Okay,

Okay, finished Chapter 3 (it's kinda short). I apologize for the delay, but this past week I moved back to college and tackled my first week of classes. Good news is that I've got ethernet now and like to use writing as a break in-between reading my textbooks. I went back and added another paragraph in Chapter 2 (thanks linnell - I looked back and found that transition a bit fast myself).

I have actually written Chapter 4 as well, but am looking for a beta-reader, since I have just realized that I truly plan on tackling several points-of-view here (great writing exercise, I tell myself). If anyone would be interested in helping me out in both the grammer sense and the help-me-stay-true-to-character sense, drop me a line at JenR13@aol.com. It would be very much appreciated.

In conclusion, I have also decided even writing third person Roger point of view is hard and envy those who write him so well. But I always liked a challenge. :)

Disclaimer: All characters belong to Jonathan Larson. I am just taking them for a wild trip, after I will return them in (hopefully) one piece. :)

Chapter 3:
It could be . . .

He'd gotten into another fight with the band. Seemed all they did was fight over this, that. Same old shit.

He really didn't care much these days. Get high and forget about it. Everything was okay then.

Sometimes he stopped and thought, "fuck."

It wasn't often. April was part of his world; they enjoyed each other's company, and Mark was finally off his back thanks to his complete and utter infatuation with Maureen. He didn't care much for her, but hell, if it kept Mark from demanding explanations she could stay forever.

He was being a shitty friend. He knew, deep down he guessed, but preferred not to think about it. Back to smack. April. The band.

The band.

Surprisingly he'd been coherent during the fight with the band; maybe that was his downfall. Lately he'd become so accustomed to functioning while high that he had forgotten how not to.

He almost laughed at his realization as he fumbled with the rusted lock. A cigarette. He needed a cigarette. That would do for the moment.

It was quiet. Not completely unusual for the time of day, but for some reason it felt eerie.

You're losing it, Davis. It's the fucking loft, for god's sake. He lifted his trembling hand to his hair. Where was he?

Oh yeah. Cigarette.

He walked over to their kitchen "area." If he bothered to look down, he would have had warning. Been tipped off.

If he looked down.

Nope, needed matches. The kitchen held no matches. Why he went to the bathroom for matches was something he didn't think about.

Water.

The floor was wet. He noticed when his foot slid across the tiles, the sole of his shoe sending him three feet further than his original position.

The bathtub was red.

Water wasn't red.

A quick turn to his right revealed more red. Smeared across the mirror. Formed words.

Words.

Two hit his brain. No matter how fucked up he was, the message was clear. Simple. His mind refused to understand.

April. AIDS.

The scream for a fix entered his mind, but instead he sat down. The water completely covered the floor. He sat in it. His hands trembled; he wanted to erase it from the mirror.

Fuck.

Where was April?

He shook himself from the mirror to glance. Red tub. Filled with water.

No April.

What the fuck happened? Was happening? The message, the red, the water, the empty loft, the damn matches, the needle that could make jumbled things make sense in his top drawer . . .

He ended up back at the mirror. The long cursive strokes.

Roger.

I'm sorry.

The door slammed. Footsteps.

He didn't turn. Didn't move. It was red, red everywhere. Red, just red, staining the water, the floor, his mind.

"Roger."

Nothing entered his mind. Maybe he heard Mark. He knew it was Mark. He was aware of his trembling hands, sweaty palms, the phone ringing in the background . . .

"What did the doctor say?"

We've got AIDS.

"And?"

I'm sorry.

" . . . April . . ."

Her name broke through his thoughts. He turned. Mark stood a few feet from the bathroom door, the phone stretched to its limit. Perfectly in Roger's view, as if he was afraid to let him out of his sight.

April . . .

"Roger?"

The mirror. Was it true? Where was April? He wanted to form words, to run away from the mirror's message, but its haunting tale remained.

It could be his fault.

The thought entered his mind before he could even blink. He had been using longer than she had, despite what everyone thought. The idea of disease never really came into play. He hated doctors. Hated. Never went. All this time, he could be the carrier of bad news.

It would be easy to blame it on April. Let everyone blame it on April.

God, April . . .

Was she?

She couldn't . . .

"She's at the hospital, Roger." He heard Mark. But he didn't turn. Instead, he stared. There was no feeling. Shock. Numb.

No feeling.

AIDS.

April.

Red.

What happened? If he listened perhaps Mark could tell him. But listening wasn't top on his list at the moment. Staring.

Thinking about the possibilities and the situation.

It could be his fault.

End of Chapter Three.

Like it? Hate it? Reviews appreciated.