A/N: 07-15-02--I wrote this chapter uh... awhile ago, so here are my very
outdated notes from then. :P
06-30-02--Aw, thanks, guys. I didn't like the last chapter as usual. :P Apparently that's always a good sign. LOL. Well, this is being written entirely on major inspiration, since Becca is doing such wonderful things with AIY and keeping all my M/M needs met. :)
Disclaimer: ::looks around and yawns:: Huh? Oh. Right. Nothing is mine, except for the long-running hamster joke. That belongs to Dulcey and me.
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14. [M]
It was the longest twenty minutes of my life. God, was it really only twenty minutes? I could have sworn on my life that he was in that room for at least a good five or six hours...
Stop right there, Mark. Your life is not something you want to be swearing on at the moment.
I hadn't even remembered the video at all until that day, which I'm sure was subconsciously intentional. Just remembering it was bad enough... but actually giving it to him? Well... it finalized her death. I could still pretend it was all a dream, until now. Once that video went from my hands to his, not only did it signify my acceptance of the fact that she was gone... but also... it meant she was no longer exclusively mine.
I didn't realize I could be such a possessive asshole.
It's not all that fun; I wonder why Roger finds it so appealing.
The night she gave me that tape wasn't one I chose to store in my immediate library of priceless Mimi-related memories. It wasn't that it was an overly traumatizing experience; discussions of death--hers, mine, anyone's--wasn't exactly a taboo topic of discussion in this household. But maybe, deep down, it hit me harder than I realized at the time. Maybe that's why I'd repressed it... why I'd never thought of it again until now.
She'd caught the flu (or something resembling it) a couple weeks before Roger's return, at the end of March, which had been an unusually cold month. The virus didn't hang around for more than a few days, and by the end of the week, she claimed she was feeling well enough to make our monthly trek to the clinic to pick up her AZT, go for ice cream, and hang out in Central Park. But I insisted that she stay home. She still had a bit of a temperature, and I wasn't about to risk letting anything happen to her.
That evening, I returned home with a fresh supply of AZT, a hot dog straight from Central Park, and a stuffed hamster puppet I'd picked up at FAO Schwarz. We had a running joke that she reminded me of an adorable little hamster; a conversation obviously originating in one of our wildly laughter-oriented, post-sex discussions.
I dumped my plastic bags on the kitchen table and looked around. "Meems?"
No response.
Maybe she was in an anti-nickname mood. "Mimi?"
Silence.
"...Pookie?"
A voice from behind me spoke up. "Pookie??"
I spun around to find her only inches away from me, and I slid my arms around her waist. "It just felt like a 'Pookie' moment."
And for this I was treated with one of those soft, melting kisses... followed by a highly amused grin. "If you ever call me 'Pookie' again you'll be sleeping alone for a month."
Now why hadn't I thought of saying that to Maureen?
"You know," I sighed, fishing through the items on the table, "that threat would be much more effective if you didn't use it every time you want something." I found the cardboard carrying case, and held it out to her as a peace offering. "I brought you a hot dog."
She smiled and took the box. "You're forgiven."
"And this." I handed her the hamster.
"What the--oh my God." She took one look at it and burst out laughing, finally collapsing on the couch in hysterics.
I sat beside her and pulled her into my arms. "You feeling better?"
"I told you before, I'm fine." She cradled my hand in hers and held it up to her face, dropping a light kiss on my fingers. "And... I hope you don't mind, I borrowed your camera."
Mind? How could I possibly mind? I was immensely flattered. No one ever took much of an interest in my work... I can't remember anyone ever wanting to borrow my camera for anything. Well, except Maureen, and I wouldn't let her. (For the record, she'd wanted it to videotape some certain bedroom activities between her and Joanne. I don't think my camera could have handled that. All right, all right--I don't think *I* could have handled it.)
"What for?" I asked.
Although it was obvious she wanted to say something, she just gave me a small smile, patted my hand, and quickly disappeared into my room. Before I could react, she returned... much more slowly and deliberately... with a single, unlabeled video grasped protectively in her hands.
In the same cautious manner, she recovered her seat on the couch beside me and handed me the tape. I smiled at her, leaned over, and reached for the VCR remote.
"No--" She stopped me immediately, placing a hand on my arm. "I mean... oh. Um... baby, I'm sorry, it's not like that. It's..."
I blinked. "What?"
"It's for Roger."
Of... course it was. Was I supposed to know what to say? Wordlessly, and--I hoped, expressionlessly--I placed the tape back in her hands.
"No..." She pushed it back towards me gently. "I want you to give this to him if... if he ever comes back."
If you asked me, this was just unnecessarily painful. "Why can't you give it to him yourself?"
And undoubtedly, that came out much harsher than I'd intended, seeing as a multitude of tears were starting to collect in the corners of her eyes. "It's for..." Our gazes broke, and she turned away. "If I'm not here then."
I swallowed the lump in my throat. I hated when she talked like that. "Why wouldn't you be here?" I demanded.
Her eyes met mine again, refusing to blink, and for a moment I doubted whether she intended to speak at all. "Because I have AIDS, Mark."
They were the last words I remembered from that day. I vaguely recall making some comment about promising to give it to him... but that was hours later, after we'd been curled up on the couch together in that same spot, intermittently brushing away each other's tears.
The same couch I found myself on now. I hated this couch. It had been lonely enough that day, but unbearably so at this moment.
The twenty minutes, however debatable their exactness may be, came and went- -and when they were over, Roger's bedroom door was thrown open and he came storming out.
Seeing as the past twenty minutes had been utterly silent, this sudden disturbance startled the life out of me, and I looked up quickly--just in time to see his door bounce back on the hinges, and his angry figure vanish from the loft.
He was gone.
What the fuck was on that tape?
Oh, God. Why my mind was cruel enough to entertain this possibility was beyond me, but nonetheless, I found myself wondering if I'd even given him the right tape. I couldn't count all the things I'd filmed that I knew we would never let anyone else see. Most of my videos were unlabeled. The way I identified them was by where I kept them in my room. I know, I know-- obsessiveness at its worst. But maybe one had been misplaced...
I darted into his room. He hadn't even bothered to turn off the television-- the empty blue screen cast an eerie glow across the room, and the set was still very busily humming with the sounds of activity. Plopping down on the floor, I pushed open the flap on the VCR.
The tape was still there.
He hadn't taken it with him--he hadn't even hid it from me. Was it really that bad?
Not at all to my surprise, my hands were shaking as I pressed Rewind and waited as the VCR's humming grew louder and my stomach grew more and more unsettled. I would just watch the first few seconds. Just to make sure I'd given him the right tape. If I hadn't, I'd find the right one and figure out a way to get it to him. If I had... then I would turn it off. Immediately.
The humming stopped as unsteadily as it had begun. I pressed Play.
The camera faded in on a chair that had been dragged into my room. I'd never filmed this before in my life.
It was most definitely the right tape.
Mimi soon appeared in a corner of the screen, approaching the chair and taking a seat as she peered into the camera with a skeptical gaze. "I don't know if this is working..." I heard her mumble to herself. "Is this thing on?"
I closed my eyes and smacked the front of the VCR, luckily hitting the Stop button along the way. Feeling it safe once more to open my eyes, I did so, and was greeted with the familiar glowing blue screen.
I couldn't do this.
No. More accurately... I couldn't *not* do this.
Swallowing my pride... and guilt, and anxiety, and--heaven forbid-- respect... I reached out, slowly, consciously punching Play with one finger, and sat back against the foot of the bed.
And may God have mercy on me...
"Hi." Her face lit up the entire room, far more than any blue glow ever could. "I think it's working now. I love the fader button, that thing kicks ass. Um..."
I do, too. It's one of my favorite camera features.
I allowed myself to fully take in the image--if I went to hell for this, I was going to make it worth the trip. Her hair was pulled back slightly in some strange Mimi-esque version of a ponytail. She had on the same tank top I remembered from that day--the bright red one with the word "hottie" on the front in silver letters--and that faded, typically too-tight pair of jeans.
My eyes stung with tears. Why was I doing this to myself?
"I guess I should hurry up with this, since Mark will probably be home soon." She shifted positions in the chair until she was resting her chin on one knee and nervously examining her fingernails. "Um... Roger... I guess if you ever see this, you'll already know about... you know. Mark. And me. Us... God, that still feels weird to say."
Yeah, it did. Even to this day.
"And maybe it won't break your heart... maybe I'm being really egocentric here, assuming you wouldn't move on and find someone else. Of course you would. And you should. You deserve that. But... on the off chance that you're still in love with me... I mean, if you ever were--I mean... fuck, now I'm just rambling."
She certainly was. I loved that about her.
She lifted her head, eyes gazing into the camera the way I remembered when I would film her from across a room of crowded people. She'd look into my eyes, hidden behind that lens, and make me feel like we were the only two people in the room.
But this time, she wasn't looking at me. Not really.
"Roger... I don't know what happened to us. I used to think we could make it through anything. I thought we had that special something, you know? And maybe we did. Maybe we needed more than that... I just wish you could know that I love you. I always have."
I'll ask again: And I'm doing this to myself, *why*?
"I guess that wasn't enough to save us..." Her voice trailed off, and so did her gaze, but it was back as quickly as it had drifted. "I don't know if I'll ever see you again. God, I don't even know if you're still alive. But I want you to know that, no matter what's happened with Mark... I still love you. And I never wanted to hurt you."
I should not have pushed Play. It wasn't too late. I could still stop it...
"And... I'm scared that you're never going to forgive Mark for this. And he doesn't deserve that, because he hasn't done anything wrong. I probably wouldn't be here without him. And he doesn't talk about it a lot, but I know he misses you so much."
She was right... I never talked about it. I missed him like crazy. He was my best friend. The way he left us both--I never got over it. But I'd had no idea that she knew.
"Everything's so different now," she whispered, the tape barely picking up her voice. "You won't understand, I know. Baby, please don't hate me for this... but I--I'm in love with him."
I felt my hand moving, independently of my will, to hit Stop on the VCR for a second time.
The room fell silent except for the inevitable, incessant hum of a functioning television set. I began to wonder if this is what took Roger so long--having to stop the tape every five minutes to keep from screaming or throwing things.
I'd known she was in love with me. Of course I had. The night we both confessed that 'love' had evolved to 'in love' was one I would never forget. But hearing it now... God, it would be so much easier if she hated me. Devastating, perhaps, but easier--I'd have no reason to keep missing her as desperately as I did.
After a few labored, deliberate deep breaths, I hit Play once again.
I was such a masochist.
The familiar setting filled the screen, and I watched as she stared into my eyes... No. Not my eyes. Just the camera. If anything, Roger's eyes. Waiting for... a response? Offering time for a reaction, I suppose. Almost as if she knew the viewer would have to stop the tape at that.
'The viewer'? God, what was this, a fucking talk show? There was only one viewer--one *intended* viewer, that is--and it was Roger. I was merely an intruder. Nothing she said was directed at me. This was worse than listening in on a phone conversation or reading her diary--and I knew that. And for once, it felt good to be as selfish and heartless as Roger so easily managed to be.
Actually, it felt like shit. How did he do it?
She took a deep breath, drawing me back to reality, if that's what this was. "That's... not what I wanted to tell you though. I have to tell you something, and it's something I don't think you can forgive me for. All right--maybe it's something I can't forgive *myself* for."
Although feeling guilty for doing so, I let out a sigh of relief. This obviously had to be something exclusive to their relationship. Something I think everyone had suspected--such as, she cheated on him with Benny, or some confession of the like. Something I could finally take in as an observer, and not have to have any part in.
"I think I'm pregnant."
And *I* think I just lost all feeling in my arms.
Perfect timing. Right when I would have needed to stop the tape.
"I don't know for sure yet, and I just can't bring myself to take the test and I wish you were here because I can't tell Mark and if I am then he has to get tested for HIV and..."
The run-on sentence fell to a muddled close as she broke off in tears. I'd beaten her to it, though, spotting the first one drop onto the sleeve of my sweater.
She'd known.
All right--she'd suspected. It was the closest thing to knowing.
"Is this my punishment?" she demanded of the camera, suddenly infuriated-- most likely growing frustrated with its lack of response.
I knew that from far too much personal experience. A camera really does seem like a person almost, until you realize it will never give you an answer. At least it seemed that way to me; it reminded me so much of myself. Always observing, silently, taking everything in, permanently imprinting it all. The only difference was that a camera's memories could be erased. I only wished destroying my own was as easy as tearing up a reel of film.
"This is what I get..." she mused, nodding slowly, "for letting you walk out of my life when I knew I could have stopped you. For letting Mark risk himself for me when I was so terrified all along that this would happen."
"No." That was me. Talking to a two-dimensional screen now. Inching towards it, I touched the image in front of me, letting my fingers slide down the screen at the same pace as the tears trickling down my face. As if it would make her real again... as if it would keep her from crying...
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "That's all I wanted to tell you. And please... take care of Mark. Don't let anything happen to him. I'm sorry. Just don't forget that I love you."
For the next few moments she remained in the chair, occasionally glancing at the camera, but for the most part, trying to avoid its mechanical, unforgiving stare. But at last, she climbed out of the chair, marched over to where it was set up, and turned it off.
The screen returned to blue.
In an almost involuntary fashion, I pulled myself to my feet, replaced the remote control exactly where it had been, left his room--careful not to turn off the television or close the door--and collapsed on the living room couch.
Would he really go back to Collins' this time? Or would he go back to Central Park? To addiction and ruined lives. And this time I wouldn't be there to get him through it all, and there was no way in hell he would survive it on his own, because I knew him better than he knew himself, and he knew me better than I knew myself. And while that produced the strongest possible type of friendship, it also gave us the power to destroy each other.
And ourselves in the process...
This frightening train of thought was cut short as the door to the loft creaked open.
It was the first time in what felt like forever, that he'd entered the apartment without practically breaking down the door. There was nothing obnoxious or threatening about his arrival now. If it was even describable at all, it would have to be almost... timid.
He guided the door to a quiet close before turning back to me. "Have you been there this whole time?"
Say yes. Say yes, say yes, say yes. "Yes." Good.
How nice--and sickening--a feeling that is, when you can finally see visible results from your efforts of dishonesty. It was getting so much easier to lie...
I stood up, pushed my glasses up on my nose, and stuffed my hands in my pockets. "What are you doing here?"
He shuffled his feet against the rug. "Um... I was thinking about what you said."
I half-smiled. "I've said a lot of things. Most of which I probably shouldn't have."
"Collins said I could stay with him as long as I wanted, but... I mean, y'know, his place really isn't big enough for two people."
I nodded. I knew exactly where he was headed, but if he wanted it, he'd have to damn well ask me himself.
"So, I was thinking, maybe I could..."
Maybe you could what, Roge?
"I mean, just until I find somewhere else..."
Oh, for God's sake. This would go on all day. I'd forgotten who I was talking to, hadn't I? Helpless was the last thing he'd ever want to appear as. I had to give him a break. I didn't want to, but unfortunately, the sensitive artist inside was reminding me that I did in fact have a heart, whether he deserved its benefits or not.
"Yeah, Roge," I answered quietly. "You can stay here."
He brought his eyes to meet mine, and nodded tentatively. I remembered the gesture well--his unique, pride-induced, Roger-esque way of saying thanks.
Sadly enough... I'd missed it.
[Three more chapters to go, I think. We'll see. I have Plans. :)]
06-30-02--Aw, thanks, guys. I didn't like the last chapter as usual. :P Apparently that's always a good sign. LOL. Well, this is being written entirely on major inspiration, since Becca is doing such wonderful things with AIY and keeping all my M/M needs met. :)
Disclaimer: ::looks around and yawns:: Huh? Oh. Right. Nothing is mine, except for the long-running hamster joke. That belongs to Dulcey and me.
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14. [M]
It was the longest twenty minutes of my life. God, was it really only twenty minutes? I could have sworn on my life that he was in that room for at least a good five or six hours...
Stop right there, Mark. Your life is not something you want to be swearing on at the moment.
I hadn't even remembered the video at all until that day, which I'm sure was subconsciously intentional. Just remembering it was bad enough... but actually giving it to him? Well... it finalized her death. I could still pretend it was all a dream, until now. Once that video went from my hands to his, not only did it signify my acceptance of the fact that she was gone... but also... it meant she was no longer exclusively mine.
I didn't realize I could be such a possessive asshole.
It's not all that fun; I wonder why Roger finds it so appealing.
The night she gave me that tape wasn't one I chose to store in my immediate library of priceless Mimi-related memories. It wasn't that it was an overly traumatizing experience; discussions of death--hers, mine, anyone's--wasn't exactly a taboo topic of discussion in this household. But maybe, deep down, it hit me harder than I realized at the time. Maybe that's why I'd repressed it... why I'd never thought of it again until now.
She'd caught the flu (or something resembling it) a couple weeks before Roger's return, at the end of March, which had been an unusually cold month. The virus didn't hang around for more than a few days, and by the end of the week, she claimed she was feeling well enough to make our monthly trek to the clinic to pick up her AZT, go for ice cream, and hang out in Central Park. But I insisted that she stay home. She still had a bit of a temperature, and I wasn't about to risk letting anything happen to her.
That evening, I returned home with a fresh supply of AZT, a hot dog straight from Central Park, and a stuffed hamster puppet I'd picked up at FAO Schwarz. We had a running joke that she reminded me of an adorable little hamster; a conversation obviously originating in one of our wildly laughter-oriented, post-sex discussions.
I dumped my plastic bags on the kitchen table and looked around. "Meems?"
No response.
Maybe she was in an anti-nickname mood. "Mimi?"
Silence.
"...Pookie?"
A voice from behind me spoke up. "Pookie??"
I spun around to find her only inches away from me, and I slid my arms around her waist. "It just felt like a 'Pookie' moment."
And for this I was treated with one of those soft, melting kisses... followed by a highly amused grin. "If you ever call me 'Pookie' again you'll be sleeping alone for a month."
Now why hadn't I thought of saying that to Maureen?
"You know," I sighed, fishing through the items on the table, "that threat would be much more effective if you didn't use it every time you want something." I found the cardboard carrying case, and held it out to her as a peace offering. "I brought you a hot dog."
She smiled and took the box. "You're forgiven."
"And this." I handed her the hamster.
"What the--oh my God." She took one look at it and burst out laughing, finally collapsing on the couch in hysterics.
I sat beside her and pulled her into my arms. "You feeling better?"
"I told you before, I'm fine." She cradled my hand in hers and held it up to her face, dropping a light kiss on my fingers. "And... I hope you don't mind, I borrowed your camera."
Mind? How could I possibly mind? I was immensely flattered. No one ever took much of an interest in my work... I can't remember anyone ever wanting to borrow my camera for anything. Well, except Maureen, and I wouldn't let her. (For the record, she'd wanted it to videotape some certain bedroom activities between her and Joanne. I don't think my camera could have handled that. All right, all right--I don't think *I* could have handled it.)
"What for?" I asked.
Although it was obvious she wanted to say something, she just gave me a small smile, patted my hand, and quickly disappeared into my room. Before I could react, she returned... much more slowly and deliberately... with a single, unlabeled video grasped protectively in her hands.
In the same cautious manner, she recovered her seat on the couch beside me and handed me the tape. I smiled at her, leaned over, and reached for the VCR remote.
"No--" She stopped me immediately, placing a hand on my arm. "I mean... oh. Um... baby, I'm sorry, it's not like that. It's..."
I blinked. "What?"
"It's for Roger."
Of... course it was. Was I supposed to know what to say? Wordlessly, and--I hoped, expressionlessly--I placed the tape back in her hands.
"No..." She pushed it back towards me gently. "I want you to give this to him if... if he ever comes back."
If you asked me, this was just unnecessarily painful. "Why can't you give it to him yourself?"
And undoubtedly, that came out much harsher than I'd intended, seeing as a multitude of tears were starting to collect in the corners of her eyes. "It's for..." Our gazes broke, and she turned away. "If I'm not here then."
I swallowed the lump in my throat. I hated when she talked like that. "Why wouldn't you be here?" I demanded.
Her eyes met mine again, refusing to blink, and for a moment I doubted whether she intended to speak at all. "Because I have AIDS, Mark."
They were the last words I remembered from that day. I vaguely recall making some comment about promising to give it to him... but that was hours later, after we'd been curled up on the couch together in that same spot, intermittently brushing away each other's tears.
The same couch I found myself on now. I hated this couch. It had been lonely enough that day, but unbearably so at this moment.
The twenty minutes, however debatable their exactness may be, came and went- -and when they were over, Roger's bedroom door was thrown open and he came storming out.
Seeing as the past twenty minutes had been utterly silent, this sudden disturbance startled the life out of me, and I looked up quickly--just in time to see his door bounce back on the hinges, and his angry figure vanish from the loft.
He was gone.
What the fuck was on that tape?
Oh, God. Why my mind was cruel enough to entertain this possibility was beyond me, but nonetheless, I found myself wondering if I'd even given him the right tape. I couldn't count all the things I'd filmed that I knew we would never let anyone else see. Most of my videos were unlabeled. The way I identified them was by where I kept them in my room. I know, I know-- obsessiveness at its worst. But maybe one had been misplaced...
I darted into his room. He hadn't even bothered to turn off the television-- the empty blue screen cast an eerie glow across the room, and the set was still very busily humming with the sounds of activity. Plopping down on the floor, I pushed open the flap on the VCR.
The tape was still there.
He hadn't taken it with him--he hadn't even hid it from me. Was it really that bad?
Not at all to my surprise, my hands were shaking as I pressed Rewind and waited as the VCR's humming grew louder and my stomach grew more and more unsettled. I would just watch the first few seconds. Just to make sure I'd given him the right tape. If I hadn't, I'd find the right one and figure out a way to get it to him. If I had... then I would turn it off. Immediately.
The humming stopped as unsteadily as it had begun. I pressed Play.
The camera faded in on a chair that had been dragged into my room. I'd never filmed this before in my life.
It was most definitely the right tape.
Mimi soon appeared in a corner of the screen, approaching the chair and taking a seat as she peered into the camera with a skeptical gaze. "I don't know if this is working..." I heard her mumble to herself. "Is this thing on?"
I closed my eyes and smacked the front of the VCR, luckily hitting the Stop button along the way. Feeling it safe once more to open my eyes, I did so, and was greeted with the familiar glowing blue screen.
I couldn't do this.
No. More accurately... I couldn't *not* do this.
Swallowing my pride... and guilt, and anxiety, and--heaven forbid-- respect... I reached out, slowly, consciously punching Play with one finger, and sat back against the foot of the bed.
And may God have mercy on me...
"Hi." Her face lit up the entire room, far more than any blue glow ever could. "I think it's working now. I love the fader button, that thing kicks ass. Um..."
I do, too. It's one of my favorite camera features.
I allowed myself to fully take in the image--if I went to hell for this, I was going to make it worth the trip. Her hair was pulled back slightly in some strange Mimi-esque version of a ponytail. She had on the same tank top I remembered from that day--the bright red one with the word "hottie" on the front in silver letters--and that faded, typically too-tight pair of jeans.
My eyes stung with tears. Why was I doing this to myself?
"I guess I should hurry up with this, since Mark will probably be home soon." She shifted positions in the chair until she was resting her chin on one knee and nervously examining her fingernails. "Um... Roger... I guess if you ever see this, you'll already know about... you know. Mark. And me. Us... God, that still feels weird to say."
Yeah, it did. Even to this day.
"And maybe it won't break your heart... maybe I'm being really egocentric here, assuming you wouldn't move on and find someone else. Of course you would. And you should. You deserve that. But... on the off chance that you're still in love with me... I mean, if you ever were--I mean... fuck, now I'm just rambling."
She certainly was. I loved that about her.
She lifted her head, eyes gazing into the camera the way I remembered when I would film her from across a room of crowded people. She'd look into my eyes, hidden behind that lens, and make me feel like we were the only two people in the room.
But this time, she wasn't looking at me. Not really.
"Roger... I don't know what happened to us. I used to think we could make it through anything. I thought we had that special something, you know? And maybe we did. Maybe we needed more than that... I just wish you could know that I love you. I always have."
I'll ask again: And I'm doing this to myself, *why*?
"I guess that wasn't enough to save us..." Her voice trailed off, and so did her gaze, but it was back as quickly as it had drifted. "I don't know if I'll ever see you again. God, I don't even know if you're still alive. But I want you to know that, no matter what's happened with Mark... I still love you. And I never wanted to hurt you."
I should not have pushed Play. It wasn't too late. I could still stop it...
"And... I'm scared that you're never going to forgive Mark for this. And he doesn't deserve that, because he hasn't done anything wrong. I probably wouldn't be here without him. And he doesn't talk about it a lot, but I know he misses you so much."
She was right... I never talked about it. I missed him like crazy. He was my best friend. The way he left us both--I never got over it. But I'd had no idea that she knew.
"Everything's so different now," she whispered, the tape barely picking up her voice. "You won't understand, I know. Baby, please don't hate me for this... but I--I'm in love with him."
I felt my hand moving, independently of my will, to hit Stop on the VCR for a second time.
The room fell silent except for the inevitable, incessant hum of a functioning television set. I began to wonder if this is what took Roger so long--having to stop the tape every five minutes to keep from screaming or throwing things.
I'd known she was in love with me. Of course I had. The night we both confessed that 'love' had evolved to 'in love' was one I would never forget. But hearing it now... God, it would be so much easier if she hated me. Devastating, perhaps, but easier--I'd have no reason to keep missing her as desperately as I did.
After a few labored, deliberate deep breaths, I hit Play once again.
I was such a masochist.
The familiar setting filled the screen, and I watched as she stared into my eyes... No. Not my eyes. Just the camera. If anything, Roger's eyes. Waiting for... a response? Offering time for a reaction, I suppose. Almost as if she knew the viewer would have to stop the tape at that.
'The viewer'? God, what was this, a fucking talk show? There was only one viewer--one *intended* viewer, that is--and it was Roger. I was merely an intruder. Nothing she said was directed at me. This was worse than listening in on a phone conversation or reading her diary--and I knew that. And for once, it felt good to be as selfish and heartless as Roger so easily managed to be.
Actually, it felt like shit. How did he do it?
She took a deep breath, drawing me back to reality, if that's what this was. "That's... not what I wanted to tell you though. I have to tell you something, and it's something I don't think you can forgive me for. All right--maybe it's something I can't forgive *myself* for."
Although feeling guilty for doing so, I let out a sigh of relief. This obviously had to be something exclusive to their relationship. Something I think everyone had suspected--such as, she cheated on him with Benny, or some confession of the like. Something I could finally take in as an observer, and not have to have any part in.
"I think I'm pregnant."
And *I* think I just lost all feeling in my arms.
Perfect timing. Right when I would have needed to stop the tape.
"I don't know for sure yet, and I just can't bring myself to take the test and I wish you were here because I can't tell Mark and if I am then he has to get tested for HIV and..."
The run-on sentence fell to a muddled close as she broke off in tears. I'd beaten her to it, though, spotting the first one drop onto the sleeve of my sweater.
She'd known.
All right--she'd suspected. It was the closest thing to knowing.
"Is this my punishment?" she demanded of the camera, suddenly infuriated-- most likely growing frustrated with its lack of response.
I knew that from far too much personal experience. A camera really does seem like a person almost, until you realize it will never give you an answer. At least it seemed that way to me; it reminded me so much of myself. Always observing, silently, taking everything in, permanently imprinting it all. The only difference was that a camera's memories could be erased. I only wished destroying my own was as easy as tearing up a reel of film.
"This is what I get..." she mused, nodding slowly, "for letting you walk out of my life when I knew I could have stopped you. For letting Mark risk himself for me when I was so terrified all along that this would happen."
"No." That was me. Talking to a two-dimensional screen now. Inching towards it, I touched the image in front of me, letting my fingers slide down the screen at the same pace as the tears trickling down my face. As if it would make her real again... as if it would keep her from crying...
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "That's all I wanted to tell you. And please... take care of Mark. Don't let anything happen to him. I'm sorry. Just don't forget that I love you."
For the next few moments she remained in the chair, occasionally glancing at the camera, but for the most part, trying to avoid its mechanical, unforgiving stare. But at last, she climbed out of the chair, marched over to where it was set up, and turned it off.
The screen returned to blue.
In an almost involuntary fashion, I pulled myself to my feet, replaced the remote control exactly where it had been, left his room--careful not to turn off the television or close the door--and collapsed on the living room couch.
Would he really go back to Collins' this time? Or would he go back to Central Park? To addiction and ruined lives. And this time I wouldn't be there to get him through it all, and there was no way in hell he would survive it on his own, because I knew him better than he knew himself, and he knew me better than I knew myself. And while that produced the strongest possible type of friendship, it also gave us the power to destroy each other.
And ourselves in the process...
This frightening train of thought was cut short as the door to the loft creaked open.
It was the first time in what felt like forever, that he'd entered the apartment without practically breaking down the door. There was nothing obnoxious or threatening about his arrival now. If it was even describable at all, it would have to be almost... timid.
He guided the door to a quiet close before turning back to me. "Have you been there this whole time?"
Say yes. Say yes, say yes, say yes. "Yes." Good.
How nice--and sickening--a feeling that is, when you can finally see visible results from your efforts of dishonesty. It was getting so much easier to lie...
I stood up, pushed my glasses up on my nose, and stuffed my hands in my pockets. "What are you doing here?"
He shuffled his feet against the rug. "Um... I was thinking about what you said."
I half-smiled. "I've said a lot of things. Most of which I probably shouldn't have."
"Collins said I could stay with him as long as I wanted, but... I mean, y'know, his place really isn't big enough for two people."
I nodded. I knew exactly where he was headed, but if he wanted it, he'd have to damn well ask me himself.
"So, I was thinking, maybe I could..."
Maybe you could what, Roge?
"I mean, just until I find somewhere else..."
Oh, for God's sake. This would go on all day. I'd forgotten who I was talking to, hadn't I? Helpless was the last thing he'd ever want to appear as. I had to give him a break. I didn't want to, but unfortunately, the sensitive artist inside was reminding me that I did in fact have a heart, whether he deserved its benefits or not.
"Yeah, Roge," I answered quietly. "You can stay here."
He brought his eyes to meet mine, and nodded tentatively. I remembered the gesture well--his unique, pride-induced, Roger-esque way of saying thanks.
Sadly enough... I'd missed it.
[Three more chapters to go, I think. We'll see. I have Plans. :)]