A/N: This chapter is a little shorter and a lot more graphic than any of
the others have been, so proceed with caution. This story's almost done,
with just an epilogue to go. I'll try to get that up within a couple of
days. Reviews are always appreciated! Oh, and Krissie, I am so sorry
about not emailing you back. I tried to email you, and they kept getting
bounced back to me. But I didn't ignore you, I swear! --Larissa
It's not that I'm angry, it's not that I'm violent I don't objectify my pain. --Matt Caplan
Mark POV
I had been upset to the point of hysteria when Roger stormed out. I'd returned to New York not knowing what to expect, but that encounter certainly wasn't it. The one thing I had been sure of was that Roger loved me. Only he didn't. He had made that perfectly clear in our little blowup.
Now that Roger was gone, and the loft was silent, my emotions melted away into a large puddle of numbness. I loved Roger, Roger hated me, and there was nothing left to live for. Oh, yes, I could go back to Scarsdale. I could make my father happy and become a doctor. Except I would never be happy. I had only just realized this.
It was liberating, in a way. I wouldn't have to go home and face my parents. I wouldn't have to struggle for the rest of my life searching for something I would never find. I would simply quit. Drop out of life like I had out of pre-med. My parents would grieve, but they still had Cindy and her family. My friends would move on with their lives, as they had after April's suicide. In five years time, there would be no one left to remember Mark Cohen, how he died, or that he ever existed at all.
I decided to do it in the bathroom. It seemed fitting, in some strange way. I hadn't been close to April when she was alive, but I understood her now with a clarity that I'd never had when she was alive. We had both loved Roger, and had both allowed that love to destroy us. Roger had said it himself: this was what it was like to be in love with him. Welcome to hell, Mark Cohen.
That was where he had it wrong. My hell was ending now.
The only razors Roger had in the bathroom were those cheap plastic ones. The handle snapped off fairly easily, but I wasted the better part of ten minutes struggling with the plastic on the bottom. One attempt resulted in my left index finger being sliced, and I watched for a moment, fascinated, as the blood welled up in large red drops. That wasn't enough, of course. No one ever died of what basically amounted to a papercut.
Finally I gave up and tossed the razor into the trash. We'd always been short of kitchen utensils, but there was a paring knife in the silverware drawer. I retrieved it, and returned to the bathroom.
It looked sharper than I remembered. I held it above my left wrist and lightly traced the path of the vein that ran down my arm, once, twice. On the third try, I pressed down a little, and a long red line of blood sprang up in its path.
I knew it wasn't enough to kill me, and I'd have to do it again, and harder, if I wanted to succeed. I had just put the knife to my wrist again when I heard the front door slam open.
"Mark?" I heard Roger shout. "Mark, where are you?"
I quietly shut the bathroom door. Not quietly enough, however, because the next thing I knew, Roger had raced down the hall and thrown the door open.
"Oh, Jesus," he muttered, staring at the blood on my arm. "Jesus, Mark, what are you doing?"
I pressed down on the knife. More blood sprang up, and dripped down my arm to the floor. "Roger, leave me alone."
"Mark, put the knife down," he insisted, holding out his hand. "Please."
"Why should I?" I asked bitterly. "I didn't think you cared. You said as much not fifteen minutes ago."
"I was wrong," he pleaded. "I was wrong and I'm sorry."
"You're just saying that." I rolled my eyes. "Everyone's sorry when you're about to kill yourself."
Roger flinched at the baldness of my words. "Mark, you don't want to do this."
"Since when are you the expert on what I want?" I screamed at him. "You never gave a shit about anyone except yourself!"
"You're right," he agreed. "I've been a complete ass. And I'm sorry."
"Is that what you think?" I demanded. "You think you can simply apologize and everything's okay again?"
"No, I don't," he said evenly. "But for God's sake, Mark, don't punish me by killing yourself."
"Dammit, Roger!" I shouted. "Everything has to be about you, doesn't it?"
"Mark, don't--" He reached for me. I pulled away furiously.
"Don't touch me," I warned him. "I'll do it, I swear to God I will."
"Please, Mark," he begged. To my surprise, I saw a tear trickle down his cheek. "I don't want to lose you." My hand began to shake. "I thought you didn't care."
"You'll never know how much I care." He took a step toward me. This time I didn't back away. "Mark, give me the knife."
I didn't respond, but I did let him take another step, and take the knife out of my hand. He set it on top of the medicine cabinet, then took off his shirt and helped me wrap it tightly around my arm to stop the bleeding. Then he wrapped his arms around me.
"It's going to be okay," he whispered. "I'm going to make everything up to you."
He held me for a long time as I cried.
It's not that I'm angry, it's not that I'm violent I don't objectify my pain. --Matt Caplan
Mark POV
I had been upset to the point of hysteria when Roger stormed out. I'd returned to New York not knowing what to expect, but that encounter certainly wasn't it. The one thing I had been sure of was that Roger loved me. Only he didn't. He had made that perfectly clear in our little blowup.
Now that Roger was gone, and the loft was silent, my emotions melted away into a large puddle of numbness. I loved Roger, Roger hated me, and there was nothing left to live for. Oh, yes, I could go back to Scarsdale. I could make my father happy and become a doctor. Except I would never be happy. I had only just realized this.
It was liberating, in a way. I wouldn't have to go home and face my parents. I wouldn't have to struggle for the rest of my life searching for something I would never find. I would simply quit. Drop out of life like I had out of pre-med. My parents would grieve, but they still had Cindy and her family. My friends would move on with their lives, as they had after April's suicide. In five years time, there would be no one left to remember Mark Cohen, how he died, or that he ever existed at all.
I decided to do it in the bathroom. It seemed fitting, in some strange way. I hadn't been close to April when she was alive, but I understood her now with a clarity that I'd never had when she was alive. We had both loved Roger, and had both allowed that love to destroy us. Roger had said it himself: this was what it was like to be in love with him. Welcome to hell, Mark Cohen.
That was where he had it wrong. My hell was ending now.
The only razors Roger had in the bathroom were those cheap plastic ones. The handle snapped off fairly easily, but I wasted the better part of ten minutes struggling with the plastic on the bottom. One attempt resulted in my left index finger being sliced, and I watched for a moment, fascinated, as the blood welled up in large red drops. That wasn't enough, of course. No one ever died of what basically amounted to a papercut.
Finally I gave up and tossed the razor into the trash. We'd always been short of kitchen utensils, but there was a paring knife in the silverware drawer. I retrieved it, and returned to the bathroom.
It looked sharper than I remembered. I held it above my left wrist and lightly traced the path of the vein that ran down my arm, once, twice. On the third try, I pressed down a little, and a long red line of blood sprang up in its path.
I knew it wasn't enough to kill me, and I'd have to do it again, and harder, if I wanted to succeed. I had just put the knife to my wrist again when I heard the front door slam open.
"Mark?" I heard Roger shout. "Mark, where are you?"
I quietly shut the bathroom door. Not quietly enough, however, because the next thing I knew, Roger had raced down the hall and thrown the door open.
"Oh, Jesus," he muttered, staring at the blood on my arm. "Jesus, Mark, what are you doing?"
I pressed down on the knife. More blood sprang up, and dripped down my arm to the floor. "Roger, leave me alone."
"Mark, put the knife down," he insisted, holding out his hand. "Please."
"Why should I?" I asked bitterly. "I didn't think you cared. You said as much not fifteen minutes ago."
"I was wrong," he pleaded. "I was wrong and I'm sorry."
"You're just saying that." I rolled my eyes. "Everyone's sorry when you're about to kill yourself."
Roger flinched at the baldness of my words. "Mark, you don't want to do this."
"Since when are you the expert on what I want?" I screamed at him. "You never gave a shit about anyone except yourself!"
"You're right," he agreed. "I've been a complete ass. And I'm sorry."
"Is that what you think?" I demanded. "You think you can simply apologize and everything's okay again?"
"No, I don't," he said evenly. "But for God's sake, Mark, don't punish me by killing yourself."
"Dammit, Roger!" I shouted. "Everything has to be about you, doesn't it?"
"Mark, don't--" He reached for me. I pulled away furiously.
"Don't touch me," I warned him. "I'll do it, I swear to God I will."
"Please, Mark," he begged. To my surprise, I saw a tear trickle down his cheek. "I don't want to lose you." My hand began to shake. "I thought you didn't care."
"You'll never know how much I care." He took a step toward me. This time I didn't back away. "Mark, give me the knife."
I didn't respond, but I did let him take another step, and take the knife out of my hand. He set it on top of the medicine cabinet, then took off his shirt and helped me wrap it tightly around my arm to stop the bleeding. Then he wrapped his arms around me.
"It's going to be okay," he whispered. "I'm going to make everything up to you."
He held me for a long time as I cried.