(Author's note- I don't own mark, roger, mimi or any of these characters.
Jonathan Larson, (a.k.a GOD) does... So don't sue me.... )
A couple of hours past.
Late afternoon turned to early night.
Neither Mark nor Roger had moved.
Mark finally lifted his hands off his ears.
The light sound of Roger snoring crept to his ears.
He slightly opened the door and peered into the loft where Roger was dead asleep on the couch, holding Mimi's fuzzy coat in his arms. Mark had a sudden flashback from Halloween, of Collins clutching the overcoat Angel gave him for Christmas.
Zipping back to the present, Mark was suddenly aware of the water running onto the floor. Having been lost in his thoughts, he hadn't noticed the faucet left on and the mini-flood declining from the crappy sink. Mark sighed and got to his feet drowsily, turning off the dripping faucet and pulling a drawer open in search of a towel. He pulled out an emaciated washcloth, and something fell out of it and clattered to the cold floor.
Mark, not taking notice of the gentle clang, wiped up the water and threw the soaked washcloth into the bathtub, as if on autopilot. Mark was completely mindless; his only thoughts were on the death of Mimi. He didn't pay attention to anything else, it was all done out of routine. Mark's conscience was occupied with the sinking into the dark corners of his mind, and even that felt fake.
Suddenly, there was a decent cracking sound as Mark stepped on the something that had fallen earlier. He looked down upon the cheap, broken razor. It was one of those crappy plastic disposable razors, and it now lay in several pieces. As inexpensive as it may be, the roommates had no money for a new one. Strange, how Mark's mind was set on the breaking of a razor. He was almost ashamed of himself, for his mind tracking off Mimi's death. And yet, not thinking of her was almost bearable. But, of course as Mark thought of not thinking, it only led him to more thinking of Mimi.
His chest twanged painfully yet again. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, hoping to soothe the wringing of his heart.
He picked up the glistening razor blade from the shattered plastic. He turned it in his fingers, and it cut into his fingertips. A slight stinging sensation was felt, but it didn't hurt.
The single pain Mark felt was his heart ripped apart from Mimi's death. There was no other existing pain.
In fact, Mark thought as he lowered the razor blade to his arm, anything feels better than this internal torture.
He dragged the razor blade across the smooth skin of his inner left forearm, a single, heavy time. After a second, a thin line of blood appeared.
"Mine" whispered Mark to himself. "This is my fault"
And over and over and over again he sliced the razor through his skin, for he was finally in control of something and he could do with it as he pleased. Plus, the sharp burning outer pain coming from his left arm felt enjoyable compared to the burning overload stabbing at his heart.
Finally, Mark Cohen set down the bloody razor and stared at the blood
protruding from the dozens of cuts.
The shiny crimson glistened in the fading light, and Mark was mesmerized. He had never seen anything so beautiful.
He smeared the blood all over his arm, covering every inch of skin.
Mark, in spite of himself, grinned manically, almost proud of himself for the beauty he created.
Catching a glimpse of his delusional smirk in his reflection, Mark suddenly recalled his senses.
"Omigod" he whispered, staring at his bloody arm. What have I done? He thought overdramatically. Then his mind went blank. He stumbled out of the bathroom, pulling on his jacket. "I need to film something" he muttered pointlessly to the sleeping Roger, Then he grabbed his camera and exited the loft.
Stepping outside into the dark, cold January night, Mark wandered the still crowded streets of town. There were still people strolling around, going on with their everyday life.
Mark turned on the camera and began filming "January 13th." He began bitterly. "Close in on everyday people, going on with their pathetic lives and not even giving a damn about Mimi's ... loss. It's not like they even know she's dead. They probably never even knew if she were alive or not. That's what our fucking society has been reduced to. No one gives a shit about anything!"
People were beginning to avoid Mark. He didn't realize how loudly he was speaking.
Mark lowered his voice as he recognized which area of town he was in. "Close in on the Cat Scratch Club." He said quietly, zooming in on the hidden descending concrete staircase. A cheap sign hung from one of the railings, reading "Now Hiring"
(Author's Note- for those you who don't know The Cat Scratch Club was where Mimi worked- it was a saucy little place and she danced – probably a stripper or pole-dancing job- but ... yea... ANYWAY- all of yous who have been sending reviews- KEEP EM COMING! For the few of you who haven't- SEND REVIEWS I live for them.... Thank you and LUV YA ALL)
A couple of hours past.
Late afternoon turned to early night.
Neither Mark nor Roger had moved.
Mark finally lifted his hands off his ears.
The light sound of Roger snoring crept to his ears.
He slightly opened the door and peered into the loft where Roger was dead asleep on the couch, holding Mimi's fuzzy coat in his arms. Mark had a sudden flashback from Halloween, of Collins clutching the overcoat Angel gave him for Christmas.
Zipping back to the present, Mark was suddenly aware of the water running onto the floor. Having been lost in his thoughts, he hadn't noticed the faucet left on and the mini-flood declining from the crappy sink. Mark sighed and got to his feet drowsily, turning off the dripping faucet and pulling a drawer open in search of a towel. He pulled out an emaciated washcloth, and something fell out of it and clattered to the cold floor.
Mark, not taking notice of the gentle clang, wiped up the water and threw the soaked washcloth into the bathtub, as if on autopilot. Mark was completely mindless; his only thoughts were on the death of Mimi. He didn't pay attention to anything else, it was all done out of routine. Mark's conscience was occupied with the sinking into the dark corners of his mind, and even that felt fake.
Suddenly, there was a decent cracking sound as Mark stepped on the something that had fallen earlier. He looked down upon the cheap, broken razor. It was one of those crappy plastic disposable razors, and it now lay in several pieces. As inexpensive as it may be, the roommates had no money for a new one. Strange, how Mark's mind was set on the breaking of a razor. He was almost ashamed of himself, for his mind tracking off Mimi's death. And yet, not thinking of her was almost bearable. But, of course as Mark thought of not thinking, it only led him to more thinking of Mimi.
His chest twanged painfully yet again. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, hoping to soothe the wringing of his heart.
He picked up the glistening razor blade from the shattered plastic. He turned it in his fingers, and it cut into his fingertips. A slight stinging sensation was felt, but it didn't hurt.
The single pain Mark felt was his heart ripped apart from Mimi's death. There was no other existing pain.
In fact, Mark thought as he lowered the razor blade to his arm, anything feels better than this internal torture.
He dragged the razor blade across the smooth skin of his inner left forearm, a single, heavy time. After a second, a thin line of blood appeared.
"Mine" whispered Mark to himself. "This is my fault"
And over and over and over again he sliced the razor through his skin, for he was finally in control of something and he could do with it as he pleased. Plus, the sharp burning outer pain coming from his left arm felt enjoyable compared to the burning overload stabbing at his heart.
Finally, Mark Cohen set down the bloody razor and stared at the blood
protruding from the dozens of cuts.
The shiny crimson glistened in the fading light, and Mark was mesmerized. He had never seen anything so beautiful.
He smeared the blood all over his arm, covering every inch of skin.
Mark, in spite of himself, grinned manically, almost proud of himself for the beauty he created.
Catching a glimpse of his delusional smirk in his reflection, Mark suddenly recalled his senses.
"Omigod" he whispered, staring at his bloody arm. What have I done? He thought overdramatically. Then his mind went blank. He stumbled out of the bathroom, pulling on his jacket. "I need to film something" he muttered pointlessly to the sleeping Roger, Then he grabbed his camera and exited the loft.
Stepping outside into the dark, cold January night, Mark wandered the still crowded streets of town. There were still people strolling around, going on with their everyday life.
Mark turned on the camera and began filming "January 13th." He began bitterly. "Close in on everyday people, going on with their pathetic lives and not even giving a damn about Mimi's ... loss. It's not like they even know she's dead. They probably never even knew if she were alive or not. That's what our fucking society has been reduced to. No one gives a shit about anything!"
People were beginning to avoid Mark. He didn't realize how loudly he was speaking.
Mark lowered his voice as he recognized which area of town he was in. "Close in on the Cat Scratch Club." He said quietly, zooming in on the hidden descending concrete staircase. A cheap sign hung from one of the railings, reading "Now Hiring"
(Author's Note- for those you who don't know The Cat Scratch Club was where Mimi worked- it was a saucy little place and she danced – probably a stripper or pole-dancing job- but ... yea... ANYWAY- all of yous who have been sending reviews- KEEP EM COMING! For the few of you who haven't- SEND REVIEWS I live for them.... Thank you and LUV YA ALL)
