Disclaimer: Same old. Not my characters- they all belong to Jonathan Larson.
A/N: This chapter is so full of cliches and overused material... but it's sorta fun to *see* Mark interacting with other people besides the group.
And, uh, gee, Mark gets beat up a lot in this story.
R/R please!
Ch. 8- Dealer's Choice
Mark shivered violently as he walked slowly down the street. The snow fall had stopped but the melting ice underneath his worn sneakers made walking a very difficult action.
He hugged his camera close to his chest and forced himself to stay alert.
The cold air made his eyes sting and his mouth throb harder but he pushed the pain aside and looked around.
( "You gotta look tough, Mark. Pretend that nothing scares you. That's how you walk down the street without anyone bothering you or trying to rough you up." )
Mark smiled unconsciously at the memory of Roger's voice.
He had said that the first month Mark came to the city. Right after Mark had gotten mugged for the first time. He had been around the same age as April was now. Roger had stomped out of the loft when Mark came home, bloody and bruised. He swore that he was going to find the bastard that had knocked him down and taken the $50 bill in his pocket.
Two hours later, Roger had come through the door, the fifty in one hand and a bloodied rag wrapped around the other.
( "Punk wouldn't give it up without a fight. So I made sure he got one." )
Roger had acted tough but Mark had seen the look of concern in his eyes. Underneath the stupid tough-guy act that Roger always put up in front of people, Mark knew that Roger loved his friends.
He fought for you, Mark, the voice piped up in his mind.
He's always been willing to fight for you.
( "Because that's what friends do. No questions asked." )
You owe him your life.
"I know." Mark said out loud. His breath came out in wisps of smoke that trailed off in the air.
He turned the corner and stopped.
Home.
The building he had called home loomed before him like a haunted house. Without really knowing it, without really meaning to, he had walked all the way to his block from Collins' apartment building.
"Christ, how many miles have I been walking?" he asked himself. He stood still and surveyed the streets with his eyes. Only a few homeless people were out braving the chill and Mark felt a pang of deep sadness as he watched one bent over figure scuttle down the street.
With only a dim part of his mind knowing it, Mark flicked on his camera and brought it up to his eye.
"Denizens of the night." he said softly, just loud enough for the microphone on his camera to pick up. "We're practically kin, I'm only one small step above being out here with them. Who were these people, before they ended up out here? What kind of lives did they have before some weird twist of fate plucked them from their homes to this alien territory? What weird twist of fate prevented me from being in their shoes?"
Another dark figure shuffled across the street.
"Or was fate saving another kind of hell for me?" he asked. "My own private, made to fit torture. One specially designed to break Mark Cohen down. And it isn't poverty or hunger that can break me down. It's watching the people I love destroyed and knowing that I can't do a damn thing to stop it."
"Hey, camera boy, I'm ready for my close up!"
Mark whirled around, nearly losing his balance. In front of him stood a woman.
Oh God, she's a prostitute, Mark thought, feeling afraid.
She wore a short demin skirt and tight white shirt underneath a flimsy faux fur coat. She looked at Mark with a small, feline smile but her eyes were the dazed and hollow gaze of a junkie.
"What?!" Mark's voice had reached an all time high and he screeched at her like a hurt cat.
She giggled into her palm, an odd, girlish move that suddenly reminded him of April and he froze.
"Don't have a heart attack, sweetie." she said, grinning. "I was just wondering if you needed a little bit of lovin' tonight, you know? A little comfort, maybe? After all, it's a cold night."
Mark shook his head violently and took a step back.
"N-N-No." he stammered.
She moved towards him, amused.
"Don't be afraid. I ain't gonna bite." she said. She arched one eyebrow and looked at him with a cold, calculating gaze. "I'll even do you for free this time, pretty boy. You're a helluva lot better looking than most of the guys around here."
Mark shook his head again, feeling his eyes grow wide. Suddenly a thought struck him and he forced himself to stand still and fight the urge to run.
"Actually, I need a fix." he said in a strangled voice. The woman stared at him and Mark knew that she didn't believe him.
"Oh. Really?" she said, the smile disappearing from her dark red painted lips.
They stared at each other for a moment and Mark took another step back when she stopped him.
"You don't look like one of us, babe." she said. Mark made his face expressionless and shrugged.
"I'm new."
She gestured to his camera.
"Not desperate enough to sell that piece of shit for a fix?"
Mark's hand tightened around his camera and he hid it behind his back.
"I just moved here last month. This is all I have left." he said, amazed at the calm sound of his voice.
She shook her head. "You look like a choir boy. Fuck it. Luke's in the park at this time. You're not one of his regs, are you? Tell him Anna sent you and he'll give it to you for a little less."
Mark nodded and turned around before she could say anything else. He hurried down the street, meaning to head straight to the park but stopped in front of his building. He meant to give it only a passing glance but instead, began to climb the stone steps up to the door.
For some reason, he had to see the loft.
( "There was blood on the floor... on the walls..." )
He stopped when he reached the loft door.
Mark took a deep breath to steady himself and pushed the door open, knowing instinctively that it wouldn't be locked.
The loft was dank and dark and Mark almost gagged. The air was noxious. He took a step inside and looked around, blinking, before remembering to turn on the lights.
The loft looked exactly as it had when April had dragged him out of it, bleeding and hurt, two days ago. The only difference was that she had cleaned her blood off the table and floor. His blood, however, was still smeared on the wall and a trail of it lead halfway towards the door.
Mark's eyes grew hot and his head began to pound as he looked around the room. There was April's sweater, slung across the back of the chair. There was Roger's guitar case, open and empty on the floor.
There was his tripod in the corner.
It looked like an abandoned stage, waiting for the players to come back for another scene.
Mark took a step forward and then another and then another... his feet felt heavy and strange and when he finally made it to the couch, he fell down on it like a log.
"It doesn't feel like home anymore." he said outloud. "I don't ever want to be in here again."
When Roger gets better, we'll all move out, me and April and Roger....
Somewhere, anywhere but here.
"If I can find Roger." he muttered, interrupting his thoughts. His eyes looked down on the floor and spotted a yellow, crumpled piece of paper. He bent down and reached for it on impulse.
It was a post-it note. An address had been scrawled on it with blue ink..
Mark recognized April's childish handwriting...
( "God, April, you write like a twelve year old. What's with the little hearts and circles over the i's?"
Roger had laughed once.
"Yeah, well at least I know how to write!" she had snapped back, trying to hide her smile.)
...the swirls and curves of each letter reminded him of her so strongly that he stared at them for a moment.
I left her alone, he thought grimly. What if she wakes up and doesn't know where she is?
What if she decides to look for Roger again?
Who'll be there to stop her?
Mark stood up and shoved the paper in his back pocket. He walked to his room and put his camera in a shoebox. He took the shoebox and shoved it to the farthest, darkest corner of his closet and then covered it with dirty bankets and clothing. He didn't know why he was hiding it, he only knew that he didn't want anyone to take it from him when he went outside again.
( "Luke's in the park at this time. You're not one of his regs, are you? Tell him Anna sent you and he'll give it to you for a little less." )
There was dirt on April's shoes, he thought, walking to the front door.
She went to the park and then she went back here.
How long had that piece of paper had been on the floor? he asked himself.
Before or after she came back here?
The address on it might be meaningless or ....
Or it might be where Roger's at, he told himself, walking slowly down the stairs.
But the dirt on her shoes, the voice countered.
He opened the door to the outside and was hit with a cold blast of night air. Instantly, Mark began to shiver violently and he rubbed his hands up and down his arms. He looked up and down the street, trying to decide which way to go.
The address led him downtown but the park was uptown.
"Dealer's choice." he said outloud.
He walked uptown.
He was leaning against a lamp post, smoking a cigarette. It looked like a scene from "The Exorcist"- the light was shining directly down on the man but still he was covered in shadows. The air around him seemed heavy with moisture and Mark could see little particles of dust floating around in the light.
He knew that this was him. Luke or whatever the fuck his name was. Roger's dealer. Something in Mark screamed that this was The Man.
Mark stood behind the tree, in the darkness, and watched him cautiously, feeling his hands grow damp with fear.
All I have to do is ask him, Mark thought.
Just ask where Roger is and then walk away.
It won't be that easy and you know it, Mark.
Mark rubbed his eyes beneath his glasses and fought the urge to scream. There were too many conflicting voices in this head, too many opposing thoughts and feelings and Mark felt abused by all of them.
He leaned against the cold bark of the tree and closed his eyes, wishing and praying that everything would just go away.
He almost lost his nerve.
"I could just go back to Collins' place right now." he whispered, opening his eyes. "April's probably still sleeping. She wouldn't have to know I was gone. She'd wake up to me and be safe and...and..."
He stopped.
"And nothing. She wouldn't give a fuck about whether or not I was there when she woke up." he said.
He took a step away from his hiding place and moved towards the man.
The Man, with a capital T and M.
"Hey." Mark said hoarsely when he was close. His heart seemed to pound at an incredible rate and he tried to slow it down by taking deep breaths.
The Man took another puff on his cigarette and took no notice of Mark. Mark shoved his hands into his pockets and waited patiently, not really sure of what to do. Was he being ignored on purpose or did The Man just not hear him?
"Hey." Mark said a little louder. He wondered briefly if he should have said 'hello' or 'hi there' but decided he was being stupid.
After a few minutes of more silence, Mark stepped right in front of The Man and moved one hand in a small wave.
"Um, excuse me." he said. The Man shifted slightly and for the first time, Mark saw his face.
It was his face.
Mark's face.
His face in the face of a drug dealer.
The same shade of blue eyes, the same pale, delicate features, even the same thin strands of golden blonde hair peeking out from underneath the baseball cap he wore.
Except there was a coldness, a deep and frigid chill in The Man's eyes as he appraised Mark quietly. This was what Mark would have looked like if he hadn't been so weak, if he didn't have a Roger to protect him.
"Fuck off." The Man said, looking away.
Mark didn't move away- he couldn't.
"I'm looking for someone." he said. "R-R-Roger. Roger Davis."
The Man chuckled and he threw his cigarette down on the ground. The butt landed an inch from Mark's feet.
"R-R-Right." The Man said, mocking Mark. "Look, I don't deal in information so you can just turn around, shove your scarf between your legs and go right back to mommy."
"Have you seen him? Do you know what direction he was going in? That's all I need to know." Mark insisted.
A glint of something -irritation, probably- flickered in The Man's eyes. He leaned forward and with one hand, knocked Mark's glasses off of his face. Mark felt a wave of panic and fear as his world became instantly blurry and dark. He fell to his knees and patted the cold, icy ground in search of his glasses. He could hear The Man laughing above him and he could feel the knees of his pants growing uncomfortably wet but still he searched for his glasses.
He suddenly felt a gust of wind in front of his face and he heard a faint clatter from a few feet away and he realized that The Man, that asshole, had kicked his glasses further away.
"Fuck off, kid." Mark heard him say and then the laughing grew louder.
( "I told you to stay out of my fucking life! That's what I said Mark! I told you to fuck off!!" )
Roger's words.
Mark crawled towards where the sound had been and felt the melting snow slosh underneath his legs. He tried not to cry, really really tried not to let the tears slip from his eyes and onto the ground but failed. He sniffed and continued to pat the ground. He heard footsteps approaching and before he could raise his head in their direction, he felt a sharp, intense pain in his stomach.
Mark uttered a small, surprised sound and clutched himself, falling down to the ground in agony.
"Stupid fucking kid." The Man said before he kicked Mark again.
This time, the shock of the first kick had worn off and took with it any protection from the pain. Mark sobbed and he felt The Man's hands on him, searching through his pockets looking for anything that might be of value. When he found nothing, he uttered a sound of disgust and kicked Mark in the back.
Mark didn't even flinch or recoil. His body was just one big, throbbing pain and he lay on his side, in the muddy dirt and cried. This time there was no April to save him. No Roger to protect him. No Collins to clean him up and take care of him. Mark was all alone and he just wanted it all to end now. Just wanted to die and make the pain stop.
"Christ." The Man said. His voice held a mixture of surprise and revoltion. "Crying on the fucking ground like a baby."
"Hey, asshole! Get the fuck away from him!"
Mark choked back a sob and squeezed his eyes shut. He was hallucinating now, imagining voices.
He heard another set of footsteps running towards him and then a scuffle, a thud and then a scream that was cut off.
"Don't you fucking touch him again!"
Mark moved his head so that his cheek touched the cold ground. He wanted to go to sleep now. Forget dying. Sleep was better. He felt himself slipping into a deeper blackness, a void darker than what the inside of his eyelids could provide.
But before he could fall away into unconsciousness, he felt himself being pulled up, way up, into a sitting position.
"Mark, open your eyes."
Mark felt something being pushed into his face.
His glasses.
"Come on, Mark, open your fucking eyes!"
Mark opened his eyes and almost screamed.
Roger.
A/N: This chapter is so full of cliches and overused material... but it's sorta fun to *see* Mark interacting with other people besides the group.
And, uh, gee, Mark gets beat up a lot in this story.
R/R please!
Ch. 8- Dealer's Choice
Mark shivered violently as he walked slowly down the street. The snow fall had stopped but the melting ice underneath his worn sneakers made walking a very difficult action.
He hugged his camera close to his chest and forced himself to stay alert.
The cold air made his eyes sting and his mouth throb harder but he pushed the pain aside and looked around.
( "You gotta look tough, Mark. Pretend that nothing scares you. That's how you walk down the street without anyone bothering you or trying to rough you up." )
Mark smiled unconsciously at the memory of Roger's voice.
He had said that the first month Mark came to the city. Right after Mark had gotten mugged for the first time. He had been around the same age as April was now. Roger had stomped out of the loft when Mark came home, bloody and bruised. He swore that he was going to find the bastard that had knocked him down and taken the $50 bill in his pocket.
Two hours later, Roger had come through the door, the fifty in one hand and a bloodied rag wrapped around the other.
( "Punk wouldn't give it up without a fight. So I made sure he got one." )
Roger had acted tough but Mark had seen the look of concern in his eyes. Underneath the stupid tough-guy act that Roger always put up in front of people, Mark knew that Roger loved his friends.
He fought for you, Mark, the voice piped up in his mind.
He's always been willing to fight for you.
( "Because that's what friends do. No questions asked." )
You owe him your life.
"I know." Mark said out loud. His breath came out in wisps of smoke that trailed off in the air.
He turned the corner and stopped.
Home.
The building he had called home loomed before him like a haunted house. Without really knowing it, without really meaning to, he had walked all the way to his block from Collins' apartment building.
"Christ, how many miles have I been walking?" he asked himself. He stood still and surveyed the streets with his eyes. Only a few homeless people were out braving the chill and Mark felt a pang of deep sadness as he watched one bent over figure scuttle down the street.
With only a dim part of his mind knowing it, Mark flicked on his camera and brought it up to his eye.
"Denizens of the night." he said softly, just loud enough for the microphone on his camera to pick up. "We're practically kin, I'm only one small step above being out here with them. Who were these people, before they ended up out here? What kind of lives did they have before some weird twist of fate plucked them from their homes to this alien territory? What weird twist of fate prevented me from being in their shoes?"
Another dark figure shuffled across the street.
"Or was fate saving another kind of hell for me?" he asked. "My own private, made to fit torture. One specially designed to break Mark Cohen down. And it isn't poverty or hunger that can break me down. It's watching the people I love destroyed and knowing that I can't do a damn thing to stop it."
"Hey, camera boy, I'm ready for my close up!"
Mark whirled around, nearly losing his balance. In front of him stood a woman.
Oh God, she's a prostitute, Mark thought, feeling afraid.
She wore a short demin skirt and tight white shirt underneath a flimsy faux fur coat. She looked at Mark with a small, feline smile but her eyes were the dazed and hollow gaze of a junkie.
"What?!" Mark's voice had reached an all time high and he screeched at her like a hurt cat.
She giggled into her palm, an odd, girlish move that suddenly reminded him of April and he froze.
"Don't have a heart attack, sweetie." she said, grinning. "I was just wondering if you needed a little bit of lovin' tonight, you know? A little comfort, maybe? After all, it's a cold night."
Mark shook his head violently and took a step back.
"N-N-No." he stammered.
She moved towards him, amused.
"Don't be afraid. I ain't gonna bite." she said. She arched one eyebrow and looked at him with a cold, calculating gaze. "I'll even do you for free this time, pretty boy. You're a helluva lot better looking than most of the guys around here."
Mark shook his head again, feeling his eyes grow wide. Suddenly a thought struck him and he forced himself to stand still and fight the urge to run.
"Actually, I need a fix." he said in a strangled voice. The woman stared at him and Mark knew that she didn't believe him.
"Oh. Really?" she said, the smile disappearing from her dark red painted lips.
They stared at each other for a moment and Mark took another step back when she stopped him.
"You don't look like one of us, babe." she said. Mark made his face expressionless and shrugged.
"I'm new."
She gestured to his camera.
"Not desperate enough to sell that piece of shit for a fix?"
Mark's hand tightened around his camera and he hid it behind his back.
"I just moved here last month. This is all I have left." he said, amazed at the calm sound of his voice.
She shook her head. "You look like a choir boy. Fuck it. Luke's in the park at this time. You're not one of his regs, are you? Tell him Anna sent you and he'll give it to you for a little less."
Mark nodded and turned around before she could say anything else. He hurried down the street, meaning to head straight to the park but stopped in front of his building. He meant to give it only a passing glance but instead, began to climb the stone steps up to the door.
For some reason, he had to see the loft.
( "There was blood on the floor... on the walls..." )
He stopped when he reached the loft door.
Mark took a deep breath to steady himself and pushed the door open, knowing instinctively that it wouldn't be locked.
The loft was dank and dark and Mark almost gagged. The air was noxious. He took a step inside and looked around, blinking, before remembering to turn on the lights.
The loft looked exactly as it had when April had dragged him out of it, bleeding and hurt, two days ago. The only difference was that she had cleaned her blood off the table and floor. His blood, however, was still smeared on the wall and a trail of it lead halfway towards the door.
Mark's eyes grew hot and his head began to pound as he looked around the room. There was April's sweater, slung across the back of the chair. There was Roger's guitar case, open and empty on the floor.
There was his tripod in the corner.
It looked like an abandoned stage, waiting for the players to come back for another scene.
Mark took a step forward and then another and then another... his feet felt heavy and strange and when he finally made it to the couch, he fell down on it like a log.
"It doesn't feel like home anymore." he said outloud. "I don't ever want to be in here again."
When Roger gets better, we'll all move out, me and April and Roger....
Somewhere, anywhere but here.
"If I can find Roger." he muttered, interrupting his thoughts. His eyes looked down on the floor and spotted a yellow, crumpled piece of paper. He bent down and reached for it on impulse.
It was a post-it note. An address had been scrawled on it with blue ink..
Mark recognized April's childish handwriting...
( "God, April, you write like a twelve year old. What's with the little hearts and circles over the i's?"
Roger had laughed once.
"Yeah, well at least I know how to write!" she had snapped back, trying to hide her smile.)
...the swirls and curves of each letter reminded him of her so strongly that he stared at them for a moment.
I left her alone, he thought grimly. What if she wakes up and doesn't know where she is?
What if she decides to look for Roger again?
Who'll be there to stop her?
Mark stood up and shoved the paper in his back pocket. He walked to his room and put his camera in a shoebox. He took the shoebox and shoved it to the farthest, darkest corner of his closet and then covered it with dirty bankets and clothing. He didn't know why he was hiding it, he only knew that he didn't want anyone to take it from him when he went outside again.
( "Luke's in the park at this time. You're not one of his regs, are you? Tell him Anna sent you and he'll give it to you for a little less." )
There was dirt on April's shoes, he thought, walking to the front door.
She went to the park and then she went back here.
How long had that piece of paper had been on the floor? he asked himself.
Before or after she came back here?
The address on it might be meaningless or ....
Or it might be where Roger's at, he told himself, walking slowly down the stairs.
But the dirt on her shoes, the voice countered.
He opened the door to the outside and was hit with a cold blast of night air. Instantly, Mark began to shiver violently and he rubbed his hands up and down his arms. He looked up and down the street, trying to decide which way to go.
The address led him downtown but the park was uptown.
"Dealer's choice." he said outloud.
He walked uptown.
He was leaning against a lamp post, smoking a cigarette. It looked like a scene from "The Exorcist"- the light was shining directly down on the man but still he was covered in shadows. The air around him seemed heavy with moisture and Mark could see little particles of dust floating around in the light.
He knew that this was him. Luke or whatever the fuck his name was. Roger's dealer. Something in Mark screamed that this was The Man.
Mark stood behind the tree, in the darkness, and watched him cautiously, feeling his hands grow damp with fear.
All I have to do is ask him, Mark thought.
Just ask where Roger is and then walk away.
It won't be that easy and you know it, Mark.
Mark rubbed his eyes beneath his glasses and fought the urge to scream. There were too many conflicting voices in this head, too many opposing thoughts and feelings and Mark felt abused by all of them.
He leaned against the cold bark of the tree and closed his eyes, wishing and praying that everything would just go away.
He almost lost his nerve.
"I could just go back to Collins' place right now." he whispered, opening his eyes. "April's probably still sleeping. She wouldn't have to know I was gone. She'd wake up to me and be safe and...and..."
He stopped.
"And nothing. She wouldn't give a fuck about whether or not I was there when she woke up." he said.
He took a step away from his hiding place and moved towards the man.
The Man, with a capital T and M.
"Hey." Mark said hoarsely when he was close. His heart seemed to pound at an incredible rate and he tried to slow it down by taking deep breaths.
The Man took another puff on his cigarette and took no notice of Mark. Mark shoved his hands into his pockets and waited patiently, not really sure of what to do. Was he being ignored on purpose or did The Man just not hear him?
"Hey." Mark said a little louder. He wondered briefly if he should have said 'hello' or 'hi there' but decided he was being stupid.
After a few minutes of more silence, Mark stepped right in front of The Man and moved one hand in a small wave.
"Um, excuse me." he said. The Man shifted slightly and for the first time, Mark saw his face.
It was his face.
Mark's face.
His face in the face of a drug dealer.
The same shade of blue eyes, the same pale, delicate features, even the same thin strands of golden blonde hair peeking out from underneath the baseball cap he wore.
Except there was a coldness, a deep and frigid chill in The Man's eyes as he appraised Mark quietly. This was what Mark would have looked like if he hadn't been so weak, if he didn't have a Roger to protect him.
"Fuck off." The Man said, looking away.
Mark didn't move away- he couldn't.
"I'm looking for someone." he said. "R-R-Roger. Roger Davis."
The Man chuckled and he threw his cigarette down on the ground. The butt landed an inch from Mark's feet.
"R-R-Right." The Man said, mocking Mark. "Look, I don't deal in information so you can just turn around, shove your scarf between your legs and go right back to mommy."
"Have you seen him? Do you know what direction he was going in? That's all I need to know." Mark insisted.
A glint of something -irritation, probably- flickered in The Man's eyes. He leaned forward and with one hand, knocked Mark's glasses off of his face. Mark felt a wave of panic and fear as his world became instantly blurry and dark. He fell to his knees and patted the cold, icy ground in search of his glasses. He could hear The Man laughing above him and he could feel the knees of his pants growing uncomfortably wet but still he searched for his glasses.
He suddenly felt a gust of wind in front of his face and he heard a faint clatter from a few feet away and he realized that The Man, that asshole, had kicked his glasses further away.
"Fuck off, kid." Mark heard him say and then the laughing grew louder.
( "I told you to stay out of my fucking life! That's what I said Mark! I told you to fuck off!!" )
Roger's words.
Mark crawled towards where the sound had been and felt the melting snow slosh underneath his legs. He tried not to cry, really really tried not to let the tears slip from his eyes and onto the ground but failed. He sniffed and continued to pat the ground. He heard footsteps approaching and before he could raise his head in their direction, he felt a sharp, intense pain in his stomach.
Mark uttered a small, surprised sound and clutched himself, falling down to the ground in agony.
"Stupid fucking kid." The Man said before he kicked Mark again.
This time, the shock of the first kick had worn off and took with it any protection from the pain. Mark sobbed and he felt The Man's hands on him, searching through his pockets looking for anything that might be of value. When he found nothing, he uttered a sound of disgust and kicked Mark in the back.
Mark didn't even flinch or recoil. His body was just one big, throbbing pain and he lay on his side, in the muddy dirt and cried. This time there was no April to save him. No Roger to protect him. No Collins to clean him up and take care of him. Mark was all alone and he just wanted it all to end now. Just wanted to die and make the pain stop.
"Christ." The Man said. His voice held a mixture of surprise and revoltion. "Crying on the fucking ground like a baby."
"Hey, asshole! Get the fuck away from him!"
Mark choked back a sob and squeezed his eyes shut. He was hallucinating now, imagining voices.
He heard another set of footsteps running towards him and then a scuffle, a thud and then a scream that was cut off.
"Don't you fucking touch him again!"
Mark moved his head so that his cheek touched the cold ground. He wanted to go to sleep now. Forget dying. Sleep was better. He felt himself slipping into a deeper blackness, a void darker than what the inside of his eyelids could provide.
But before he could fall away into unconsciousness, he felt himself being pulled up, way up, into a sitting position.
"Mark, open your eyes."
Mark felt something being pushed into his face.
His glasses.
"Come on, Mark, open your fucking eyes!"
Mark opened his eyes and almost screamed.
Roger.