Roger giggled. A shrill, alcohol induced laugh that pierced through the silence of the loft, catching the attention of the filmmaker in the other room.
Blearily, Mark rose from his bed after checking the clock – 4:00 a.m. – and headed into the room next to his own.
"Roger?" Mark mumbled, stumbling into the darkness of the musician's room. "What's going on?"
Mark searched blindly for the light switch and shielded his eyes from the glowing vibrancy of the overhead light when it finally switched on.
Mark looked at the empty bed before him, the sheets tucked under the mattress like they hadn't been slept in all night.
"Roger," he repeated, stepping into the living room. The sight should have made him gasp, should have surprised him, or at the very least, concerned him. But it didn't. Because it was one that Mark had, unfortunately, gotten very used to in the past three or four weeks.
Roger sat on the floor in front of the sofa, surrounded by dozens of empty beer cans (some from previous nights when Mark had been too tired or frustrated to clean up after his deteriorating friend), staring intently at the patterns of worn fabric and small holes, as if it were the most interesting thing he had ever seen. Though Mark knew he was probably just trying to steady himself. The front of his shirt was stained with dirt and dried vomit, and Mark sighed, wondering how Roger even made it home on his own.
"Roger, where were you?" Mark asked wearily, knowing that it was pointless. He never got a straight answer anymore. It was always, "Out," or "With some friends," or if it was a particularly aggravating night, "Mind your own fucking business."
"Nowhere," Roger mumbled, lifting his gaze for only a second to acknowledge the filmmaker's presence before turning his attention back to the ripped fabric of the couch.
Mark sighed again and lifted Roger underneath the arms, much to the musician's annoyance. Roger struggled in Mark's arms but the filmmaker's grip was unrelenting as he half carried the man twice his size into the bathroom.
"What the fuck are you doing?" Roger snapped, dropping to the floor with a slight "oof" as Mark released him.
"You're going to be sick."
"No I'm-"
But he was interrupted by the sudden waves of nausea churning through his stomach and he leaned over the toilet, hating Mark for being right yet again.
The filmmaker sighed and walked out of the bathroom, ignoring the gagging sounds he heard behind him as he closed the door and retreated to his room. He was so sick of it. Sick of the alcohol, sick being woken up at ungodly hours of the night to the sounds of his friend's stumbling around the apartment, sick of waiting up at night just to make sure he was safe and hadn't gotten himself killed or arrested, and sick of Roger's stupidity in general.
The two had been friends since high school. Day after day Roger would come into school wearing makeup to hide the bruises and scratches doled out by his father. Mark never asked about the wounds, but he knew from spending nights at his friend's house what was happening. And he knew why.
Maybe that's the reason Mark was so angry, so frustrated and upset. When you have an alcoholic parent, you do not drink the way Roger had been doing! Alcoholism can be inherited, passed down from abusive parent to abusive child.
Mark immediately regretted that thought. Roger wasn't abusive. No, he didn't know what he was doing, and therefore it could not be considered abuse.
But another voice in Mark's head laughed at his rationalization and told him otherwise. Screamed that Roger was doing to Mark just what his father had done to Roger as a child. And his dad was abusive…right?
As if that question needed to be answered. Mark had seen the bruises, the scars, and the casts that covered his multiple fractures. If that wasn't abuse, he didn't know what was.
Gingerly, Mark pressed a hand to the large purplish splotch on his stomach and winced as his hand came in contact with the wound. He didn't mean to do it, he was drunk. He didn't know what he was doing, didn't…
Suddenly a crash from the other room tore Mark away from his thoughts and he rose from his bed to tentatively peer his head out the door to see what happened.
What he saw was Roger laying on the floor, face down, next to the coffee table that had been turned on its side from the weight of the fall.
Blinking back the unwanted tears forming in his azure eyes, Mark stepped out of the doorway and carried Roger to his bedroom, laying him down gently on the bed and pressing a Kleenex to the trickle of blood trailing down Roger's forehead.
Why did this have to happen? Things had been going so well before Mimi's death. Roger had gotten together with a new band, they were getting more and more gigs, gaining popularity within the East Village. And even after she died, Roger had continued to write songs. Continued to play his guitar – though it was mostly "Your Eyes" that he played – continued to live. But now… Now it was back to the old days before Mimi, before even April. Right back to the days where heroin controlled Roger's every move and every thought. Only this time the culprit wasn't a drug. No, the thing that held Roger captive this time was the same thing that held his father in its grips so many years ago. Alcohol.