Disclaimer: Yes. You know what I'm going to say. I know you know. Do you know that I know that you know? Ignore this sentence. And this one too. Why are you still reading this? You should have stopped several sentences ago. In fact you probably shouldn't have read this at all, since you already knew.
A/N: Err… hi! I bet no one remembers me. It's been nearly six months since I updated this story. I apologize. This does have to eventually, right? I'd better start formulating an ending or it's going to keep going and going and going…
Chapter 10
"We're best friends, aren't we, Roger?" The musician played a chord on his guitar. E minor.
"Uh-huh."
"And we'll always be, right?" C minor.
"Uh-huh."
"No matter what happens." F major.
"Right, Mark. Now, put down the fucking camera and stop with all the mushy crap. You're making me sick!" Mark grinned and playfully grabbed the pick from Roger's hand.
"And you're giving me a headache." Roger's face contorted into an expression of mock anger.
"You give me that pick back right now or I'll…" The phone rang. "I'll answer the phone!" Mark faked a look of terror and threw the pick at Roger's head.
"No! Not the phone! Anything but that! Such a weapon of mass destruction!" Roger was thrown into fits of uncontrollable laughter as the voice on the answering machine cut through the loft.
"Mark! Mark, are you there? Mark!"
Mark's eyes snapped open. It wasn't the answering machine, and Roger was not present. No guitar chords cut through the dissonant silence. There was only one noise in the loft.
"Mark! What are you doing?" Mark looked up. Silhouetted in the doorway was Liz. "Thank god you're still alive," she said with a relieved smile. Am I? thought Mark, but forced a smile anyway.
"Was I in any danger of not being?"
"Well, not exactly," replied Liz. "I was just worried." Mark shrugged.
"Don't be. I'm still alive." For now, he thought.
"Well…I'm glad." Silence. "The loft is a mess."
"Yeah. It is."
"So, do you want to clean it up at all, or wait?" Liz asked.
"What's going on at the hospital?"
"Nothing new. Roger was asleep when I left." Mark sighed and replied hesitantly.
"Well, I guess we should clean, then. Clean up some of the blood." He stood up and walked toward the door. Liz grabbed his arm, and together they ventured out of the bedroom. A few steps out, Mark stopped abruptly.
"Wait… clean up the blood? Roger's blood? We can't."
"But Mark, didn't you already…" Liz trailed off. Filled with trepidation, Mark turned to look at her.
"Yes. Before we took him to the hospital." Frantically, he searched his hands for anywhere that Roger's disease could have entered Mark's body. His right hand was clean; no cuts or scratches to speak of. This was not the case with his left hand, however. Across his knuckles was a small, but fairly deep cut, probably from some random mishap in camera repair.
"But…that doesn't mean you contracted it. It's not guaranteed, you know." Liz's voice was shaky and unconvincing. Mark sank to the floor, and Liz tried again.
"We can go to the clinic. Tomorrow, if you want. You'll see. It's not guaranteed. You might not have even gotten blood on that part of your hand. You'll see. Good luck'll come through for you."
"My luck sucks," retorted Mark bitterly. Liz slid down to the floor next to him and laid her hand on his arm. More silence.
"Mark. It will be okay. I promise."
"Whatever you say," he replied, shrugging dismissively.
"It will." Mark shrugged again and pulled away from her. "Come on." Liz said. "Let's go somewhere."
"I don't want to go anywhere," was Mark's sullen reply.
"Oh, no you don't, Mark Cohen. I'm not going to let you become reclusive. You could never be Roger." A smile flickered fleetingly on Mark's chapped lips for a fraction of a second before falling victim to the cold, distant look of before.
"I'm not going anywhere."
"Yes, you are. You have to get out of the house."
"I will. Eventually."
"Come on, darling. Don't do this. Come for a walk or something. Or we can go to dinner. Or wherever." Liz stood up and grabbed Mark's sweater-clad arms, yanking him to his feet and dragging him toward the door.
Outside, the frigid air cut through their threadbare clothing. Liz shivered, but Mark was too busy brooding to acknowledge that and hug her like a normal person would have done. Liz sighed and gave up on trying to make him show a little affection. They walked in silence for a while, their feet drumming a syncopated, chaotic rhythm on the concrete. Liz wondered if Mark knew where he was going, or if he was just walking for the hell of it.
"Mark, honey." No answer, only an icy silence. "Mark." Nothing. "You have to talk." A blank, empty stare and an increased pace was the response. Liz sighed again; he was hopeless. Mark continued to increase his speed, and the drumming of their feet became more chaotic. Absorbed in her thoughts of making Mark talk, Liz failed to notice that they were approaching a bridge until she started to cross it and saw the sign informing her that she was indeed crossing Williamsburg Bridge. Mark nearly broke into a run as he approached the railing. Liz took a few seconds to figure out what he was doing and then-
"NO! MARK!" She raced to save him before it was too late. Already, he was perched precariously on the edge of the bridge, prepared to jump. As she approached, he said,
"Liz, I have to. You've got to understand. I can't take it. I've lost so much."
"Mark. You don't have to. Maybe you've lost a lot, but be happy with what you still have. You have a girlfriend who cares so much about you, you've got a group of friends who love you, and all of us will support you. We all knew Mimi was going to die soon, and Roger will too. We all will. We are all dying. You know that. You were the one who told me that. But you've got to hang on the life you have left. You have so much, Mark. You are by far one of the best, most talented, dedicated, intelligent people I've ever met. I can't explain to you what you would be throwing away were you to leap from this bridge, but please trust me; it's something precious and irreplaceable. I love you, Mark." For a moment, there was silence. Then, still facing the East River, Mark replied calmly,
"Everyone has always tried to talk me out of the things I felt were the most important things in my life. Every time. This time is no different." He turned and walked back toward the road. "Don't follow me. You'll find me sooner or later."