Mark POV:
Hearing a loud crash, I sit up in bed quickly and slip my glasses on as I glance at the glowing neon digits of the clock next to me. 3:00 a.m.
Cautiously, I rise from my bed and peak my head out of my bedroom – hoping that it's Roger coming home from another late night of partying – instead of one of the burglars or crazed murderers that are situated in this part of the neighborhood.
It's dark though so I can't really make out anything other than the silhouette of a figure sprawled out on the couch and another figure under it, both of them moaning and thrashing about.
I wince as another crash resounds throughout the loft and I realize that it was from the lamp now laying in a thousand broken pieces on the floor.
I sigh. Knowing Roger, it's probably another tramp he picked up in another trashy club. Same thing, different night. Usually I don't interfere with these one-night stands, but in this case, I feel the need to. If I want to keep the furniture in one piece, that is.
"Roger?" I call out quietly.
A loud groan of frustration, two male voices speaking in hushed tones, and an angry, slurred "What the fuck?"
I freeze. The deep baritone was not that of my best friend. Creeping further into the living room I flip on the light switch only to find Roger, half naked, on top of another man – also lacking proper dressing.
Roger squints at the sudden change in lighting and raises a hand over his eyes in an attempt to block some of the vibrant light.
"Mark, shut the fucking light off," he hisses, the man underneath him groaning in frustration as Roger sits up and walks over to me.
"Roger?" I state, my eyes wide. "Who is that?"
"No one. G'back to bed, Mark."
My lips curve downwards into a frown as I take in Roger's appearance and demeanor – dirty, disheveled hair, bloodshot eyes, slurred speech, and stinking of booze. Looking away, I let my gaze travel to his companion still lying on the couch, casually popping a few pills as he waits for Roger to return.
"Roger, who the hell is that?" I hiss, grabbing hold of his arm and pulling him into my bedroom with me.
"Whooaa, Mark," Roger laughs, throwing his head back as he giggles. "I've already gotta date tonight…."
I sigh and glare at Roger angrily. "What are you on?"
"Nothin'," he replies casually, swallowing hard.
"Loverboy!" a deep, gravelly voice calls out from the living room.
Roger grins at me with that hallow expression on his face – the expression that I've come to recognize as his "wasted state" – and retreats from my room without so much as a second glance.
"No," I state, going after him and dragging him back to my room by the arm.
This is too much. Night after night he comes home at ungodly hours of the morning so wasted he can't even see straight. The next day is spent with him in the bathroom, me hovering over his hunched figure as he throws up the drugs, booze, and whatever other shit he forced into his system the night before. It's always the same, each day identical to the previous. Well, I'm not going to let the process start all over again. This time, I'm not leaving without answers.
"Roger, who is that man?"
"What man?" he asks innocently, his frighteningly hollow eyes piercing through my own. The depth of emptiness amazes me. I study him for a good minute or so, trying to decide how to take his statement.
"The man in the living room," I finally say. "On the couch. You know, the one you were undressing?"
And then I see something flicker to life in Roger's eyes. What it is, I can't quite tell. Maybe fear?
"Just a friend." Roger turns away from me and tries once again to retreat to the safety of the living room. But I stand up and block his path before he gets out the door.
"No, Roger, he's not just a friend… You don't make out with friends, you don't undress friends. You don't sleep with friends."
Roger looks at me long and hard before finally giving me one last icy glance and turning on his heel.
"At least I'm getting some," he states before slamming the door shut behind him, the sound reverberating throughout the entire apartment.
I can't sleep for the rest of the night. Whether it's because of the not-so-muffled noises coming from the living room, or the screaming in my own head, I'm not sure. Finally, about three and a half hours later, I hear the front door to the loft slamming shut and I assume it's safe to head out of my room.
I look around the cluttered apartment for Roger but all I find is a yellow piece of paper torn from a notepad that reads:
Mark –
Went out for food. I'll be back in a few hours.
Well, his sentences make sense, and the handwriting is legible. I take this as a good sign. Maybe now that he's sober he'll explain what the hell last night was all about.
In all the years I've known Roger, I've never seen him express interest in another man. Then again, Roger's whole lifestyle these past few months have come as a shock to me. I know that I should confront him about it. I should have a long time ago, but he's almost never sober anymore, and the sweet, gentle, kind Roger I've been friends with for the past eight years is not the same guy who's been living in the loft lately. That Roger is mean, hostile, bitter, and vicious. I'm almost afraid to be around him, afraid of what he'd do to me.
I glance at the note once again, holding it in my palm before setting it down beside the phone again. He's not wasted this morning. For the first time in a long while, Roger is sober, and I'm going to use this situation to my advantage. It's time to confront him about this, and this time I'm not going to let anything get in the way.