Roger POV:

            I walk in the front door of the loft, pockets filled with smack and the cash I just got when I sold our tv that barely even worked anymore. I can feel my hands beginning to shake, the need rising up in my body again and I quicken my pace to my bedroom, where I left my needle and spoon. But something stops me.

            Maybe it was the trail of blood running underneath the closed bathroom door, or the sound of running water splashing onto the floor. Or just the overall sense that something wasn't right.

            I turn quickly and open the bathroom door, my boots immediately soaked with the tinged red water that is now pooling around my feet. I don't notice the pinkish quality of the water, I don't notice my girlfriend's body laying dead in the bathtub, I don't notice the letter left out on the sink. I do notice the needle and lighter on the windowsill and I turn around to pick them up. And that's when I see it.

            April's pale, unmoving body, the long gashes in both her wrists, the bluish tint of her lips…all of these things indicating death. April. Dead.

            I collapse to the ground, my legs too weak to hold me up as I'm overtaken by the shock and fear and panic, and of course guilt when I realize that I could have prevented this. I could have saved her…

            As the tears start escaping my eyes I remember earlier in the day when I had come home to see her in the bathroom, crying, throwing up, shaking, sweating, screaming in pain. And I had tossed her the smack and gone back to my room. I could hear the sobs coming from behind the closed bathroom door for the rest of the day, but I had ignored them. I ignored them for months. And now…now it's too late to do anything about it.

            I start sobbing myself at the realization that if it weren't for me she would probably be alive right now, crying at the fact that I lost my April, and screaming at myself, at her, at anyone that can hear me. Screaming that it's just not fair.

            I lift my head slightly and that's when something catches the corner of my eye. It's a yellow note, written in April's handwriting. I snatch it up and read it quickly, tears still brimming in my eyes and splashing down to stain the yellow piece of paper in my hands.

            Three words. We got AIDS.

We. Got. AIDS.

            I'm silent for a moment, I just stare at the paper, not believing the words written so plainly in front of my face.

            No, no it can't be true… We were always so careful, we were so sure that this kind of thing would never happen to us!

            I start sobbing again, shaking and screaming and tearing the note to shreds. As if it weren't real, if it didn't exist anymore the words wouldn't be true.

            I scoop April into my arms, lifting her from the bathtub and gently rocking her back and forth in my arms, not even bothering to turn off the water as it spills over the sides of the tub and onto the floor, continuing to soak the both of us. This is how I'll die. Drowning in my own sorrows, tears, water, and the blood from the woman I loved.

Mark POV:

            I sigh as I stand in front of the loft, hand in the air ready to knock. True to my word, I came back as I had promised April to talk to Roger. I don't know why. I don't know why she thinks tonight will be any different from the rest, why tonight he'll listen when for months he didn't want to have anything to do with me. But… I said I'd talk to him and even though I doubt it'll do anything except cause another argument, another fight, I'll do it anyway. For her. For Roger.

            I knock a few times and receive no answer. Well it wasn't like I was really expecting one anyway. I sigh again and push the door open but freeze when I hear the choked sobs coming from the bathroom. But these sobs aren't from April. No, they're from Roger.

I can't remember the last time I heard Roger cry…or show any emotion at all for that matter. He's been numb for months now, not caring about anything but obtaining more and more of his drug. And I know that to be hearing what I'm hearing now, something must be very, very wrong.

            I approach the bathroom cautiously. "Roger?"
            No answer.

            I sigh and call out a little louder. "Roger!"

            Still no answer.

            I push the door open and the first thing I realize is that the bathroom is flooded. It isn't until I reach over to turn off the faucets that I see Roger sitting on the floor, rocking April in between crying and throwing up.

            "Oh shit," I whisper when I notice that her body is pale and unmoving. I try to get her away from Roger but he cries out in protest when I so much as touch her.

            "Roger," I try to say in a calm voice, attempting to push back my own tears and hurt and loss. "We have to call an ambulance…"

            He shakes his head but the slight movement of turning his head nauseates him and he leans forward to vomit into the toilet once again.

            I take this opportunity to seize April's body from Roger for a closer inspection. Her eyes are glossed over, her lips are blue, and the hands that I've held so many times when she was going through withdrawal are ice cold, and for the first time in months un-shaking.

            She's dead. I try to push back my own tears as Roger continues to sob in between gagging and I rub his back, trying to comfort him, trying to do anything to make this a little easier on him at all.

            When he finally stops he sits on the soaked floor again and leans back against the slippery edge of the tub, trying to look strong but not doing a very good job at all.

            "She's dead Rog," I say quietly, trying to keep my voice even.

            I call an ambulance and after I talk to the paramedics they take April away and I'm left in the loft alone with Roger. For the first time since I've been here the loft is absolutely silent…no sobs, no screaming, no sounds of someone throwing up… and it scares me. Because I can only imagine what Roger must be doing right now.

            "Roger!" I call out quickly, running into the bathroom. He's gone. All that remains in the bathroom is the pinkish water that still floods the floor, a razor now painted red, and a few ripped pieces of yellow paper scattered around the floor. But no Roger.

            Suddenly I hear a loud, high-pitched sob sound coming from Roger's room and I run in there to see what's wrong. When I get there I freeze in the doorway, not believing the image in front of me.

            Roger is sitting on the floor, rocking back and forth, with a needle poised above his arm, trying to find a vein that's not already collapsed.

            "I can't do it Mark," he says softly.

            "What can't you do?" Please, oh please God, let him mean that he can't shoot up again, can't ruin his life anymore, can't continue down this path he's heading…

            "I can't find a vein…"

            I guess it was too much to hope that he'd actually want to stop. I sigh and reach out to take the needle from his shaking hand.

            "Hey," he protests weakly but he can't finish his thought because as soon as he opens his mouth he's swiftly hit with another wave of nausea. He runs into the bathroom and I follow closely behind him, rubbing his back and making sure he doesn't pass out from the pain or dehydration.

            The rest of the night pretty much goes the same way. Roger spends almost the entire night in the bathroom, leaning over the toilet, or trying to get access to the needles I took away when I realized he would stop at nothing to shoot up again. And I spend all my time in the bathroom with him, rubbing his back, holding his hand when the pain is too much, and making sure he doesn't get to those needles.

            I don't leave Roger's side the entire time because I know that if I do he'll find some way to get high again. Either that or he'll take the easy way out, like April, and kill himself. One suicide is enough for me, I don't need Roger to end up dead in the bathroom too.

            At first I try to get Roger to sleep, figuring that if he's asleep he won't be able to shoot up. Then I realized that insomnia is a major part of withdrawal. I try to stay awake for Roger, try to fight the fatigue that is tugging at my eyelids so that I can protect him from himself, but it's too much. The sadness and loss and grief and guilt I feel for leaving April alone is too much and eventually I nod off to sleep, leaving Roger alone, granting him free access to razors, needles, smack, and whatever other drugs I'm sure he has lying around the loft.

            The last thing I think of before drifting off into a nearly unconscious sleep is that when I wake up in the morning I hope I don't find that Roger's given up too and has gone to join April wherever she may be right now.