AN: Just a short little thing that kept me awake last night. Nothing special. My first RENT fic. It's kind of a little M/R. Constructive criticism is welcome and encouraged. I said I write, I never said I write well. Bare with me, I fear this might be a little cliched...


Discalimer: Hahahahaha! Yeah right....Not mine, not making money, don't sue unless you want my $96,000 in student loans, in which case...go right ahead


The Other Side

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The door slams behind him and he is gone gone gone...


I get lost in the moment. Thoughts of hurled insults and shouted demands leave me as I stare at the door. The poor door, I keep thinking. So much abuse.


How many times has he slammed it?


How many times have I?


We have yet to break it....


It's nothing but an instrument of our rage. As if our

yelling and screaming,

punching and hitting,

crying and crumbling


couldn't communicate enough anger. We turn our rath on the door.


Slamming doors remind me of Roger, I realize. And just like that I'm brought back to the present.

Gone Again


It's always the same. We scream, we fight, he leaves, I wait. I'm always waiting. For him, for a sign, a smile, a touch, a hope.


But he's gone. Off again. It could be to the bar around the corner for the night. Or a friend's across town for a week. Or across the country for months.


But when he gets back, I'll be here. Ready with forgivness, smiles, laughter, my soul. And I'll wait, for however long it takes him.


For he is Roger and he runs away.


And I am Mark, and I wait....


Not unlike the door I realize. It waits to be used and when it is, it is often slammed, or punched, or has things thrown at it.


Yet there it stands, on the same hinges as the day we moved in. Never cracking, never wobbling, always standing firm. Not so much as a squeek of complaint.


Roger's left again and all I can do is think about the goddamn door. But then again, maybe it is for the best. The door and I share a common bond. An understanding.


This is good, because I have this feeling that the door will be my only company for many nights to come.

I stand up from my spot.

I look at the door.


"I'm here Roger, when you are ready to come home. Slam me, punch me, use me, I will stand strong. I promise," I say not so much to the door as to the man I know is somewhere beyond it. Because I am his door. And I hope someday he'll at least look to see what's on the other side.



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