Author's Note: Hola, faithful readers! Just thought I'd drop a little note to let you know that Joy, of No Day but Today and Guilt fame, is co-writing this story with me. I would wield it over to a joint screename, only I don't want to lose the reviews we've already got. The next chapter will be Joy's. This chapter, however, is the very first POV I've ever really written for "Rent" so let me know what you think. That said, this is tentatively rated PG-13 because of language and sexual references, blah, blah, blah. If you're sensitive to that sort of thing, please refrain from reading. REVIEWS MAKE THE WORLD GO 'ROUND!

Fourteen Months Earlier: Mark

Close on the wall, its plaster peeling and cracking, vacant of any signs of life. It's almost synonymous with my existence. I sigh, setting my camera down, and try desperately to ignore the pre-sex giggles coming from Mimi's apartment. Roger has been down there for almost a month, and I still haven't heard from him. Collins and Angel haven't come by in a week or so, and Maureen and Joanne- if there even is a Maureen and Joanne anymore- fight so much that their company is pointless.

It drives me insane. I'm everybody's rock, their parent away from parents. I end up being privy to their problems, their shoulder to cry on, their nursemaid, and then, I get forgotten. I end up alone.

Mimi squeals and I hear Roger laugh. This is nauseating.

I remember when he couldn't laugh, and when he couldn't even move without my help. I would spend hours in his room, holding his hand while he sweat bullets and sobbed into my shoulder, screaming for April. I spent days covered in his sweat, covered in his vomit, never leaving him alone because the demons were too much for him to handle by himself. Well, fuck. No one ever stops to wonder if I have demons of my own. After I've gotten rid of their problems, who cares if Mark is all right?

Downstairs, I can hear Mimi's head board thumping against the wall. She and Roger are groaning various obscenities, their round of annoying giggles lost to the night.

I'm sitting here, staring at a wall. Some kind of life.

It's on nights like tonight when I wish I had something besides my camera. Living behind a scratched lens provides some solace, but it still isn't an escape. When I film, even though I'm detached, I'm still conscious to the goings on that surround me. I need a way to become completely numb.

Fuck.

I stand up, knowing exactly what I can do. I search blindly for my wallet, then count the bills inside. Twenty-three bucks. I can't remember the last time I had that much cash... I know it's because I don't have to chip in for Roger's AZT anymore. I should buy groceries or at least some wood for my stove, but I don't see the point. Food and pieces of a dead tree won't take away the pain, but I know something that will.