Angel's stilettos click on the decrepit floor boards, slowly fading. The loft is all but silent, and I notice the red light on my camera glaring at me. I stare at the lens for a few seconds.
"Fuck," I hear myself say. "What the hell just happened?"
No one answers.
"Angel. Angel knows, and soon, everyone else will. Angel took away my stash, my needles. Angel fucking took away my life. That's what it is now; my life. It wasn't supposed to get this far, but, because they are all just so damn perceptive, it did, and now, I have nothing else."
I stand up, flinging the blanket off of me as I go. My legs are shaking, but I'm too exhausted and desperate to care.
"I need another hit now. Angel doesn't know that I have more; I never use it all. There is always just enough left," I say, still staring at my scarred lens. My throat is raw, and everything around me is spinning. Inadvertently, I drop on the couch. The camera is still pointed in my direction.
"But she took my needles, damnit. I have shit in my wallet, and-"
It hits me.
"I do have needles, stacked in a drawer that's strictly verboten. They're in there, just waiting to be touched, and waiting to be used. A shitload of perfect needles, and no one will know if I take one. No one but Roger. What the hell am I saying? Roger wouldn't care if I hurled myself in front of a subway train, let alone used his needles. He wouldn't care that I'm injecting into my blood the same disease that's going to kill him before he hits forty, that I'm committing prolonged suicide. He wouldn't notice. He's too busy fucking Mimi. That's what makes it worth the risk; Roger doesn't fucking care anymore. If he doesn't care, then I give up. I give up, and I'm going to give in, and there's no one here to stop me."
I manage to stand up again, and this time, I don't fall down. The camera stares at the empty couch, and I find myself stalking towards Roger's room.
Nothing has changed since he left. The bed is still a tangle of brown sheets and crumpled pieces of notebook paper, a sorry looking island in a sea of fast food and condom wrappers, dirty clothes, guitar strings, broken pencils, and empty prescription bottles. There are CD's stacked in the windowsill, and boxers hanging on his lamp. His dresser is covered with old Bic lighters and some of Mimi's MIA cosmetics. There are a few mementos leaning against the frame of the mirror, things that are a reminder of the life before: a snapshot of Collins and I doing Sonny and Cher on kareoke night at the Red Room, Roger laying on the cement against the Imagine mosaic in Central Park, he and his little brother and sister at Coney Island, he and I on grad night, a washed out picture of me behind my camera, Mimi on the Circle Line, and the prayer card from April's funeral. The prayer card brings me back to reality, and reminds me of what I need.
I grab the handle of his sock drawer, still staring at April's prayer card.
Grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console;
The drawer squeaks a little bit as I pry it open. I start chucking socks out of it until I find the plastic case.
To be understood as to understand;
I pop it open, feeling myself grin as I count the needles. 23. Nothing Angel did matters now. I have what I need.
To be loved, as to love;
I finger the needles carefully, silently thanking Roger for leaving these here, the fucking traitor.
For it is in giving that we receive;
It occurs to me that I don't really want everything that comes with these needles. I've lied to myself so many times, thinking that their disease was the only way to stay close to them, but it's not true. I know what it does to them, to Roger, and it scares me. I promise myself that I'll clean them before I use.
It is in pardoning that we are pardoned;
My vision begins to blur, and the room starts spinning around me. I fall backwards, dropping the box. The needles fly, landing at my knees. I struggle to sit up, and I know that I can't wait too much longer. Fuck cleaning the needles. There will be some that aren't tainted, that aren't infected. There has to be.
I push my glasses up, and begin to sort through the needles. Everything is still in a haze, and they begin to melt together. I grab one, careful not to let it snap between my fingers, deciding that it's clean enough.
I fumble towards my own bedroom, banging into the door frame on the way. I manage to find a syringe and my extra stash, and, after grabbing a lighter and spoon, I somehow make it to the couch. I melt it down and pour it carefully into the syringe, even though my fingers are trembling. The camera is still focused on me
"Hit n-num-number 54," I whisper, carefully flicking the needle and submerging it in my arm. I feel myself slipping into unconsciousness as the whir of the camera becomes louder.
Everything will be fine.
And
it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.