A/N: Wow, I never expected this response! Leaving off there was rather
mean, wasn't it? Here's the next chapter, ahead of schedule, and I hope
this helps to make things up! Keep the reviews coming, after all, they
keep me writing faster! --Larissa
The things that you tell me don't mean a thing
If you're not scared
--Matt Caplan
Roger POV
The paramedics wouldn't let me ride in the ambulance with Mark. "Sorry, immediate family only," one of them told me. "You can get in your car and follow us."
"I don't have a car and his immediate family doesn't live in New York!" I insisted. "I'm his best friend. He needs me there!"
"I'm sorry, sir, but you'll need to stay here while we ask you some questions about what happened," a police officer interrupted. "You did witness the accident, didn't you?"
"It wasn't an accident!" I exploded. "That bastard--" I threw an accusing finger at the driver of the Mustang "--ran down my best friend!"
"Hey, maybe if your best friend was watching where he was going, I wouldn't have hit him!" the man shot back, tiny drops of spittle flying from his mouth as he spat the words at me.
"You son of a bitch!" I started to lunge at him, but was restrained by the police officer.
"Mr. Davis, do I have to take you into custody?" he asked me sternly. "If you want to get to the hospital with your friend, I suggest you cooperate."
"Can't we do this later?" I pleaded, casting a desperate glance at the ambulance, which was just about to leave. "You don't understand, I have to be with him. I'm his best friend. He needs me."
"I'm sorry, but I really need to ask you these questions right away."
"Oh, God," I groaned, letting my breath out in one shaky sigh.
The police officer's face seemed to soften a bit. "Why don't we take care of these questions now, and I can give you a lift to see your friend at the hospital afterwards?"
It was clear from his expression that that was the best deal I'd be getting. So I backed away onto the sidewalk and watched the ambulance tear off, screaming uptown to the nearest hospital. I answered all the questions he asked me; the victim was one Mark Cohen, his parents lived in Scarsdale, he'd been crossing the street when the light changed and the driver hit him.
"So he was crossing against the light?" the officer asked, jotting something down on his notepad.
"Well, yeah," I admitted. "But Mark's always had his head in the clouds. He probably just didn't notice the light had changed." I brushed the snow off of my head and rubbed my nose. It was colder than I realized.
"All right," the officer gave in. "Still want a lift to the hospital?"
He was nice enough to put on his siren as he drove me there. Any other time I would have gotten a kick out of flying through the streets of Manhattan at fifty miles an hour, but the only thing that mattered now was that Mark was all right. Why did it have to take something like this to make me realize what was really important?
Someone had called Collins about the accident, and he was at the hospital waiting for me, along with Maureen, Joanne, Angel, and Mimi. Benny was there too, his arm around Mimi's shoulders. Ordinarily I would have been pissed as hell that he was there, and that my girlfriend was letting him hug her like that. But like the ride over here, that didn't matter anymore.
Please, God, let Mark live.
Mimi ran over to me when I entered. She threw her arms around my waist and sobbed into my chest. I held her awkwardly, not quite sure as to what I should do. "God, Roger," she sobbed. "He's going to be all right, isn't he?"
"Of course he is," I tried to assure her, hoping that if I could convince Mimi, I would make it true. "Mark's going to be fine."
"What if he dies?" Maureen wailed. "What if he doesn't make it?"
"Maureen, don't talk like that!" Joanne scolded. I could tell from her expression that she was scared too.
The six of us squeezed onto a couch, each pair attempting to comfort each other; Collins squeezing Angel's hand, Joanne cradling Maureen's head against her shoulder. I stroked Mimi's hair and tried to dispel my growing anxiety. Mark would be all right. He just had to be.
An hour ticked by. Two. Each time the doors swung open, we would all look up hopefully, praying for some news of Mark. Every time we were disappointed.
I found myself thinking of a time six months ago, about two months after April died. I had locked myself in my room, only creeping out late at night for the bare essentials. I'd dropped twenty pounds since everything happened, and on the rare occasions when I glanced into the mirror, I could see that my skin was growing paler, and my hair thinner.
My guitar sat in my closet, where I'd stored it the day before April's suicide. There was no music left in me, I thought bitterly to myself. Only the ticking sound of the wall clock as the second hand counted down my remaining time on earth. However long I had was too long.
It was around four in the morning when I got up for my nightly kitchen raid. I'd grab some random items out of the fridge, pick at them for a couple hours, then toss them out the window, watching as they fell to the earth and splattered, and wishing I had the courage to do the same to myself. How easy it would be to simply climb up onto the rail and let go. A few seconds of free fall, and then what? Heaven? Hell? An eternity of neverending darkness?
"Shit," I swore as I stumbled over a pile of papers, scattering them across the floor. I got down on my hands and knees to straighten them out, wondering at the same time why I was bothering. My girlfriend was dead. I was dying. Why the fuck did I care what my room looked like?
In the moonlight, the notes danced across the paper. I crumpled it in my hand, but it was too late. I'd seen what it was. How many times had I strummed those notes on my guitar, singing the words to a blushing April, who was curled up next to me on the bed? How many times had I seen her smile and felt her kiss as I'd played my newest additions to the song for her?
I threw the paper against the wall. It only made a tiny thump, not nearly enough to satisfy the rage that was beginning to rise up inside of me. "Damn you," I muttered, throwing a songbook at the wall. Better, but still not enough.
"Fuck you, April!" I screamed, chucking anything I could get my hands on. Pillows, books, even my amp went flying. "God damn you for leaving me all alone!"
A quiet knock came on the door. "Roger, are you all right?"
"Does it sound like I'm all right?" I shouted. "Just fucking leave me alone!"
The door handle turned, and Mark poked his head into the room. "Are you sure you're okay?"
I wanted to scream at him again to get the fuck out of there. I wanted to grab my guitar and smash it against the wall. Instead, my knees buckled under me and I began to cry.
Mark was there in an instant, holding my head against his shoulder, rubbing my back and whispering words of comfort. He held me as I cried until there were no tears left to cry, and when it was over, and I was about to keel over from exhaustion, he led me back over to my bed, where he tucked the covers around me and held my hand until I fell asleep.
"I'm still here, Roger," I can hear him whispering. "I'm never going to leave you."
It wasn't until a little after seven o'clock that the doctor finally came out and approached our little group on the couch. "Are you with Mark Cohen?"
Collins stood up. "How is he, doctor?"
"Will he be all right?" Maureen added, dabbing at her eyes with a Kleenex. "My poor little pookie…"
"We don't know yet," the doctor answered. I hated how casual he was about this, how Mark was just another case to him, a folder of medical records that would be filed away with a simple note whether he lived or died. "But he's stabilized some, and should be fine through the night."
"Can we see him?" Angel asked. "Please, doctor. We're so worried about him."
The doctor looked around our group, taking in Maureen's tears, my gritted teeth, and the fear and anxiety that had to be in all our eyes. "Only one at a time, and no longer than five minutes each. He needs his rest."
We looked around at each other, silently asking the question: who got to go first? Maureen started for the doors, but Joanne pulled her back and whispered something to her. Maureen gave her a reproachful look, then sighed and turned to me.
"You go first, Roger," she said. "You're his best friend."
I glanced at my friends. "Is that okay with you guys?"
"Roger, go," Collins said gently. "He'll want to see you."
I gave him a small smile, and followed the doctor back to Mark's room.
Mark was lying quietly on the bed, the only noise in the room being the steady beep of the machine monitoring his heart rate. His glasses were missing, and he looked much younger without them, no older than eighteen. He looked almost like a stranger, without his trademark scarf or the camera in his hand. It both was and wasn't my best friend.
April's limp body, covered with a blanket…
I pushed the thought out of my mind. This had been an accident, plain and simple. It wasn't a repeat of what happened with April. It wasn't my fault this time.
I sat down in a chair by the bed, feeling suddenly awkward. What was I supposed to do here? Was I supposed to say something? Would it make a difference if I said anything? There was no way to know if he could hear me, or even if he did, if he'd remember it when he came out of this. If he came out of this.
"Uh," I began nervously. Well, wasn't this a lovely way to start. "Uh, hi, Mark. How's it going?" God, what a stupid question.
"We're all really worried about you," I continued. "Everyone's here waiting to see you. Even Benny's here. He's not saying much, but I think he's more worried than he's letting on."
No reaction from Mark. Of course not. Had I really expected him to miraculously wake up the moment he heard my voice? "Look, you hurry up and get better so you can get out of here, okay?" I reached for his hand and held it between mine, reassured somewhat by its warmth. "We'll throw you a huge party, okay? Invite the whole building."
He looked so fragile, lying there between the sheets. His hair was all over the place, and I reached over to smooth it out. "Oh, God, Mark," I whispered. "I'm so sorry. I was going to visit you earlier today…we could have gone for groceries together, I could have stopped you from stepping off that curb…"
I paused to wipe away the tears that were beginning to leak out of my eyes. "While I'm at it, I'm sorry for everything. I've been a really shitty friend, and you've always stood by me, no matter what. I haven't repaid that, have I? Just gotten high and shoved you around and walked all over you because I knew you'd never call me on it."
"Look," I continued, aware that my breathing was becoming shaky and I was about two minutes from all-out bawling. "I've been a real ass, as a roommate and a friend. I'm lousy at telling people how much they mean to me, so you probably don't know that you're the best friend I ever could have had, or I'd sell my soul to the devil to make you okay again. And the sad thing is, I'd never be able to say any of this if you weren't lying here unconscious."
I drew a long breath. "Mark, I have something to confess. It's nothing I'm proud of, and I hope you can forgive me one day." I paused, wondering why the words were so hard in coming. This was as easy as it was going to get. It wasn't like Mark was in any position to yell at me, or run out of the room and slam the door.
"Roger?"
That voice, so weak and timid, and yet the sweetest thing I'd ever heard. "Oh my God," I whispered. "Mark?"
His eyes fluttered open, and his hand gripped mine tightly.
The things that you tell me don't mean a thing
If you're not scared
--Matt Caplan
Roger POV
The paramedics wouldn't let me ride in the ambulance with Mark. "Sorry, immediate family only," one of them told me. "You can get in your car and follow us."
"I don't have a car and his immediate family doesn't live in New York!" I insisted. "I'm his best friend. He needs me there!"
"I'm sorry, sir, but you'll need to stay here while we ask you some questions about what happened," a police officer interrupted. "You did witness the accident, didn't you?"
"It wasn't an accident!" I exploded. "That bastard--" I threw an accusing finger at the driver of the Mustang "--ran down my best friend!"
"Hey, maybe if your best friend was watching where he was going, I wouldn't have hit him!" the man shot back, tiny drops of spittle flying from his mouth as he spat the words at me.
"You son of a bitch!" I started to lunge at him, but was restrained by the police officer.
"Mr. Davis, do I have to take you into custody?" he asked me sternly. "If you want to get to the hospital with your friend, I suggest you cooperate."
"Can't we do this later?" I pleaded, casting a desperate glance at the ambulance, which was just about to leave. "You don't understand, I have to be with him. I'm his best friend. He needs me."
"I'm sorry, but I really need to ask you these questions right away."
"Oh, God," I groaned, letting my breath out in one shaky sigh.
The police officer's face seemed to soften a bit. "Why don't we take care of these questions now, and I can give you a lift to see your friend at the hospital afterwards?"
It was clear from his expression that that was the best deal I'd be getting. So I backed away onto the sidewalk and watched the ambulance tear off, screaming uptown to the nearest hospital. I answered all the questions he asked me; the victim was one Mark Cohen, his parents lived in Scarsdale, he'd been crossing the street when the light changed and the driver hit him.
"So he was crossing against the light?" the officer asked, jotting something down on his notepad.
"Well, yeah," I admitted. "But Mark's always had his head in the clouds. He probably just didn't notice the light had changed." I brushed the snow off of my head and rubbed my nose. It was colder than I realized.
"All right," the officer gave in. "Still want a lift to the hospital?"
He was nice enough to put on his siren as he drove me there. Any other time I would have gotten a kick out of flying through the streets of Manhattan at fifty miles an hour, but the only thing that mattered now was that Mark was all right. Why did it have to take something like this to make me realize what was really important?
Someone had called Collins about the accident, and he was at the hospital waiting for me, along with Maureen, Joanne, Angel, and Mimi. Benny was there too, his arm around Mimi's shoulders. Ordinarily I would have been pissed as hell that he was there, and that my girlfriend was letting him hug her like that. But like the ride over here, that didn't matter anymore.
Please, God, let Mark live.
Mimi ran over to me when I entered. She threw her arms around my waist and sobbed into my chest. I held her awkwardly, not quite sure as to what I should do. "God, Roger," she sobbed. "He's going to be all right, isn't he?"
"Of course he is," I tried to assure her, hoping that if I could convince Mimi, I would make it true. "Mark's going to be fine."
"What if he dies?" Maureen wailed. "What if he doesn't make it?"
"Maureen, don't talk like that!" Joanne scolded. I could tell from her expression that she was scared too.
The six of us squeezed onto a couch, each pair attempting to comfort each other; Collins squeezing Angel's hand, Joanne cradling Maureen's head against her shoulder. I stroked Mimi's hair and tried to dispel my growing anxiety. Mark would be all right. He just had to be.
An hour ticked by. Two. Each time the doors swung open, we would all look up hopefully, praying for some news of Mark. Every time we were disappointed.
I found myself thinking of a time six months ago, about two months after April died. I had locked myself in my room, only creeping out late at night for the bare essentials. I'd dropped twenty pounds since everything happened, and on the rare occasions when I glanced into the mirror, I could see that my skin was growing paler, and my hair thinner.
My guitar sat in my closet, where I'd stored it the day before April's suicide. There was no music left in me, I thought bitterly to myself. Only the ticking sound of the wall clock as the second hand counted down my remaining time on earth. However long I had was too long.
It was around four in the morning when I got up for my nightly kitchen raid. I'd grab some random items out of the fridge, pick at them for a couple hours, then toss them out the window, watching as they fell to the earth and splattered, and wishing I had the courage to do the same to myself. How easy it would be to simply climb up onto the rail and let go. A few seconds of free fall, and then what? Heaven? Hell? An eternity of neverending darkness?
"Shit," I swore as I stumbled over a pile of papers, scattering them across the floor. I got down on my hands and knees to straighten them out, wondering at the same time why I was bothering. My girlfriend was dead. I was dying. Why the fuck did I care what my room looked like?
In the moonlight, the notes danced across the paper. I crumpled it in my hand, but it was too late. I'd seen what it was. How many times had I strummed those notes on my guitar, singing the words to a blushing April, who was curled up next to me on the bed? How many times had I seen her smile and felt her kiss as I'd played my newest additions to the song for her?
I threw the paper against the wall. It only made a tiny thump, not nearly enough to satisfy the rage that was beginning to rise up inside of me. "Damn you," I muttered, throwing a songbook at the wall. Better, but still not enough.
"Fuck you, April!" I screamed, chucking anything I could get my hands on. Pillows, books, even my amp went flying. "God damn you for leaving me all alone!"
A quiet knock came on the door. "Roger, are you all right?"
"Does it sound like I'm all right?" I shouted. "Just fucking leave me alone!"
The door handle turned, and Mark poked his head into the room. "Are you sure you're okay?"
I wanted to scream at him again to get the fuck out of there. I wanted to grab my guitar and smash it against the wall. Instead, my knees buckled under me and I began to cry.
Mark was there in an instant, holding my head against his shoulder, rubbing my back and whispering words of comfort. He held me as I cried until there were no tears left to cry, and when it was over, and I was about to keel over from exhaustion, he led me back over to my bed, where he tucked the covers around me and held my hand until I fell asleep.
"I'm still here, Roger," I can hear him whispering. "I'm never going to leave you."
It wasn't until a little after seven o'clock that the doctor finally came out and approached our little group on the couch. "Are you with Mark Cohen?"
Collins stood up. "How is he, doctor?"
"Will he be all right?" Maureen added, dabbing at her eyes with a Kleenex. "My poor little pookie…"
"We don't know yet," the doctor answered. I hated how casual he was about this, how Mark was just another case to him, a folder of medical records that would be filed away with a simple note whether he lived or died. "But he's stabilized some, and should be fine through the night."
"Can we see him?" Angel asked. "Please, doctor. We're so worried about him."
The doctor looked around our group, taking in Maureen's tears, my gritted teeth, and the fear and anxiety that had to be in all our eyes. "Only one at a time, and no longer than five minutes each. He needs his rest."
We looked around at each other, silently asking the question: who got to go first? Maureen started for the doors, but Joanne pulled her back and whispered something to her. Maureen gave her a reproachful look, then sighed and turned to me.
"You go first, Roger," she said. "You're his best friend."
I glanced at my friends. "Is that okay with you guys?"
"Roger, go," Collins said gently. "He'll want to see you."
I gave him a small smile, and followed the doctor back to Mark's room.
Mark was lying quietly on the bed, the only noise in the room being the steady beep of the machine monitoring his heart rate. His glasses were missing, and he looked much younger without them, no older than eighteen. He looked almost like a stranger, without his trademark scarf or the camera in his hand. It both was and wasn't my best friend.
April's limp body, covered with a blanket…
I pushed the thought out of my mind. This had been an accident, plain and simple. It wasn't a repeat of what happened with April. It wasn't my fault this time.
I sat down in a chair by the bed, feeling suddenly awkward. What was I supposed to do here? Was I supposed to say something? Would it make a difference if I said anything? There was no way to know if he could hear me, or even if he did, if he'd remember it when he came out of this. If he came out of this.
"Uh," I began nervously. Well, wasn't this a lovely way to start. "Uh, hi, Mark. How's it going?" God, what a stupid question.
"We're all really worried about you," I continued. "Everyone's here waiting to see you. Even Benny's here. He's not saying much, but I think he's more worried than he's letting on."
No reaction from Mark. Of course not. Had I really expected him to miraculously wake up the moment he heard my voice? "Look, you hurry up and get better so you can get out of here, okay?" I reached for his hand and held it between mine, reassured somewhat by its warmth. "We'll throw you a huge party, okay? Invite the whole building."
He looked so fragile, lying there between the sheets. His hair was all over the place, and I reached over to smooth it out. "Oh, God, Mark," I whispered. "I'm so sorry. I was going to visit you earlier today…we could have gone for groceries together, I could have stopped you from stepping off that curb…"
I paused to wipe away the tears that were beginning to leak out of my eyes. "While I'm at it, I'm sorry for everything. I've been a really shitty friend, and you've always stood by me, no matter what. I haven't repaid that, have I? Just gotten high and shoved you around and walked all over you because I knew you'd never call me on it."
"Look," I continued, aware that my breathing was becoming shaky and I was about two minutes from all-out bawling. "I've been a real ass, as a roommate and a friend. I'm lousy at telling people how much they mean to me, so you probably don't know that you're the best friend I ever could have had, or I'd sell my soul to the devil to make you okay again. And the sad thing is, I'd never be able to say any of this if you weren't lying here unconscious."
I drew a long breath. "Mark, I have something to confess. It's nothing I'm proud of, and I hope you can forgive me one day." I paused, wondering why the words were so hard in coming. This was as easy as it was going to get. It wasn't like Mark was in any position to yell at me, or run out of the room and slam the door.
"Roger?"
That voice, so weak and timid, and yet the sweetest thing I'd ever heard. "Oh my God," I whispered. "Mark?"
His eyes fluttered open, and his hand gripped mine tightly.