attitude…what's causing these tears and the choked apologies issuing from her lips.
"I took over your life, his life, I forced you out of your own apartment… I'm so sorry Mark, I never meant for any of this to happen." She sniffs and wipes her nose with the back of her hand.
I reach up to the sink again and hand her a tissue before saying "I know. It's okay… You do want to stop, right?"
I can sense the hesitation in her voice as she says, "I…yeah. I do but I don't know if I can."
I'm about to say something but she interrupts me. "Listen, what I really needed to talk to you about was Roger."
I nod and wait for her to continue but suddenly she lifts herself off the floor and vomits into the toilet again. When she finishes I help her into a more comfortable position and lay her down on the floor with her head in my lap, cringing when I see the look of pain on her face as she clenches her fists so hard that I see a trickle of blood trail from her palm to the off-white ceramic tiles on the floor.
Finally she says, "Roger's a ju…well, you know. He can't stop, he doesn't want to. And he…he needs to." She pauses. "Can you help him, Mark? Will you be there for him?"
I nod
quickly. "Of course. But what about you?"
She shakes her head and then
grimaces in pain, the movement obviously hurting her. "I can't save him. I
already killed him," she says softly.
"What are you talking about?" I say quickly, knowing there's something she's not telling me.
"Never mind. Listen, Roger's going to be home any second. I don't want him to see you here." She tries to stand but is swiftly knocked back down by another wave of nausea.
I catch her in my arms and lay her gently back down. "Are you sure you're going to be okay?"
She nods but I know she's lying. "Come over tonight Mark. Talk to him, okay?"
I nod and look down at her lying, sprawled out on the bathroom floor, sweating, dry patches of vomit stuck in her hair, and clutching her stomach in pain with the hands she can't seem to get to stop shaking. Tears fill my eyes and I quickly turn away before they have the chance to escape. I want to stay, to help her more, but I can hear the thud of Roger's heavy boots quickly approaching. So I turn around and walk out of the loft, only stopping briefly to mutter a quick hello to Roger, vowing to myself to come back tonight to talk to Roger alone.
April POV:
As soon as Mark is gone Roger approaches me and takes in my state. After surveying me for a few seconds he grunts and tosses me a bag filled with white powder, along with a needle, a spoon, and his lighter. And then… he walks away.
I can feel the cool tears splashing down my cheeks again as I watch his retreating figure walk away, uncaring, and slam the door to his room shut. Is this what its come to? Is heroin really more important to him than me? My body starts shaking again, though this time it's not due to the withdrawal symptoms…it's from my sobs.
When did it get like this? When did heroin become the most important thing in our lives? When did having a little fun sometimes turn into addiction?
I stare at the little plastic bag next to me, filled with the magic white powder that can take everything away. I swore I would stop but it doesn't really matter now, does it? I know what I have to do. And I can't do it in the condition I'm in now.
So with shaking hands I melt the powder down to a smooth liquid in the spoon and somehow manage, despite the trembling of my body, to get it in the needle and then into a vein.
A vein. I stare at my arms covered in track marks and collapsed veins, remembrance of the past six months of shooting up, wasting my life away. I look at the one right above my palm, on my wrist. And I grab for a razor.
I turn on the shower faucets, razor in hand, and get into the bathtub, still fully clothed so that the running water will wash away my blood. Then I place the note I had written earlier on the sink, hoping that Roger finds it and takes it seriously and will get the help he needs.
I say a silent prayer for Roger, begging for some miracle, for some person – a guardian angel – to protect him and take care of him until he's better. To make sure he takes care of himself and gets tested. I'd failed him…killed him. And now someone needs to be there to save him.
And then I take the razor and stab it into my wrist, dragging it down to my elbow, watching as the tainted blood spills from the long gash as the tears do from my eyes.
"I'm sorry Roger," I whisper over and over again. Sorry for leaving you, sorry for not being there for you, sorry for abandoning you, sorry for killing you.
