By Larissa
A/N: I hadn't intended to write this, but I came up with the idea and couldn't let it go. Be warned, it's the darkest thing I've written yet. Any comments are appreciated.
I wake up to him calling my name. His voice had gotten so much weaker in the last few weeks, until it sounded like a mere echo of the Roger I remembered and loved so well. If I closed my eyes I could still hear it in my mind, saying my name like it was the most wonderful word in the world.
"Mark," he'd say, leaning back against the pillows and smiling at me seductively. "Why don't you put down that camera and come fuck me?"
On the ferry to the Statue of Liberty, the wind ruffling our hair, his eyes laughing at me, his arm playfully holding my camera over the rail. "Mark, I won't give it back until you kiss me."
Those cold winter nights when the heat was shut off, and we'd huddle together under the blankets to keep warm. "Mark, I know I don't say this enough, but I don't know what I'd do if I didn't have you with me."
He sounds like a whiny mosquito now, and when he says my name, it's always prefacing a demand for something. Another blanket. No, not the red one, the blue one, dammit. A glass of orange juice. Today's newspaper, and hurry, you worthless piece of shit.
I knew the disease would eat away at his body. And it has, until he's nothing but skin and bones, unable to do anything except sit in bed and complain. I was prepared for that, for having to help him to the bathroom and spoon feed him and take care of his most basic needs. What I hadn't expected was how his mind and his soul, everything that made up the Roger I knew and loved, would waste away to nothing as well.
By the time I get there, he's glaring at me, his arms crossed against his chest. "You stupid shit, I've been calling you for ten minutes."
In reality it's been thirty seconds, a minute at most. I know better than to correct him, but I've had eight hours of sleep over the last three nights. I'm not up to another ugly scene. "What do you want, Roger?"
"What do you want, Roger?" He mocks me. "What the fuck do you care? Always so busy leading the good life, never give a shit that I'm lying here dying while you're living it up."
"Roger, I'm sorry," I say, trying to swallow my resentment at the unfairness of it. The truth is, I haven't been out of the apartment in six weeks except to get something Roger orders me to get. I can't remember the last time I had anything that could come close to being called fun.
"Yeah, right you're sorry," he scoffs. "I want some walnuts."
I stare at him. "Roger, you hate walnuts."
"I do not!" He shouts, spitting in my direction. "Don't tell me what I like and don't like, you little fuck!"
I back away. "All right. I'll go get you some walnuts."
"And hurry the fuck up!" He shouts after me. "I don't want you taking forever like you did last time!"
I shut the door behind me, and on impulse, make a face at it. I'm so tired of this shit. I'm so sick of Roger's whining and temper tantrums. I hate cringing whenever I hear him say my name.
I hate seeing the man I love die before me every day. And most of all, I hate that I *want* him to die, want him to stop ordering me around and stop ruining the memory of someone I cared for more than anything, but who was already dead long before this.
I hate myself, for even thinking this way.
I put on my jacket, and go to get Roger's walnuts.