A/N: I just felt the need for some Roger angst before anything real happens. Keep reading, things are going to start happening again in the next chapter.
Roger POV:
We got AIDS. The words keep repeating in my head, over and over, all night while Mark stays by my side, preventing me from getting rid of the pain that's tearing me apart.
I know that he's grieving too. April was his friend too. And he hasn't cried once, at least not that I know of. He's trying to be strong, for me, trying to save me. But I can't be saved. And I don't want to be.
He took the razors. Stole them along with my stash, my lighter, and all my needles. And stayed by my side all night long. But he's asleep now.
I look down at his exhausted body, curled up on the floor of my room. I feel bad for doing what I'm about to do, I know how it would hurt him if he knew. But it's hurting me so much more if I don't do it. I can't take it…the pain, both physical and emotional…I need an escape!
Why did she have to leave me? She took the easy way out, leaving me to clean up the mess myself. We got AIDS. Nothing else. No "I love you," no "I'm sorry." Just those three cold words. We. Got. AIDS.
They won't leave me alone. I ripped up the note, but the words are already burned into my brain, etched into my memory forever along with the image of my girlfriend lying dead in the bathtub, wrists slit with a razor. My razor.
It was my razor that killed her… No, it was me that killed her. I was the one who had gotten her involved with drugs, me that had shared my needles, me who had been too careless to use a condom. I was the one who gave us AIDS. I was the one who killed us.
Even though it was her who took the razor and slit both her wrists it was me that stole the life from her. I remember the happy, vibrant girl I had met so many months ago in a bar. The girl that was so happy just to be with me, to be with her friends…so willing to give up her fancy apartment to live in this tiny space with the people she loved.
That wasn't the same girl who sold most of her possessions for drug money, wasn't the same girl who's been shooting up with me…wasn't the same girl who slit her wrists in the bathroom. That was the zombie I had turned that girl into. And now that girl – that once happy, loving girl – is gone.
I feel another intense pain shoot through me and I clutch my stomach for a few minutes, trying hard not to scream out in pain, and wait for it to subside. When it finally does I get up quickly, the need taking over every other thought in my mind, pushing everything else aside.
It's hard to walk with my legs cramping so much that they're almost paralyzed, but I push through the pain – or try to – as I dig through Mark's pockets, go though his drawers, tear apart his room, until I find what I'm looking for.
Here it is, under his mattress. My needle, lighter, and smack. I hurry into the kitchen for a spoon, bringing the rest of my tools with me because I know I won't have the strength to walk back and get them later.
With shaking hands I melt the white powder, slap my arm for a vein, fill the needle, and inject the poison into my arm. When I feel the heroin coursing through my veins I almost moan out lout at the feeling of relaxation and comfort that quickly fills me as the liquid continues to travel to all parts of my body.
I glance down at the now empty bag in my hands and silently wish that I had had enough to end everything. End the pain once and for all, end the hurt and heartache. Then the words wouldn't matter. We got AIDS. They wouldn't matter at all.
I know I could do it. I could go in the kitchen, select the sharpest knife I can find, and give up just like April. But I won't. At least not tonight. Because Mark's already lost one friend to suicide tonight and I'm not that selfish as to cause him to lose another.
No, I'll wait. I'll suffer for a few more days, a few weeks, years… I don't want to do it to him, I don't want to put him through another suicide but it has to be done. I can't face the fact that she's dead, and I can't face the words on the note. Either way I'll end up dead anyway. It'll just be easier and faster this way. I'll die quickly and I'll never have to find out if the words are true.
We got AIDS.
Even with all the heroin in my body I still can't forget. The words are still haunting me, repeating over and over, making me want to throw up. Making me actually wish I was still experiencing withdrawal symptoms because at least then I'd be focused on the pain and nothing else. The pain would drive all other thoughts from my mind, making me forget the note and the words. We got AIDS.
Yes, the grass is always greener isn't it? A half hour ago all I could think about was getting high, shooting up again so that I could forget. And now here I am wasted, and all I can think about is going back into withdrawal so that I can forget.
I laugh bitterly at that thought. I'd never heard of a junkie that actually wanted to be in withdrawal.
I pause for a second. That's the first time I've ever thought of myself as a junkie. But I guess it's true. April said I was. I remember her accusing me of being a junkie, saying that she was also and that we had to stop.
We got AIDS.
Did she know all along? Did she keep her secret all that time, waiting to tell me in her suicide note?
I remember the first time she said she wanted to stop. She had been out for most of the day – I had assumed it was to obtain more drugs or money to buy them with. She was crying when she got back. I had been too wasted at the time to care, but I had noticed. I didn't give much thought to it, didn't question her or even stop to wonder what was wrong. But it was always in the back of my mind.
As the weeks went by she continued to cry more and more often. When that happened I would toss her some smack and that would calm her down for a while. But the tears never really stopped.
Now they've stopped for good. Oh, how I wish I could her those cries just once more… I never really took the time to hear what she was trying to tell me. Maybe if I had paid more attention I would have heard past the cries to what she was really trying to say: that she was hurt, scared, in need of a friend…a boyfriend.
But no, I was too wrapped up in my own problems, too concerned with obtaining more smack to listen to her. I wish I had. Then maybe she'd still be alive today.
I hear Mark begin to stir in my room and I quickly hide my needle and smack, just in time, as he walks into the room and sits next to me on the couch.
He looks me over closely and then states, "You're not in withdrawal."
After I don't say anything he sighs but I get up before he can say anything else. The last thing I need right now is a lecture. I need April, I need more smack, I need a razor. And as much as I hate to admit it, I need help.
We got AIDS.
Mark wouldn't understand, I can't tell him. But I can't face this on my own.
Wordlessly I walk into the kitchen and grab the phone, stretching the cord so that it fits in the bathroom with me. I securely lock the door so Mark won't get in (he probably thinks I'm shooting up again) and I dial a familiar number.
The phone rings three times before someone picks up.
"Hello?"
I pause when I hear his voice. I haven't talked to him in months. I wonder if he even knows what's going on, that I've been wasting my life away shooting up, that I took the life of my girlfriend by introducing her to my drug… Am I doing the right thing? Should I just forget about this and end my life the same way as she?
He speaks again and I can detect a tinge of annoyance in his voice. "Is anyone there?"
And I chicken out. He got AIDS from his boyfriend, not a dirty needle, not from a heroin addiction. He wouldn't understand. No, there's only one thing to do and as I slam down the phone, all thoughts of hurting Mark, my parents, my friends, are pushed out of my mind as I open the medicine cabinet and start hunting for any razors that Mark might have missed.
