Author's Note: Well, here it is. We received some decent constructive
criticism on the last edition of this chapter, and Joy was kind enough to
take some time out of her busy schedule to pen a redux. It resolves a lot
of the conflicting issues we had before, and keep in mind that there is a
method to our madness. Please, review and enjoy!
I stare at the blinking red light of the camera in front of me, trying to steady my swimming vision for long enough to get the words out. Every single time I've shot up I've gotten it on film. Ever since that very first time nearly six months ago… And I refuse to break that record simply because of withdrawal symptoms. My body can hold out a little longer, I'll just give myself more smack to compensate.
The months have gone by in a blur. I can barely remember anything about this past half year at all. Granted, I've spent most of that time in a drugged haze – and will continue to do so now that Angel is unable to reveal my dirty secret.
The virus is no longer dormant in her body, she was diagnosed as having full blown AIDS about two months ago.
"S-September 8th…" I glance down at my watch that now hangs loosely on my bony wrist, but the numbers are all blurred into one single glow of neon green so I continue without stating the time. "Angel's getting sicker. She hasn't b-been able to tell anyone, and no longer has the strength to so much as get out of bed. I can't afford new needles… All my money goes to heroin now, though that is hardly enough anymore. I've sold everything I possibly can – the microwave that only worked about half of the time, the TV set Collins and I ripped off years ago… But there just isn't anything more I can sell. The only thing left that's worth anything is my camera, and I refuse to part with that. It's m-my only friend. It's pathetic. But it's true. No one has visited here – or even called – in weeks. Maybe months. I have no concept of time anymore, everything has just blurred together, the only thing of importance is making sure I get more heroin. Collins is too busy taking care of Angel, Maureen and Joanne can think of none other but themselves, and Roger… Well, Roger just doesn't care. He's too wrapped up in Mimi – literally – to notice that his so-called 'best friend' is dying just one apartment above him. He's blind to the fact that I now live only for shooting up, and blind to the fact that I am using his needles to do it with. I-"
Suddenly I'm hit with a wave of intense nausea and I let myself drop to the ground where I vomit involuntarily, no longer able to control my withdrawal symptoms. Since there is nothing in my stomach it hurts – a lot. Pure stomach acid forces its way out of my system as I continue to heave, praying to the God I don't fully believe in to let me get past this so that I can shoot up again. When my stomach stops churning and I regain feeling in my leg muscles I shakily return to a standing position.
My clothes are soiled with vomit stains but I don't care. I reach blindly for the needle lying out on the coffee table and barely manage to boil the pallid powder down to a liquid in my trembling hands. But I finally accomplish the task and I inject the now smooth fluid into the syringe, simultaneously slapping my arm for a vein that's not already collapsed.
"H-hit number 390," I breathe out as I plunge the needle tip into my arm.
As the warm heroin courses through my veins, spreading to and relaxing my incredibly tense muscles, I let myself collapse weakly onto the battered sofa and close my eyes for a second, just reveling in the release of my tension and pain.
But as the minutes tick by, the dull ache in my stomach is yet to relent and once again, I find myself kneeling on the floor, scratching the hard wood in pain as my stomach empties itself for the fifth time today.
My God, even with enough heroin in my blood to keep me wasted and happy for a week I still find myself unable to keep down any sort of food or drink, with cold sweat soaking the entire length of my body.
Somewhere underneath all the pain swirling around in my mind I think I hear someone knock at the door…but I'm not sure, it could be the pounding of my head instead.
Roger:
"Mark, let me in!!" I bang on the door once again before sighing heavily and leaning my weight against the decrepit wood marking the entrance of my old apartment.
"Roger…?"
My eyes widen in shock and fear at the sound of my name from behind the door. That's not Mark…it couldn't be Mark. The voice was weak and shaky, and obviously held an enormous amount of pain… I shudder involuntarily when an image of Angel lying sick in her hospital bed flashes through my mind. That's what it sounded like – the voice sounded like Angel on her death bed.
"Mark?" I call out tentatively and tap on the door again. There's no answer this time so I push against the creaking wood frame heavily, straining to get inside to help whatever awaits me on the other side of the door.
Finally the old oak gives way and I push the remaining wood hindering my passage out of the way and step into the loft for the first time in nearly six months.
"Mar-"
My heart catches in my throat when I see my Mark – my best friend – lying on the ground clutching his stomach, covered in his own vomit and sweat, looking half dead and thin as a rail.
"Jesus Christ…" I whisper, struggling to regain control over my temporarily paralyzed body. I finally am able to will my frozen muscles to move again and I rush over to Mark, helping him sit up and wiping his face with the sleeve of my sweatshirt.
Out of the corner of my eye I see Mark quickly tug down the sleeve of his long sleeved shirt, but it barely registers as my spinning mind goes over the number of possibilities as to what could have possibly happened to Mark to make him so sick…but the images aren't pretty.
"What happened?" I ask gently, helping the shivering man off the floor and onto the couch.
My only response is an anguished cry from Mark as he clenches his eyes shut, sweat beading down his already drenched forehead, and curls up into a tight ball, wrapping his bony arms around his even bonier body.
Shit. Shit shit shit. What do I do, what do I do, what do I do??!
Suddenly the blinking red light of the camera catches my eye and I glance up at the old piece of equipment sitting on the tripod, the carefully focused zoom lens getting all of this on film. As I reach over to shut it off I wonder why in the world Mark would want to capture this on tape.
But I don't question it. Mark's always been a little weird about his camera, filming anything and everything he possibly can. So I don't think twice about it as I turn back around to care for my filmmaker. But as I do I notice him discreetly kick something under the couch.
"Mark?" I look at him curiously but all the questions running through my mind quickly fade away when I see Mark's body go limp and then slip down from the couch onto the floor.
Oh shit. Fuck. Oh my God, what do I do? Okay, breathe. First, pick Mark up.
Trying to piece together everything that's happened today, and trying to come up with some logical conclusion as to what happened to Mark while I've been gone, I bend down and pick up his frail, weak body and carry him into his room.
"Mark! Mark, come on, wake up!" I lay Mark's pale, unmoving figure on his bed and shake him for a good minute or so, trying to get him to respond. Finally, after a good five minutes or so, Mark opens his eyelids weakly and stares up at me with dead, emotionless eyes. It's a look that I've grown so familiar with over time. I've seen it in April, her friend Karen, my dealer, Steve, and myself. For a second I don't say anything. Part of my mind is screaming at me, is pointing out the obvious (weak, frail body; withdrawal symptoms; covering scarred arms with long sleeves; the gaze, the dead look in your eyes that only heroin can provide), but another part is screaming even louder to ignore it. It's just the flu, a stomach virus… Mark's not stupid, he knows better than that. Especially after seeing the effects in so many of his friends. I'd be crazy for even considering for a moment that Mark is-
"Roger?"
I cringe at the hoarse whisper and look down at the filmmaker.
"What is it?" I have to fight to keep the tremor out of my voice.
"Can you bring me some water?"
I nod, grateful to distance myself from the shell of my best friend, and walk in a daze into the living room and survey the room, looking for something…anything at all, some sort of clue…
And that's when I notice it. Something underneath the couch catches me eye, making me gasp in shock and horror when I realize what it is. A needle. I pick it up carefully, fingering it delicately, then do a double take when I realize that it is my needle.
I get a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach as I drop to the couch, lost in my own world of thoughts. What in the world would Mark be doing with a needle? My needle? He would never… No. He wouldn't. That's crazy, I'm not even going to finish my thought.
Mark is, and always will be, the most anti-drug person I've ever known. I've sat through lecture after lecture about the evils of drugs, about how they're killing me, how they're not a solution… I know that there has to be some other reason for him to be hiding my needle under the couch. Another reason as to why he's experiencing symptoms eerily similar to those of withdrawal. Another reason why…
"Roger?"
A soft, female voice calling out my name tears me from my thoughts and I glance up to see Mimi standing in the partially broken down doorway of the loft.
I don't say anything, my mind still racing for a plausible explanation, and I look back and forth from my girlfriend standing just inside the apartment, to the needle I still hold delicately in my hand.
"Rog, what's wrong?" Mimi asks, approaching me from behind and wrapping her lithe arms around my chest.
As she begins to unlace herself, I'm finally able to take action. I quickly stuff the needle under the sofa cushion, just in time.
Or am I?
Mimi is standing in front of me, a dark eyebrow raised, her painted red lips just slightly ajar. She opens her mouth a few times, as if to say something, but snaps it shut each time. When I offer no explanation, no protests that the needle wasn't mine, she turns away from me and simply says, "I just came to tell you I'm working late tonight," and walks out as if nothing happened.
My mind is spinning, I don't know what to do, which problem to solve first, or even if there is a problem that needs solving in the first place!
"Roger?"
Right. Water.
"Be right there!"
Pocketing the needle, I walk shakily into the kitchen and fill a chipped glass with tap water from the sink. As I retreat back into Mark's room, the voice is still filling my head, repeating the rationalization over and over like a mantra.
"It's just the flu. Mark's smarter than you, he wouldn't ruin his life with heroin like you did yours. It's nothing, no need to worry at all. Just the flu…"
I stare at the blinking red light of the camera in front of me, trying to steady my swimming vision for long enough to get the words out. Every single time I've shot up I've gotten it on film. Ever since that very first time nearly six months ago… And I refuse to break that record simply because of withdrawal symptoms. My body can hold out a little longer, I'll just give myself more smack to compensate.
The months have gone by in a blur. I can barely remember anything about this past half year at all. Granted, I've spent most of that time in a drugged haze – and will continue to do so now that Angel is unable to reveal my dirty secret.
The virus is no longer dormant in her body, she was diagnosed as having full blown AIDS about two months ago.
"S-September 8th…" I glance down at my watch that now hangs loosely on my bony wrist, but the numbers are all blurred into one single glow of neon green so I continue without stating the time. "Angel's getting sicker. She hasn't b-been able to tell anyone, and no longer has the strength to so much as get out of bed. I can't afford new needles… All my money goes to heroin now, though that is hardly enough anymore. I've sold everything I possibly can – the microwave that only worked about half of the time, the TV set Collins and I ripped off years ago… But there just isn't anything more I can sell. The only thing left that's worth anything is my camera, and I refuse to part with that. It's m-my only friend. It's pathetic. But it's true. No one has visited here – or even called – in weeks. Maybe months. I have no concept of time anymore, everything has just blurred together, the only thing of importance is making sure I get more heroin. Collins is too busy taking care of Angel, Maureen and Joanne can think of none other but themselves, and Roger… Well, Roger just doesn't care. He's too wrapped up in Mimi – literally – to notice that his so-called 'best friend' is dying just one apartment above him. He's blind to the fact that I now live only for shooting up, and blind to the fact that I am using his needles to do it with. I-"
Suddenly I'm hit with a wave of intense nausea and I let myself drop to the ground where I vomit involuntarily, no longer able to control my withdrawal symptoms. Since there is nothing in my stomach it hurts – a lot. Pure stomach acid forces its way out of my system as I continue to heave, praying to the God I don't fully believe in to let me get past this so that I can shoot up again. When my stomach stops churning and I regain feeling in my leg muscles I shakily return to a standing position.
My clothes are soiled with vomit stains but I don't care. I reach blindly for the needle lying out on the coffee table and barely manage to boil the pallid powder down to a liquid in my trembling hands. But I finally accomplish the task and I inject the now smooth fluid into the syringe, simultaneously slapping my arm for a vein that's not already collapsed.
"H-hit number 390," I breathe out as I plunge the needle tip into my arm.
As the warm heroin courses through my veins, spreading to and relaxing my incredibly tense muscles, I let myself collapse weakly onto the battered sofa and close my eyes for a second, just reveling in the release of my tension and pain.
But as the minutes tick by, the dull ache in my stomach is yet to relent and once again, I find myself kneeling on the floor, scratching the hard wood in pain as my stomach empties itself for the fifth time today.
My God, even with enough heroin in my blood to keep me wasted and happy for a week I still find myself unable to keep down any sort of food or drink, with cold sweat soaking the entire length of my body.
Somewhere underneath all the pain swirling around in my mind I think I hear someone knock at the door…but I'm not sure, it could be the pounding of my head instead.
Roger:
"Mark, let me in!!" I bang on the door once again before sighing heavily and leaning my weight against the decrepit wood marking the entrance of my old apartment.
"Roger…?"
My eyes widen in shock and fear at the sound of my name from behind the door. That's not Mark…it couldn't be Mark. The voice was weak and shaky, and obviously held an enormous amount of pain… I shudder involuntarily when an image of Angel lying sick in her hospital bed flashes through my mind. That's what it sounded like – the voice sounded like Angel on her death bed.
"Mark?" I call out tentatively and tap on the door again. There's no answer this time so I push against the creaking wood frame heavily, straining to get inside to help whatever awaits me on the other side of the door.
Finally the old oak gives way and I push the remaining wood hindering my passage out of the way and step into the loft for the first time in nearly six months.
"Mar-"
My heart catches in my throat when I see my Mark – my best friend – lying on the ground clutching his stomach, covered in his own vomit and sweat, looking half dead and thin as a rail.
"Jesus Christ…" I whisper, struggling to regain control over my temporarily paralyzed body. I finally am able to will my frozen muscles to move again and I rush over to Mark, helping him sit up and wiping his face with the sleeve of my sweatshirt.
Out of the corner of my eye I see Mark quickly tug down the sleeve of his long sleeved shirt, but it barely registers as my spinning mind goes over the number of possibilities as to what could have possibly happened to Mark to make him so sick…but the images aren't pretty.
"What happened?" I ask gently, helping the shivering man off the floor and onto the couch.
My only response is an anguished cry from Mark as he clenches his eyes shut, sweat beading down his already drenched forehead, and curls up into a tight ball, wrapping his bony arms around his even bonier body.
Shit. Shit shit shit. What do I do, what do I do, what do I do??!
Suddenly the blinking red light of the camera catches my eye and I glance up at the old piece of equipment sitting on the tripod, the carefully focused zoom lens getting all of this on film. As I reach over to shut it off I wonder why in the world Mark would want to capture this on tape.
But I don't question it. Mark's always been a little weird about his camera, filming anything and everything he possibly can. So I don't think twice about it as I turn back around to care for my filmmaker. But as I do I notice him discreetly kick something under the couch.
"Mark?" I look at him curiously but all the questions running through my mind quickly fade away when I see Mark's body go limp and then slip down from the couch onto the floor.
Oh shit. Fuck. Oh my God, what do I do? Okay, breathe. First, pick Mark up.
Trying to piece together everything that's happened today, and trying to come up with some logical conclusion as to what happened to Mark while I've been gone, I bend down and pick up his frail, weak body and carry him into his room.
"Mark! Mark, come on, wake up!" I lay Mark's pale, unmoving figure on his bed and shake him for a good minute or so, trying to get him to respond. Finally, after a good five minutes or so, Mark opens his eyelids weakly and stares up at me with dead, emotionless eyes. It's a look that I've grown so familiar with over time. I've seen it in April, her friend Karen, my dealer, Steve, and myself. For a second I don't say anything. Part of my mind is screaming at me, is pointing out the obvious (weak, frail body; withdrawal symptoms; covering scarred arms with long sleeves; the gaze, the dead look in your eyes that only heroin can provide), but another part is screaming even louder to ignore it. It's just the flu, a stomach virus… Mark's not stupid, he knows better than that. Especially after seeing the effects in so many of his friends. I'd be crazy for even considering for a moment that Mark is-
"Roger?"
I cringe at the hoarse whisper and look down at the filmmaker.
"What is it?" I have to fight to keep the tremor out of my voice.
"Can you bring me some water?"
I nod, grateful to distance myself from the shell of my best friend, and walk in a daze into the living room and survey the room, looking for something…anything at all, some sort of clue…
And that's when I notice it. Something underneath the couch catches me eye, making me gasp in shock and horror when I realize what it is. A needle. I pick it up carefully, fingering it delicately, then do a double take when I realize that it is my needle.
I get a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach as I drop to the couch, lost in my own world of thoughts. What in the world would Mark be doing with a needle? My needle? He would never… No. He wouldn't. That's crazy, I'm not even going to finish my thought.
Mark is, and always will be, the most anti-drug person I've ever known. I've sat through lecture after lecture about the evils of drugs, about how they're killing me, how they're not a solution… I know that there has to be some other reason for him to be hiding my needle under the couch. Another reason as to why he's experiencing symptoms eerily similar to those of withdrawal. Another reason why…
"Roger?"
A soft, female voice calling out my name tears me from my thoughts and I glance up to see Mimi standing in the partially broken down doorway of the loft.
I don't say anything, my mind still racing for a plausible explanation, and I look back and forth from my girlfriend standing just inside the apartment, to the needle I still hold delicately in my hand.
"Rog, what's wrong?" Mimi asks, approaching me from behind and wrapping her lithe arms around my chest.
As she begins to unlace herself, I'm finally able to take action. I quickly stuff the needle under the sofa cushion, just in time.
Or am I?
Mimi is standing in front of me, a dark eyebrow raised, her painted red lips just slightly ajar. She opens her mouth a few times, as if to say something, but snaps it shut each time. When I offer no explanation, no protests that the needle wasn't mine, she turns away from me and simply says, "I just came to tell you I'm working late tonight," and walks out as if nothing happened.
My mind is spinning, I don't know what to do, which problem to solve first, or even if there is a problem that needs solving in the first place!
"Roger?"
Right. Water.
"Be right there!"
Pocketing the needle, I walk shakily into the kitchen and fill a chipped glass with tap water from the sink. As I retreat back into Mark's room, the voice is still filling my head, repeating the rationalization over and over like a mantra.
"It's just the flu. Mark's smarter than you, he wouldn't ruin his life with heroin like you did yours. It's nothing, no need to worry at all. Just the flu…"