March 2

Roger's taking a shower, that's why I feel safe, out like this and writing. Ever since that last entry, I've been thinking about Riley a lot. I've never even told Roger about him, you know? I just couldn't bring myself to... I don't know why. It always felt uncomfortable. We barely ever talk about our exes. And I certainly couldn't... can't talk to Roger about the man who dragged me into the city and was a huge part of what made me into the wild child I am today. We would hate it.

It's funny; Riley wanted to be a bored rich boy less than anything. But... the reason he was the way he was... it was because he was bored. Always looking for something more... looking for the next, better high. He once told me he wanted to shoot up and have an orgasm at the same time. I wouldn't let him, although that doesn't mean he never did it alone. God, Roger would kill me if I ever said that out loud. For some insane reason, he considers past experiences cheating.

I never did drugs when I was with Riley. I thought they were "dirty". No wonder... Look at what I woke up to on my 17th birthday. I always thought 17 would be a big deal. I guess it was... in a way... a screwed up, not the way I wanted, way.

I haven't seen Riley since my 17th birthday either. I saw one of his old friends awhile ago... God, he looked awful. Skinny, pale and shaking... he said he was going through withdrawal. I could see the track marks all up his arms though. I would have been amazed if he could find a vein anymore. I guess he saw some of my track mark scars too, because when we were out for coffee he confided in me that towards the end, he got so desperate for a fix, he started injecting between his fingers and toes. 4 years on drugs is hell on your system.

Selfish, really, but I think the only reason I went to coffee with him was to ask about Riley. I never felt much of a connection to Riley's friends. A bunch of spaced-out, rich-boy junkies who insisted on calling me "Carmelita" and rolling their "r"s at me. The one I was with-Brendan-was one of the better ones, at least, I remember. Even though all that, it took me forever to get up the courage to ask him about Riley. When I finally did, he told me that Riley had disappeared from their group 2 years ago. As much as I'd like to hope he went back home, cleaned up himself up and went to a doctor, I know "disappeared" probably means dead and Brendan was just trying to spare my feelings. And Riley probably never knew he was sick. I wish I didn't know.

Riley wasn't a good man. For most of the nine months we lived together, he was high. Lovely variety of reactions to me that gave me. Let's see... there was HornyRiley-which, horribly, reminded me a bit of James. Then there was the Riley that ignored me and... oh yes, AngryRiley. The one that yelled at me and hit me... he was always irritable when he wasn't high enough for his liking. And, apparently, lots of times that was *my* fault. There was a reason I stayed though... Sometimes he wasn't high. And, when he wasn't, he was the sweetest man I had ever known. I loved him-stupid of me, but I did-and I thought he loved me. I never would have wanted him dead, even if he did give me drugs for my birthday.

Which brings me back to my last entry. Tripping over Angel's pickle tub. I knew she was special then. First off, she was in drag, but that's not the important part. Most street musicians would have glared at me and continued playing. Angel picked me up, brushed me off and immediately after looking at my bags, asked where I was running away to. Which is when I realized the great fault in my plan. I didn't have any plan or anywhere to go. I certainly wasn't going to go home. Angel just showed her specialness more... she took me home. Her home. She even-the next day, helped me find the apartment I live in now and got me a job waitressing. Now, I hated waitressing-such an actress stereotype-but the fact remains that she went out of her way to help me get it.

I expected, after all this niceness, Angel would just disappear out of my life. After all, good things don't last.

Apparently nobody ever told Angel that. She was convinced she'd found a new kindred spirit and began dropping by all the time. After all, who better to be a best friend to a 17-year-old AIDS-infected, homosexual drag queen than a 17-year-old druggie's ex, soon-to-be stripper who didn't know she had HIV?

HIV... turning point in my life. Angel had contracted HIV from her older lover (she never called him a boyfriend) not long after she ran away from home at 16. Apparently her meat-and-potatoes parents couldn't stand to have a flamboyant, "fagalicious" son. By the time I met her, it had developed into AIDS. And, not surprisingly, she noticed the warning signs on me that I never would have connected to the disease. Bruises randomly appearing a long time after the ones from Riley healed. Shaky... tired a lot. Angel finally made me go for the testing after she stayed over and I woke up with night sweats.

So, two months after I moved out (ran away?), I found out that my needle-sharing, condom-hating boyfriend gave me HIV. It developed into AIDS 3 months after that.

Speaking of AIDS... my beeper just went off and Roger sounds like he's out of the shower. I better make sure he knows it's our AZT time. He probably left his beeper in his underwear drawer or something.

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Author's Note: Hmmm... I don't know what to say about this chapter. I like the character of Riley, I find him interesting. And I have barely any reviews! (Alright, I have one.) Ahhhhhh! Need more! Please?

Disclaimer: Mimi Marquez, Angel and Roger are Jonathan Larson's. Brendan and Riley are mine and everything else is miscellaneous.

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