Disclaimer: This is a crappy chapter- yes, I know. I'm aware of it. I just needed a lead into the next few chapters, which get even more angsty-er (- not a real word, I know) but yah. Think of this chapter as a *filler* in the meantime. Heh. The usual stuff- characters not mine, they all belong to Jonathan Larson.
Chapter 3- Drowning
Tick.
Tock.
Tick.
Tock.
2:49 a.m.
Mark blinked up at the ceiling, watching the blurry interplay between light and shadow on the cheap, cracked plaster. He had woken up from the now hazy nightmare that still left an imprint of dread heavy on his chest.
The ticking of his clock was hypnotic.
God, what was I dreaming about? he asked himself.
I don't remember.
It was bad though.
Had he been drowning in his dream? He could faintly recall a sense of panic; the sound of his screaming and water splashing... but trying to remember it was like trying to grab at wisps of smoke.
He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to force himself back to sleep.
Sleep, dammit, he told himself, sleeping is better than laying here thinking about...
About...
Suddenly a loud hacking cough filled the loft and floated through the door of Mark's bedroom.
His eyes flew open and for a moment, he lay there, not sure if he had fallen back into a strange dream.
And then he heard the piercing cough again and knew for sure that he was awake.
He sat up and fumbled for his glasses on the desk. As he moved towards the door, he ran his fingers through his hair in a weak attempt to smooth it down. He opened the door and frowned.
The lights were still off and the only illumination in the room came from the flashing neon lights outside the window.
He took a step outside and shivered as his bare feet touched the cold, cold floor.
It was winter- no heat.
He hugged himself and looked around for the source of the coughing.
"Hello?" he said into the darkness. "April? Roger?"
As if in reply another cough echoed through the loft and Mark moved towards the sound.
A thin line of light outlined the slightly open bathroom door and he pushed it in with one hand.
"April?"
She was standing in front of the open medicine cabinet. At the sound of his voice, she jumped back in surprise and Mark held up his hands.
"It's only me, April." he said. "Just Mark."
She exhaled a shaky breath and gave him a weak smile.
"Hey." she said. Her voice sounded hoarse and raw. "Do you need to use the bathroom, Mark?"
He shook his head. "I heard you coughing."
Her pale cheeks flushed momentarily and she leaned against the sink to face him.
"Did I wake you up? I'm sorry."
"No, you didn't wake me." he said. "How long have you been home? Where's Roger?"
"Roger's still at the club."
Mark looked at her clothing. Tight shirt, tight pants- the usual. Only now they were loose on her dreadfully gaunt body.
"Oh."
"I'm heading back out there soon. I just needed to pick up some medicine."
"There wasn't a store near the club?"
She blushed again and shrugged.
"There was. Just no flow."
"Oh."
"Go back to sleep, Mark." she said, turning back towards the medicine cabinet. "Everything's okay out here."
"I'm worried about you, April." he said softly. "You've had this cough for over a month."
"It's winter." she said, sounding slightly annoyed. "Flu season. It's probably just some virus I picked up. I just need some medicine. I'll be fine."
"Oh."
"Go back to bed, Mark."
Mark stayed silent.
This strange, awkward interchange mirrored the past dozen conversations they had had in the months before. A cold veil had dropped between them as Roger moved deeper and deeper into the other world, a world that Mark couldn't, wouldn't follow him into.
But with Roger went April.
Hand in hand.
Mark knew that she would follow Roger wherever he led her because...
Because she loves him, Mark thought grimly.
And he was well acquainted with that kind of love- that hard, longing, hopeless, angry love.
He knew how strong and powerful its hold was.
He felt it each time he thought of her, which was often.
Her.
She was changing before Mark's eyes.
Each morning when she walked through the door, helping in a stumbling, fucked up Roger, Mark studied her arms, fearing the day when he would find that one red mark. That one small crimson mark that would signify the beginning of the end of everything he loved about her.
But each morning, her arms remained clear.
No, the change in her was more profound, deeper and darker than the change in his bestfriend. She rarely truly smiled anymore. Instead, she would offer a small tight-lipped turn of her mouth- an ugly caricature of a smile. She was colder. Short-tempered. Defensive. Cruel.
But sometimes... sometimes Mark caught glimpses of the real April. Sometimes she would look back at him before walking out the door with Roger and her brown eyes would soften for a moment. Sometimes she would make him tea when he came home after a long day of walking around the city, trying and failing to get a film accepted, placing the hot cup in his hands and smiling slightly. Sometimes she would reach out to him when they were alone and touch the back of his hand while he was writing in his notebook. Those times, he would look up to find her looking at him with a mixture of confusion and despair and he would ask her what was wrong although he already knew. And always the answer was "Nothing. Nevermind." thrown at him as she drew back her hand and walked away.
Those glimpses, those rare moments that Mark replayed over and over in his mind were becoming fewer and fewer as the days passed.
And Roger.... a raging guilt would wash over Mark each time he thought about Roger. He was watching his bestfriend slowly destroy himself and he was powerless to stop it. Each time he tried to talk to Roger, to reach out to him, he would get shoved back or screamed at until Mark was reduced to a sobbing mess, cowering at his feet.
But that was only one side of his guilt.
Mark knew what he was. What else do you call a friend who loves his bestfriend's girlfriend?
Betrayer.
He was undeserving of any goodness or joy in life.
And so the daily dance of guilt in his mind would begin anew each day, plaguing Mark, causing him to pull away from the world and become nothing more than a bystander, a watcher, an observer.
A nothing.
He stared at April.
"Is this stuff still good?" April asked, staring at the dark bottle she had picked out of the cabinet. She was unaware of the scrutiny she was under.
Her cheeks were sunken in and her skin was pale and unhealthy looking. Her shoulders were like sharp angles beneath the thin material of her shirt and her arms looked fragile and breakable. She looked so young and vulnerable that it made Mark's chest ache.
"Shit. The expiration date says November 12th. Goddammit."
"April, you're so thin."
Her dark eyes flew to his face and he saw a faint glimmer of embarrassment in their depths. She looked away and closed the cabinet, placing the bottle carefully on the sink.
"It's just stress, Mark." she said defensively. She looked at his reflection in the mirror.
"Besides, you shouldn't be the one to talk."
Mark looked at his own gaunt reflection and blushed. He stepped back away from the mirror and stood at the doorframe. He knew what she meant. His eyes were haunted by the same shadows that darkened hers.
"April, you need to see a doctor." he said. "I think you need to..."
She slammed her hands on the edge of the sink and glared at him.
"Don't tell me what you think I need to do, Mark." she snapped. "I already went to the clinic. Yesterday. So you can just drop the Dear Abby act."
Mark's eyes widened at her sudden outburst.
"I'm just trying to help you..."
Her features twisted up into an eerily familiar expression and Mark felt a chill run through him at the sight of Roger's fury in her face.
"Well, I don't need your help! I can take care of myself!"
Roger's words.
She tried to walk past him but he stopped her.
"No you can't, April." he said quietly. "Look at yourself."
She jerked her arm back from his weak grasp and looked at him as if he were crazy.
"I'm not some stupid little kid." she said. "I'm nineteen years old..."
He couldn't stop the laugh that escaped his lips nor could he stop the cruel flow of words that came out next. Something had snapped in him now and it came rushing out, no longer willing to stay locked up and pushed down.
"You are a kid!" he cried out. "You're a nineteen year old little girl who still believes in fairytales, for Godsake!"
"I'm an adult!" she screamed.
"Oh yeah? If you're such a fucking adult then why can't you stop Roger from..."
He regretted saying it as soon as he had uttered the words and he shook his head in horror.
"April, I didn't mean that." Mark said. He took a step forward and she stumbled backwards, trying to keep distance between them.
"God, April, you know I would never blame you for..."
"You're a hypocrite, Mark!" she shot out suddenly. "You're his bestfriend and all you do is watch him and pass judgment on him from your almighty throne on that table! What's your excuse for turning your back on him?"
Mark took in a sharp breath and let it out slowly.
"I haven't turned my back on him." he said.
"Whatever, Mark." she said. "If that's what you need to tell yourself, then fine. But remember which one of us is out there with him every night, to make sure he gets home safe, to make sure he doesn't overdose.."
"And I guess you shoot up for him too, when he's too drunk or too fucked up to do it himself. You're helping him kill himself! So if you want to look for the hypocrite, don't point your finger at me! Look in the mirror!"
They stood there, looking at each other in stunned silence.
The outrage in her eyes made him want to shrink, made him want to tear into his chest and rip out his heart to erase the pain that her eyes, that look, was filled with.
God, why the fuck did I say those things? he thought wildly.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
But he knew.
Deep down inside, he wanted to hurt someone just as much as he had been hurting all along.
The words he said seemed to come out in a torrent- all the anger, hurt and resentment that he pushed down for almost a year had gushed out of him and found their target in April.
"Mark." She said his name in disbelief, shivering.
She stepped back again and the shadows from the loft seemed to crawl up behind her, enveloping her in the darkness. The dim light seemed to emphasize the hollowness of her features and her brown eyes grew large in shock.
God, I'm no better than Roger, he thought, miserable.
How could I...
Why did I...
To her?
"April, I... I'm so.. I'm sorry."
She stared at him as if he were a stranger.
"I'm so, so sorry." he whimpered. "I don't know why I... you know, I don't believe any of that. I just... I feel so...Oh God, April, I'm sorry."
He walked towards her and she kept walking backwards away from him until she hit the edge of the table with her hip. She gasped and looked back in surprise.
Mark crossed the distance between them and pulled her into a tight embrace.
At first she struggled, fought against him but he held on to her tightly until she lay quiet and limp in his arms.
He clutched her desperately, whispering apologies over and over again until his words melted into a low, mumbled chant. He didn't know how long he stood there, holding her, but he didn't dare let go- even when his arms grew numb and weary by the effort of keeping her from pushing him away.
And then, after awhile he felt her hot breath on his neck, her warm tears sliding down to the fabric of his shirt and then heard her quiet, soft voice in his ear.
"It's okay, Mark."
He couldn't speak. He was too tired to speak, too tired to move.
"Mark, let me go. It's okay."
He felt her hands on his chest, gently pushing him away from her. His arms dropped to his side and he looked at her meekly. Her face was tired and etched with weariness as she looked back at him but her eyes were warm despite the sadness he saw in their depths.
"Go to back to bed, Mark. You need your rest."
He could have laughed at the irony of it. He shook his head.
"No, I want to stay out here with you." he said. "Please?"
The sadness in her eyes spread to her features and she shook her head.
"I'm going out, Mark. Remember? I have to go back to make sure Roger's okay."
"Then I'll go with you."
"No." She wiped her face again and then wiped her hands on her pants. When she began to move towards the door, Mark grabbed her hand and shook his head. He knew how pathetic he was but he didn't care.
"No, April, don't go. Just stay? Please? One night? Just stay home." He tried to control the quiver in his voice, tried to blink back the fresh tears that had gathered in his eyes but to no avail.
"Mark, don't do this...."
"Please, don't go. Just this once? I... I can go get Roger and take him home. I don't care what it takes, I'll get him and you can just stay here and when we get back, I can.."
She slowly undid the tight grasp that his hand had on hers and pushed him back when he tried to move towards her again.
"Mark, you can't come with me." she said. "I won't let you."
The tone of her voice told him that there was no point in begging or pleading anymore. He watched helplessly as she turned and walked away from him, opening the door and then raising her head to look at him one last time. She opened her mouth and then closed it again, changing her mind.
No goodbye, no wave of her hand or even a faked smile as she closed the door behind her.
Mark stood in the dark, the last player on an abandoned stage. For a moment, he thought about running after her and then decided against it. He was too exhausted to think anymore. He turned around and walked back to his room. He crawled into his bed, shivering, and he curled himself up into a ball on the cold hard mattress. As he drifted closer and closer to unconsciousness, he suddenly remembered the dream- the elusive nightmare from before.
He had been in a boat and April and Roger were drowning.
Both of had been screaming, struggling, crying out for him to pull them up from the black churning waters that swelled up past their gasping mouths and threatened to overwhelm them.
Mark was torn. He tried to grab them both, trying to save them both at the same time but he was too weak. He could only save one of them and his heart wrenched with the agony of trying to pick.
Which one?
"I can't!" he had screamed at both of them. "I can't pick!"
He had woken up at the moment he made his decision.
He had jumped into the waters with them.
The next day, Mark adjusted the old roll of film on the projector and then aimed the lens at his stark, white wall.
He sat down on the cold floor and turned the machine on.
And he watched.
The wall flickered to life.
Roger, laughing.
The early spring sun shines down on his dark blonde hair.
His blue eyes twinkle mischievously.
He looks healthy.
He is sitting on the couch, holding his guitar, making faces at the camera.
He twists around in his seat, searching for something to throw at Mark.
He finds an old, gray sock and he holds it up, laughing.
"Better watch out, Cohen, or you'll be wearing this sock on your head!"
"You have the worst aim, Roger. Just try it!"
More laughter.
The picture goes out of focus, waving wildly up and down for a few seconds and then.... a shriek of protest.
"Oh God, gross!"
The shot comes back into focus and it follows April as she walks through the door, holding a bag of groceries in her arms.
The sock is now on top of the bag and April throws a mock glare at the camera.
"Mark, get this stinky old thing off of the bag or else I'll..."
Zoom in on April's face.
She tries to hide the smile that is forming on her lips.
"Or else you'll what? Throw a tomato at me? A carton of milk?"
She drops the bag on the table and pushes her shiny brown hair behind her shoulders.
Her bright eyes laugh at the camera and her full cheeks grow pink as a slow smile spreads across her lips.
"Don't make me tickle you, Mark." she says, pushing up the sleeves of her sweatshirt.
"No!" Mark cries from behind the camera.
"Yes!" she says, grinning mischievously at the camera.
"Go get him, April!"
"I know where you're ticklish, Mark!"
"No!"
"Roger, hold him down!"
The shot jumps up, down and sideways and Mark's hysterical laughter fills the air as April's hands find their mark.
Suddenly the viewpoint of the shot changes.
Now Mark is on the floor, laughing helplessly as April pulls up his sweater and tickles his bare stomach.
"Stop.....it!" Mark screams breathlessly and April shakes her head at him, laughing.
"You're gonna kill him, babe."
Roger laughs as the shot zooms in on her face.
She winks at the camera and grins.
"That's the idea, Roge!"
As the two figures fight and giggle onscreen, Roger's deep voice whispers into the camera, like the quiet voice of God.
"Look at them. Mark and April. My two bestfriends. The two people I love beyond anything else in this world. God, I don't know if my life can get any better than this. I don't think it can. This is it for me. This is perfection."
The picture turned black.
And then...
"God, Roger, you can't just leave these things lying around!"
April, standing in the kitchen.
In her hand is an empty syringe.
"Christ, shut up, April! Get off my goddamn back!"
Roger, his back to her, sitting on the table.
His hands plunged into his hair and his elbows rest on his knees.
His guitar is on the table behind him.
"This is third time I've pricked myself on one of these things and..."
"Shut the fuck up, April!"
Zoom in on April's face.
Her eyes fill with tears.
Zoom out.
She throws the syringe into the garbage pail underneath the sink.
She wipes her face with the back of her hand and walks towards Roger.
"I just want to help you, Roger."
He raises his head and drops his arms.
Zoom in on the track marks littering the dark flesh of his arm.
Zoom out.
Roger stands up.
"I don't need your fucking help! What I need you to do is to just shut the fuck up for one second!"
"Roger..."
"Just shut up, bitch!"
April takes a step back.
The hurt in her face is indescribable.
"Oh God, April, I'm sorry."
Roger's eyes fill with tears as he moves towards her.
She takes another step back as he tries to grab her.
"Baby, I'm sorry, I didn't mean...."
She turns around and runs out the door, slamming it shut behind her.
"Fuck!"
The picture moves backwards and then a loud crash is heard.
"Shit." Mark swears from behind the camera.
Roger whirls around.
He glares at the camera, furious, and stomps towards it.
"Fucking bastard, turn that shit off! You fucking little sneak!"
Another crash and then the shot spins wildly out of control.
Fade to black.
Mark didn't jump when the roll of film whirled off the projector. He was sobbing too loudly to even notice it. He squeezed his eyes, trying to stop the flow of tears but they came relentlessly down his face. He clutched his stomach in agony, feeling a tidal wave of pain and despair wash over him. He fell to his side and drew his legs up to his chest and cried into his hands. After a few minutes, his chest started to hurt and he gasped for air.
He knew what he had to do.
He got onto his hands and knees and grabbed the bed for support. He pulled himself onto the mattress and grabbed the phone. He had put it there earlier, already deciding on his actions. He just needed this one last push, this one last vision of what his world was and what his world had become.
He dialed, inhaling deeply to control his frantic breathing as he waited for someone to pick up the phone.
Finally, someone did.
"Hello, Department of Computer Sciences, MIT. How can I help you?"
Mark cleared his throat and struggled to sound normal.
"Can I speak to Tom Collins? This is an emergency."
Chapter 3- Drowning
Tick.
Tock.
Tick.
Tock.
2:49 a.m.
Mark blinked up at the ceiling, watching the blurry interplay between light and shadow on the cheap, cracked plaster. He had woken up from the now hazy nightmare that still left an imprint of dread heavy on his chest.
The ticking of his clock was hypnotic.
God, what was I dreaming about? he asked himself.
I don't remember.
It was bad though.
Had he been drowning in his dream? He could faintly recall a sense of panic; the sound of his screaming and water splashing... but trying to remember it was like trying to grab at wisps of smoke.
He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to force himself back to sleep.
Sleep, dammit, he told himself, sleeping is better than laying here thinking about...
About...
Suddenly a loud hacking cough filled the loft and floated through the door of Mark's bedroom.
His eyes flew open and for a moment, he lay there, not sure if he had fallen back into a strange dream.
And then he heard the piercing cough again and knew for sure that he was awake.
He sat up and fumbled for his glasses on the desk. As he moved towards the door, he ran his fingers through his hair in a weak attempt to smooth it down. He opened the door and frowned.
The lights were still off and the only illumination in the room came from the flashing neon lights outside the window.
He took a step outside and shivered as his bare feet touched the cold, cold floor.
It was winter- no heat.
He hugged himself and looked around for the source of the coughing.
"Hello?" he said into the darkness. "April? Roger?"
As if in reply another cough echoed through the loft and Mark moved towards the sound.
A thin line of light outlined the slightly open bathroom door and he pushed it in with one hand.
"April?"
She was standing in front of the open medicine cabinet. At the sound of his voice, she jumped back in surprise and Mark held up his hands.
"It's only me, April." he said. "Just Mark."
She exhaled a shaky breath and gave him a weak smile.
"Hey." she said. Her voice sounded hoarse and raw. "Do you need to use the bathroom, Mark?"
He shook his head. "I heard you coughing."
Her pale cheeks flushed momentarily and she leaned against the sink to face him.
"Did I wake you up? I'm sorry."
"No, you didn't wake me." he said. "How long have you been home? Where's Roger?"
"Roger's still at the club."
Mark looked at her clothing. Tight shirt, tight pants- the usual. Only now they were loose on her dreadfully gaunt body.
"Oh."
"I'm heading back out there soon. I just needed to pick up some medicine."
"There wasn't a store near the club?"
She blushed again and shrugged.
"There was. Just no flow."
"Oh."
"Go back to sleep, Mark." she said, turning back towards the medicine cabinet. "Everything's okay out here."
"I'm worried about you, April." he said softly. "You've had this cough for over a month."
"It's winter." she said, sounding slightly annoyed. "Flu season. It's probably just some virus I picked up. I just need some medicine. I'll be fine."
"Oh."
"Go back to bed, Mark."
Mark stayed silent.
This strange, awkward interchange mirrored the past dozen conversations they had had in the months before. A cold veil had dropped between them as Roger moved deeper and deeper into the other world, a world that Mark couldn't, wouldn't follow him into.
But with Roger went April.
Hand in hand.
Mark knew that she would follow Roger wherever he led her because...
Because she loves him, Mark thought grimly.
And he was well acquainted with that kind of love- that hard, longing, hopeless, angry love.
He knew how strong and powerful its hold was.
He felt it each time he thought of her, which was often.
Her.
She was changing before Mark's eyes.
Each morning when she walked through the door, helping in a stumbling, fucked up Roger, Mark studied her arms, fearing the day when he would find that one red mark. That one small crimson mark that would signify the beginning of the end of everything he loved about her.
But each morning, her arms remained clear.
No, the change in her was more profound, deeper and darker than the change in his bestfriend. She rarely truly smiled anymore. Instead, she would offer a small tight-lipped turn of her mouth- an ugly caricature of a smile. She was colder. Short-tempered. Defensive. Cruel.
But sometimes... sometimes Mark caught glimpses of the real April. Sometimes she would look back at him before walking out the door with Roger and her brown eyes would soften for a moment. Sometimes she would make him tea when he came home after a long day of walking around the city, trying and failing to get a film accepted, placing the hot cup in his hands and smiling slightly. Sometimes she would reach out to him when they were alone and touch the back of his hand while he was writing in his notebook. Those times, he would look up to find her looking at him with a mixture of confusion and despair and he would ask her what was wrong although he already knew. And always the answer was "Nothing. Nevermind." thrown at him as she drew back her hand and walked away.
Those glimpses, those rare moments that Mark replayed over and over in his mind were becoming fewer and fewer as the days passed.
And Roger.... a raging guilt would wash over Mark each time he thought about Roger. He was watching his bestfriend slowly destroy himself and he was powerless to stop it. Each time he tried to talk to Roger, to reach out to him, he would get shoved back or screamed at until Mark was reduced to a sobbing mess, cowering at his feet.
But that was only one side of his guilt.
Mark knew what he was. What else do you call a friend who loves his bestfriend's girlfriend?
Betrayer.
He was undeserving of any goodness or joy in life.
And so the daily dance of guilt in his mind would begin anew each day, plaguing Mark, causing him to pull away from the world and become nothing more than a bystander, a watcher, an observer.
A nothing.
He stared at April.
"Is this stuff still good?" April asked, staring at the dark bottle she had picked out of the cabinet. She was unaware of the scrutiny she was under.
Her cheeks were sunken in and her skin was pale and unhealthy looking. Her shoulders were like sharp angles beneath the thin material of her shirt and her arms looked fragile and breakable. She looked so young and vulnerable that it made Mark's chest ache.
"Shit. The expiration date says November 12th. Goddammit."
"April, you're so thin."
Her dark eyes flew to his face and he saw a faint glimmer of embarrassment in their depths. She looked away and closed the cabinet, placing the bottle carefully on the sink.
"It's just stress, Mark." she said defensively. She looked at his reflection in the mirror.
"Besides, you shouldn't be the one to talk."
Mark looked at his own gaunt reflection and blushed. He stepped back away from the mirror and stood at the doorframe. He knew what she meant. His eyes were haunted by the same shadows that darkened hers.
"April, you need to see a doctor." he said. "I think you need to..."
She slammed her hands on the edge of the sink and glared at him.
"Don't tell me what you think I need to do, Mark." she snapped. "I already went to the clinic. Yesterday. So you can just drop the Dear Abby act."
Mark's eyes widened at her sudden outburst.
"I'm just trying to help you..."
Her features twisted up into an eerily familiar expression and Mark felt a chill run through him at the sight of Roger's fury in her face.
"Well, I don't need your help! I can take care of myself!"
Roger's words.
She tried to walk past him but he stopped her.
"No you can't, April." he said quietly. "Look at yourself."
She jerked her arm back from his weak grasp and looked at him as if he were crazy.
"I'm not some stupid little kid." she said. "I'm nineteen years old..."
He couldn't stop the laugh that escaped his lips nor could he stop the cruel flow of words that came out next. Something had snapped in him now and it came rushing out, no longer willing to stay locked up and pushed down.
"You are a kid!" he cried out. "You're a nineteen year old little girl who still believes in fairytales, for Godsake!"
"I'm an adult!" she screamed.
"Oh yeah? If you're such a fucking adult then why can't you stop Roger from..."
He regretted saying it as soon as he had uttered the words and he shook his head in horror.
"April, I didn't mean that." Mark said. He took a step forward and she stumbled backwards, trying to keep distance between them.
"God, April, you know I would never blame you for..."
"You're a hypocrite, Mark!" she shot out suddenly. "You're his bestfriend and all you do is watch him and pass judgment on him from your almighty throne on that table! What's your excuse for turning your back on him?"
Mark took in a sharp breath and let it out slowly.
"I haven't turned my back on him." he said.
"Whatever, Mark." she said. "If that's what you need to tell yourself, then fine. But remember which one of us is out there with him every night, to make sure he gets home safe, to make sure he doesn't overdose.."
"And I guess you shoot up for him too, when he's too drunk or too fucked up to do it himself. You're helping him kill himself! So if you want to look for the hypocrite, don't point your finger at me! Look in the mirror!"
They stood there, looking at each other in stunned silence.
The outrage in her eyes made him want to shrink, made him want to tear into his chest and rip out his heart to erase the pain that her eyes, that look, was filled with.
God, why the fuck did I say those things? he thought wildly.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
But he knew.
Deep down inside, he wanted to hurt someone just as much as he had been hurting all along.
The words he said seemed to come out in a torrent- all the anger, hurt and resentment that he pushed down for almost a year had gushed out of him and found their target in April.
"Mark." She said his name in disbelief, shivering.
She stepped back again and the shadows from the loft seemed to crawl up behind her, enveloping her in the darkness. The dim light seemed to emphasize the hollowness of her features and her brown eyes grew large in shock.
God, I'm no better than Roger, he thought, miserable.
How could I...
Why did I...
To her?
"April, I... I'm so.. I'm sorry."
She stared at him as if he were a stranger.
"I'm so, so sorry." he whimpered. "I don't know why I... you know, I don't believe any of that. I just... I feel so...Oh God, April, I'm sorry."
He walked towards her and she kept walking backwards away from him until she hit the edge of the table with her hip. She gasped and looked back in surprise.
Mark crossed the distance between them and pulled her into a tight embrace.
At first she struggled, fought against him but he held on to her tightly until she lay quiet and limp in his arms.
He clutched her desperately, whispering apologies over and over again until his words melted into a low, mumbled chant. He didn't know how long he stood there, holding her, but he didn't dare let go- even when his arms grew numb and weary by the effort of keeping her from pushing him away.
And then, after awhile he felt her hot breath on his neck, her warm tears sliding down to the fabric of his shirt and then heard her quiet, soft voice in his ear.
"It's okay, Mark."
He couldn't speak. He was too tired to speak, too tired to move.
"Mark, let me go. It's okay."
He felt her hands on his chest, gently pushing him away from her. His arms dropped to his side and he looked at her meekly. Her face was tired and etched with weariness as she looked back at him but her eyes were warm despite the sadness he saw in their depths.
"Go to back to bed, Mark. You need your rest."
He could have laughed at the irony of it. He shook his head.
"No, I want to stay out here with you." he said. "Please?"
The sadness in her eyes spread to her features and she shook her head.
"I'm going out, Mark. Remember? I have to go back to make sure Roger's okay."
"Then I'll go with you."
"No." She wiped her face again and then wiped her hands on her pants. When she began to move towards the door, Mark grabbed her hand and shook his head. He knew how pathetic he was but he didn't care.
"No, April, don't go. Just stay? Please? One night? Just stay home." He tried to control the quiver in his voice, tried to blink back the fresh tears that had gathered in his eyes but to no avail.
"Mark, don't do this...."
"Please, don't go. Just this once? I... I can go get Roger and take him home. I don't care what it takes, I'll get him and you can just stay here and when we get back, I can.."
She slowly undid the tight grasp that his hand had on hers and pushed him back when he tried to move towards her again.
"Mark, you can't come with me." she said. "I won't let you."
The tone of her voice told him that there was no point in begging or pleading anymore. He watched helplessly as she turned and walked away from him, opening the door and then raising her head to look at him one last time. She opened her mouth and then closed it again, changing her mind.
No goodbye, no wave of her hand or even a faked smile as she closed the door behind her.
Mark stood in the dark, the last player on an abandoned stage. For a moment, he thought about running after her and then decided against it. He was too exhausted to think anymore. He turned around and walked back to his room. He crawled into his bed, shivering, and he curled himself up into a ball on the cold hard mattress. As he drifted closer and closer to unconsciousness, he suddenly remembered the dream- the elusive nightmare from before.
He had been in a boat and April and Roger were drowning.
Both of had been screaming, struggling, crying out for him to pull them up from the black churning waters that swelled up past their gasping mouths and threatened to overwhelm them.
Mark was torn. He tried to grab them both, trying to save them both at the same time but he was too weak. He could only save one of them and his heart wrenched with the agony of trying to pick.
Which one?
"I can't!" he had screamed at both of them. "I can't pick!"
He had woken up at the moment he made his decision.
He had jumped into the waters with them.
The next day, Mark adjusted the old roll of film on the projector and then aimed the lens at his stark, white wall.
He sat down on the cold floor and turned the machine on.
And he watched.
The wall flickered to life.
Roger, laughing.
The early spring sun shines down on his dark blonde hair.
His blue eyes twinkle mischievously.
He looks healthy.
He is sitting on the couch, holding his guitar, making faces at the camera.
He twists around in his seat, searching for something to throw at Mark.
He finds an old, gray sock and he holds it up, laughing.
"Better watch out, Cohen, or you'll be wearing this sock on your head!"
"You have the worst aim, Roger. Just try it!"
More laughter.
The picture goes out of focus, waving wildly up and down for a few seconds and then.... a shriek of protest.
"Oh God, gross!"
The shot comes back into focus and it follows April as she walks through the door, holding a bag of groceries in her arms.
The sock is now on top of the bag and April throws a mock glare at the camera.
"Mark, get this stinky old thing off of the bag or else I'll..."
Zoom in on April's face.
She tries to hide the smile that is forming on her lips.
"Or else you'll what? Throw a tomato at me? A carton of milk?"
She drops the bag on the table and pushes her shiny brown hair behind her shoulders.
Her bright eyes laugh at the camera and her full cheeks grow pink as a slow smile spreads across her lips.
"Don't make me tickle you, Mark." she says, pushing up the sleeves of her sweatshirt.
"No!" Mark cries from behind the camera.
"Yes!" she says, grinning mischievously at the camera.
"Go get him, April!"
"I know where you're ticklish, Mark!"
"No!"
"Roger, hold him down!"
The shot jumps up, down and sideways and Mark's hysterical laughter fills the air as April's hands find their mark.
Suddenly the viewpoint of the shot changes.
Now Mark is on the floor, laughing helplessly as April pulls up his sweater and tickles his bare stomach.
"Stop.....it!" Mark screams breathlessly and April shakes her head at him, laughing.
"You're gonna kill him, babe."
Roger laughs as the shot zooms in on her face.
She winks at the camera and grins.
"That's the idea, Roge!"
As the two figures fight and giggle onscreen, Roger's deep voice whispers into the camera, like the quiet voice of God.
"Look at them. Mark and April. My two bestfriends. The two people I love beyond anything else in this world. God, I don't know if my life can get any better than this. I don't think it can. This is it for me. This is perfection."
The picture turned black.
And then...
"God, Roger, you can't just leave these things lying around!"
April, standing in the kitchen.
In her hand is an empty syringe.
"Christ, shut up, April! Get off my goddamn back!"
Roger, his back to her, sitting on the table.
His hands plunged into his hair and his elbows rest on his knees.
His guitar is on the table behind him.
"This is third time I've pricked myself on one of these things and..."
"Shut the fuck up, April!"
Zoom in on April's face.
Her eyes fill with tears.
Zoom out.
She throws the syringe into the garbage pail underneath the sink.
She wipes her face with the back of her hand and walks towards Roger.
"I just want to help you, Roger."
He raises his head and drops his arms.
Zoom in on the track marks littering the dark flesh of his arm.
Zoom out.
Roger stands up.
"I don't need your fucking help! What I need you to do is to just shut the fuck up for one second!"
"Roger..."
"Just shut up, bitch!"
April takes a step back.
The hurt in her face is indescribable.
"Oh God, April, I'm sorry."
Roger's eyes fill with tears as he moves towards her.
She takes another step back as he tries to grab her.
"Baby, I'm sorry, I didn't mean...."
She turns around and runs out the door, slamming it shut behind her.
"Fuck!"
The picture moves backwards and then a loud crash is heard.
"Shit." Mark swears from behind the camera.
Roger whirls around.
He glares at the camera, furious, and stomps towards it.
"Fucking bastard, turn that shit off! You fucking little sneak!"
Another crash and then the shot spins wildly out of control.
Fade to black.
Mark didn't jump when the roll of film whirled off the projector. He was sobbing too loudly to even notice it. He squeezed his eyes, trying to stop the flow of tears but they came relentlessly down his face. He clutched his stomach in agony, feeling a tidal wave of pain and despair wash over him. He fell to his side and drew his legs up to his chest and cried into his hands. After a few minutes, his chest started to hurt and he gasped for air.
He knew what he had to do.
He got onto his hands and knees and grabbed the bed for support. He pulled himself onto the mattress and grabbed the phone. He had put it there earlier, already deciding on his actions. He just needed this one last push, this one last vision of what his world was and what his world had become.
He dialed, inhaling deeply to control his frantic breathing as he waited for someone to pick up the phone.
Finally, someone did.
"Hello, Department of Computer Sciences, MIT. How can I help you?"
Mark cleared his throat and struggled to sound normal.
"Can I speak to Tom Collins? This is an emergency."