Dedication: To my real life Mark. If you're reading this… I love you. I was an idiot. A fucking moron to treat you like that. What the story says is true: You can't push your friends away forever. You're my Mark, please don't leave, I swear things will be different… I miss you and I love you.
He knew he could not get away with pushing his friends away forever. He knew that a day would come where he would scream too loud, hit too hard, cry too much, get too wasted… And Mark would leave for good. Perhaps there was a section of his brain that, as scared of abandonment as he was, believed that Mark would stay by his side forever.
Maybe it was this part of his mind that convinced him to sneak out that night, wandering, shrouded by a hooded jacket and his own shame, into St. Mark's Place to look for an old friend. A friend more trustworthy than Mark, he reasoned to himself after yet another one of their infamous fights.
"Well, well, well…" came the familiar snarl. "What'll it be, Cutiepie?"
Scowling at the familiar nickname, Roger reached into his pocket, pulling out several bills, shoving them into the stranger's grimy hand. Not even bothering to say what it was he wanted, for he knew that The Man knew all too well by now.
Receiving his poison, the former musician traced his steps back to his loft apartment in the dead of night so as not to be caught by his suspicious friend. He should have known better… Looking back, he realized he should have known that Mark would be awake, sitting and waiting for him on the kitchen table that doubled as a sofa.
"Where were you?" came the quiet, bitter voice as the musician stumbled through the mahogany doorframe. Getting up after the spill and looking away from his friend. It was none of his business, Roger's mind rationalized. He didn't need to know everything that went on with him. He didn't yet notice, in his altered state of mind, the bulging duffel bags that sat by Mark's feet under the table.
Hopping off of the wooden frame, the filmmaker approached Roger slowly and cautiously, already knowing what he would find when he looked into his friend's eyes. The hollow, dead look he had grown so used to over the years. The "fuck you", "leave me alone", "I'm fine" look that he grew to hate more and more with each passing day.
"You can only push so far, Roger," was all Mark said, tears choking his voice, as he retreated to the table to grab his things.
Finally realizing what was going on, Roger snapped into some sense of reality and lunged after his friend.
"What?! No… What are you doing? Where are you going?"
"Staying with Collins until I find my own place," came the bitter reply. Filled with remorse, yet determination.
"But… You swore, you fucking swore you would be different!" Roger screamed, referring to his ex-girlfriend who had left him alone with only the AIDS virus, tears filling his own eyes.
"Yeah, well you swore you would be different too. You can only push someone so far, Rog," he repeated, tearing his eyes away from the pitiful, shaking frame, "before they're gone for good." And with that, he slammed the door to the loft, his last words resonating throughout the entire room as Roger was left alone for the final time.