That's All Right
By: Hollie
Email: llama@rebelspy.net
Disclaimer: I own nothing, 'cept the story. Go away, I'm too poor to be sued.
I can only watch you on your path to self destruction, I thought you said you'd quite after she died. I thought you said you wouldn't touch that shit again. I thought you said you wouldn't do it again. I thought-oh who cares what I thought. Who cares that I care.
Obviously you don't. You just sit, sometimes acknowledging me, my existence. Usually it's with a scream, a yell, a push and a slap. You holler at me, telling me it's none of my "goddamn business." It is my goddamn business. Your a part of me, I can't change that, all though, sometimes, like now. I want to. I want to just walk out of this stupid loft and leave you, but I can't.
I can't let you do this alone. I can't let you sit and suffer alone. When you finally snap out of it, what will you do? What the fuck will you do? I know what you'll do, you'll shoot up, you let yourself wither away again. And this time, you wont have me to listen to you, not that you'd notice anyway.
Why cant you just get over it. She's gone. She's dead. So will you be if you don't stop. Dammit Roger, just stop it. Just stop it. You did once, not too long ago. Only two years, three years? I can't remember anymore, I doubt you can. Not in your haze.
I hate you for this, you know. I hate watching you do this to yourself.
Why can't you cry? Why can't you cry like everyone else? Why do you have to scream and yell and do this? Sit with your drugs, in your room, waiting for your death. You know I wont let that happen though. I haven't left the apartment since she died, I wont leave, because I know you'll do something you'll regret. You'll overdose, suicide, any number of things. But, I'm here. You know I wont let you. You fight me, even now. I resist the urge to fight back. I know, you could easily kill me, but, that fear doesn't make me move against you.
I know, even in your state, you know I'm your friend.
Shit. There you go again, screaming, yelling. You punch the wall. You know I hid it. You know I put it somewhere, you just don't know where. I'll sit, I'll wait. You'll tear apart the apartment, you know, deep down, it isn't in here, all the same, you'll rip up your room, my room, then the area known as the kitchen. Then, you'll come after me, yell, scream, hit. And me? I'll take it. Why? Why do I let you? Because, I care.
I thought you promised though, that you wouldn't, you always do.
I take your beating, not moving. I want to cry, I want to break down and yell right back at you. I can't, I can't let myself. Instead, I wait it out. I know we're going back to 3 years ago. Back to April. I'm going to have to lock us in, not let you leave, stop all your communication. Your not going to be able to go to band practice the band till you quit. We don't have money for a rehab, so, its back to before. I know, it's going to take longer this time. It's going to be harder, I think. That's all right. That's OK.
Your done with your rampage. Your sitting on the couch, looking at me, angry tears streaming down your face. "Where is it Mark?" Your voice is raspy, hoarse.
"I threw it out, Roger."
"Why?" Your angry. Your getting ready to smack me. I can feel it.
"You know why. Roger, you said you'd quite. You said you wouldn't touch it. You where going to stay clean."
"That was before-"
"Before Mimi. Before Mimi entered your life. I know she got you back on it, don't tell me she didn't." I look you in the eye.
You don't even blink. That's all right. "So what? It's not like you care. Who asked you to look out for me anyway, Mark? Who asked you to take care of me? Who asked you to be my mother."
"No one, Roger. No one asked me to do anything. I want to, I want to help you."
"You just want to be a good fucking Samaritan and go to heaven when you die."
I stare at you, trying to will understanding into you.
Suddenly, your on me, choking me. I shudder as I feel your cold finger's encircle my throat. You raise your hand to slap me again, this time I shy away. I don't want to feel your blow. Something clicks in you, I don't know what. I can't read your mind, but it stops your hand, you release your hold on me. You stand in front of me, looking down at me with bloodshot eyes. I can see the confusion as you make the connection to the bruises on me, the finger prints, hand prints that mark my arms, my neck, my face.
Your finally realizing. You finally can see.
"Mark?" You look at me, eyes closing briefly before opening, looking straight into my own.
"Roger, it's all right." I stand now, reaching out to hug you. You hug me, your body shakes. There'll be more hugs, more tears later. Right now, I lead you to the couch, you cry on me, on my shoulder. I let you, even though there's a bruise there and it hurts. I kiss your hair and you don't notice. That's all right. That's OK.
By: Hollie
Email: llama@rebelspy.net
Disclaimer: I own nothing, 'cept the story. Go away, I'm too poor to be sued.
I can only watch you on your path to self destruction, I thought you said you'd quite after she died. I thought you said you wouldn't touch that shit again. I thought you said you wouldn't do it again. I thought-oh who cares what I thought. Who cares that I care.
Obviously you don't. You just sit, sometimes acknowledging me, my existence. Usually it's with a scream, a yell, a push and a slap. You holler at me, telling me it's none of my "goddamn business." It is my goddamn business. Your a part of me, I can't change that, all though, sometimes, like now. I want to. I want to just walk out of this stupid loft and leave you, but I can't.
I can't let you do this alone. I can't let you sit and suffer alone. When you finally snap out of it, what will you do? What the fuck will you do? I know what you'll do, you'll shoot up, you let yourself wither away again. And this time, you wont have me to listen to you, not that you'd notice anyway.
Why cant you just get over it. She's gone. She's dead. So will you be if you don't stop. Dammit Roger, just stop it. Just stop it. You did once, not too long ago. Only two years, three years? I can't remember anymore, I doubt you can. Not in your haze.
I hate you for this, you know. I hate watching you do this to yourself.
Why can't you cry? Why can't you cry like everyone else? Why do you have to scream and yell and do this? Sit with your drugs, in your room, waiting for your death. You know I wont let that happen though. I haven't left the apartment since she died, I wont leave, because I know you'll do something you'll regret. You'll overdose, suicide, any number of things. But, I'm here. You know I wont let you. You fight me, even now. I resist the urge to fight back. I know, you could easily kill me, but, that fear doesn't make me move against you.
I know, even in your state, you know I'm your friend.
Shit. There you go again, screaming, yelling. You punch the wall. You know I hid it. You know I put it somewhere, you just don't know where. I'll sit, I'll wait. You'll tear apart the apartment, you know, deep down, it isn't in here, all the same, you'll rip up your room, my room, then the area known as the kitchen. Then, you'll come after me, yell, scream, hit. And me? I'll take it. Why? Why do I let you? Because, I care.
I thought you promised though, that you wouldn't, you always do.
I take your beating, not moving. I want to cry, I want to break down and yell right back at you. I can't, I can't let myself. Instead, I wait it out. I know we're going back to 3 years ago. Back to April. I'm going to have to lock us in, not let you leave, stop all your communication. Your not going to be able to go to band practice the band till you quit. We don't have money for a rehab, so, its back to before. I know, it's going to take longer this time. It's going to be harder, I think. That's all right. That's OK.
Your done with your rampage. Your sitting on the couch, looking at me, angry tears streaming down your face. "Where is it Mark?" Your voice is raspy, hoarse.
"I threw it out, Roger."
"Why?" Your angry. Your getting ready to smack me. I can feel it.
"You know why. Roger, you said you'd quite. You said you wouldn't touch it. You where going to stay clean."
"That was before-"
"Before Mimi. Before Mimi entered your life. I know she got you back on it, don't tell me she didn't." I look you in the eye.
You don't even blink. That's all right. "So what? It's not like you care. Who asked you to look out for me anyway, Mark? Who asked you to take care of me? Who asked you to be my mother."
"No one, Roger. No one asked me to do anything. I want to, I want to help you."
"You just want to be a good fucking Samaritan and go to heaven when you die."
I stare at you, trying to will understanding into you.
Suddenly, your on me, choking me. I shudder as I feel your cold finger's encircle my throat. You raise your hand to slap me again, this time I shy away. I don't want to feel your blow. Something clicks in you, I don't know what. I can't read your mind, but it stops your hand, you release your hold on me. You stand in front of me, looking down at me with bloodshot eyes. I can see the confusion as you make the connection to the bruises on me, the finger prints, hand prints that mark my arms, my neck, my face.
Your finally realizing. You finally can see.
"Mark?" You look at me, eyes closing briefly before opening, looking straight into my own.
"Roger, it's all right." I stand now, reaching out to hug you. You hug me, your body shakes. There'll be more hugs, more tears later. Right now, I lead you to the couch, you cry on me, on my shoulder. I let you, even though there's a bruise there and it hurts. I kiss your hair and you don't notice. That's all right. That's OK.