It could be . . .
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.
