Disclaimers and summary on first chapter
Notes: I meant to post this sooner, but I got myself a little sick over the weekend, so it's a wee bit delayed. I apologize. Hope you enjoy anyway and thank you all for reviewing and/or reading!
Chapter 23 -Nothing Was Sacred-
+Roger's POV+
I open my eyes, blinking against the sun, and look down at Mark. He lies on his side, his head resting on my shoulder, my arm underneath and around him. Gently I kiss his forehead, then slowly move away from him and slip out from underneath the blankets.
Standing next to the bed I look back over at him. He shifted only slightly, but his face remains serene, pleasant. He's beautiful when he sleeps. Or anytime, I suppose. I feel a smile playing along my lips and I let it come, feeling comforted as it spreads over my face. Mark has always made me smile, even when he doesn't realize he's doing it. I look over at Maureen's bed, but it's empty. Her being the only one of us who actually has a job, as a waitress, she must be at work. Or else spent the night with her boyfriend again. There's a new one this week.
I walk over to my guitar case and open it. True to his word Mark had bought me strings for my guitar yesterday, I'm in the mood to try them out. I lift the guitar out of the case when something catches my eye.
There's what looks like the tip of a zip lock bag sticking out of the pocket. I set the guitar on the floor and hesitantly reach for it, my hand shaking. Please let it not be. . .
But it is. There isn't a lot, but enough for a good hit. This was not in here when I lost it, I know it wasn't. But. . .
I reach further in the pocket and sure enough, my needle is in there, all the stuff I left is still there, intact. Shit.
I want desperately to say I'm not tempted. I want to believe that I want to flush this stuff, but if I said those things, I'd be lying to myself. I pull the baggie all the way out and grasp it with both hands, holding it up, willing it to be meaningless to me. Frustrated, disappointed I throw it in the case and fold my arms across my chest. This isn't supposed to happen! Mark is supposed to be enough for me. He got me clean, even though we both went through hell for it. To do this is to betray him. Betray him far worse than I've ever done before, I think. I really can't.
I look back at the little bag. Why did I start this? If I had just stopped to think, if I hadn't went to April in tears because I missed Mark, because my band had just broken up, because I was lonely. If only I had thought about what that one little hit would do to me. That I would spend the next few years of my life devoted only to heroin and heroin alone. Nothing was sacred, nothing was important, only my drug. My life. I glare at the bag. My life inside a bag.
I wish I could blame this all on April. Say it's her fault for thinking this shit would help. Hate her for killing herself and leaving me to deal with all of this on my own, but I should have known better, and honestly, I think I did. What kind of friend was April, really? She never had Mark's devotion; he'd do anything for me, and me for him. Maureen was a better friend than her. Maureen used to make me laugh, before she started to hate me for taking Mark from her. But April. . .
I remember when I first met April, in freshman year. She was the same age as me, but she always seemed somehow older. Maybe just more experienced. I had thought she was beautiful, even then. Her attitude intrigued me, the way she didn't care about anyone, or anything. Detached, aloof. I had never met a person like her. Her lifestyle had at first fascinated me. She drank all the time, smoked pot, did lines and I'd heard rumours that she slept around. I'd never even heard of half of the things she did. It didn't seem so glamourous when she'd show up to class so drunk she couldn't walk straight, or when I'd see her nonchalantly rubbing the stray powder off of her nose before school, or in the hallways. When she was suspended for two weeks with some other people for possession of marijuana I almost lost interest. But then she talked to me.
She said she'd heard from some people that I played guitar and that she knew of a band from another school that was looking for a new lead guitarist. But, she had said with a casual smirk on her face, she just didn't know if I was 'cool enough' to do it. She offered to bring me out with her friends after school, but knowing what her and her friends did I turned her down, saying I wasn't interested in drugs. Surprising me beyond belief she had given me a somewhat sinister half smile and said it was cool, I didn't have to do anything I didn't want to.
I used to tease Mark for worshipping Maureen, but in all honesty, I was the same way with April. She came on to me a couple times, but I usually just brushed her off, I felt that I could avoid her rubbing off on me if we were friends, but if we got any closer I'd probably be more tempted.
I stare at the bag. Looks like she won out after all. There was a time I loved this more than anything. More than Mark. As much as I thought that time had passed, now that I'm staring the problem in the face I'm starting to doubt myself. I will myself to look back over at Mark.
The sight of his face, his peaceful, trusting face, helps. I think of what he's done for me, how much he's already forgiven and know I can't get away with much more. He'll only take me back so many times, and I only have so much pride.
I remember my ultimate low points. All I had then was my pride, my dignity. I shake my head now, knowing none of that was real. If I had had either I wouldn't have needed heroin. I wouldn't need heroin now.
I pick up the bag cautiously and stuff it back in the pocket, all the way down. I wish I could bring myself to get rid of it. I look back at my guitar. Suddenly I'm no longer in the mood to play. I lay it back in the case, and close it.
I stand up and leave the room. There doesn't appear to be anyone else around so I walk over to the table and hop up onto it. I don't really like being around Mark's roommates, no matter how welcoming Collins is. Benny's an asshole and Maureen's being a real bitch about me being here. I smirk slightly. If Collins knew what I was contemplating only a couple minutes before his mood wouldn't be too different from theirs. I frown. And Mark's wouldn't be either.
Is this what it's done to me? I'm not even the same person I was before. I remember vaguely my old self, what I stood for, what I enjoyed, what got me through the day. Who I am now barely compares. I stand for nothing; I'd probably give up everything for one more hit. What do I enjoy? It's not my vinyl or spending the day in the city with Mark anymore. It's not even my guitar. It's remembering that blissful feeling I got the first couple times I shot up. That was all that got me through the day.
I'm so much more bitter, unforgiving. Of myself, of everything. I'm blaming heroin, I'm blaming April, I should be blaming myself and my inability to ask for help. Why don't I just tell Mark I found the heroin? Tell him I need him to help me get rid of it. He'd do it, he'd be proud of me for asking, for telling him. The idea seems appealing. I close my eyes against the image of the needle sliding into a scarred vein. That warm, soothing feeling as it drifts through my veins. Knowing it would help, trusting it. I shake my head, finally letting it fall into my hands. Don't think about it, don't ever think about it. Tell Mark. Tell Mark now. Tell him you need help.
"Roger? You ok?" I hear his voice, I see him standing in his doorway, his hair disheveled, wearing only a pair of pajama pants. He smiles sleepily.
Tell him.
I return the smile, sliding off the table.
"No, I'm fine, Mark."
+++
Notes Continued: Oh, bad Roger! Kind of a rambling chapter, sorry. Hope it gave you all a little more insight to the Roger/April relationship. Thanks for reading!
Notes: I meant to post this sooner, but I got myself a little sick over the weekend, so it's a wee bit delayed. I apologize. Hope you enjoy anyway and thank you all for reviewing and/or reading!
Chapter 23 -Nothing Was Sacred-
+Roger's POV+
I open my eyes, blinking against the sun, and look down at Mark. He lies on his side, his head resting on my shoulder, my arm underneath and around him. Gently I kiss his forehead, then slowly move away from him and slip out from underneath the blankets.
Standing next to the bed I look back over at him. He shifted only slightly, but his face remains serene, pleasant. He's beautiful when he sleeps. Or anytime, I suppose. I feel a smile playing along my lips and I let it come, feeling comforted as it spreads over my face. Mark has always made me smile, even when he doesn't realize he's doing it. I look over at Maureen's bed, but it's empty. Her being the only one of us who actually has a job, as a waitress, she must be at work. Or else spent the night with her boyfriend again. There's a new one this week.
I walk over to my guitar case and open it. True to his word Mark had bought me strings for my guitar yesterday, I'm in the mood to try them out. I lift the guitar out of the case when something catches my eye.
There's what looks like the tip of a zip lock bag sticking out of the pocket. I set the guitar on the floor and hesitantly reach for it, my hand shaking. Please let it not be. . .
But it is. There isn't a lot, but enough for a good hit. This was not in here when I lost it, I know it wasn't. But. . .
I reach further in the pocket and sure enough, my needle is in there, all the stuff I left is still there, intact. Shit.
I want desperately to say I'm not tempted. I want to believe that I want to flush this stuff, but if I said those things, I'd be lying to myself. I pull the baggie all the way out and grasp it with both hands, holding it up, willing it to be meaningless to me. Frustrated, disappointed I throw it in the case and fold my arms across my chest. This isn't supposed to happen! Mark is supposed to be enough for me. He got me clean, even though we both went through hell for it. To do this is to betray him. Betray him far worse than I've ever done before, I think. I really can't.
I look back at the little bag. Why did I start this? If I had just stopped to think, if I hadn't went to April in tears because I missed Mark, because my band had just broken up, because I was lonely. If only I had thought about what that one little hit would do to me. That I would spend the next few years of my life devoted only to heroin and heroin alone. Nothing was sacred, nothing was important, only my drug. My life. I glare at the bag. My life inside a bag.
I wish I could blame this all on April. Say it's her fault for thinking this shit would help. Hate her for killing herself and leaving me to deal with all of this on my own, but I should have known better, and honestly, I think I did. What kind of friend was April, really? She never had Mark's devotion; he'd do anything for me, and me for him. Maureen was a better friend than her. Maureen used to make me laugh, before she started to hate me for taking Mark from her. But April. . .
I remember when I first met April, in freshman year. She was the same age as me, but she always seemed somehow older. Maybe just more experienced. I had thought she was beautiful, even then. Her attitude intrigued me, the way she didn't care about anyone, or anything. Detached, aloof. I had never met a person like her. Her lifestyle had at first fascinated me. She drank all the time, smoked pot, did lines and I'd heard rumours that she slept around. I'd never even heard of half of the things she did. It didn't seem so glamourous when she'd show up to class so drunk she couldn't walk straight, or when I'd see her nonchalantly rubbing the stray powder off of her nose before school, or in the hallways. When she was suspended for two weeks with some other people for possession of marijuana I almost lost interest. But then she talked to me.
She said she'd heard from some people that I played guitar and that she knew of a band from another school that was looking for a new lead guitarist. But, she had said with a casual smirk on her face, she just didn't know if I was 'cool enough' to do it. She offered to bring me out with her friends after school, but knowing what her and her friends did I turned her down, saying I wasn't interested in drugs. Surprising me beyond belief she had given me a somewhat sinister half smile and said it was cool, I didn't have to do anything I didn't want to.
I used to tease Mark for worshipping Maureen, but in all honesty, I was the same way with April. She came on to me a couple times, but I usually just brushed her off, I felt that I could avoid her rubbing off on me if we were friends, but if we got any closer I'd probably be more tempted.
I stare at the bag. Looks like she won out after all. There was a time I loved this more than anything. More than Mark. As much as I thought that time had passed, now that I'm staring the problem in the face I'm starting to doubt myself. I will myself to look back over at Mark.
The sight of his face, his peaceful, trusting face, helps. I think of what he's done for me, how much he's already forgiven and know I can't get away with much more. He'll only take me back so many times, and I only have so much pride.
I remember my ultimate low points. All I had then was my pride, my dignity. I shake my head now, knowing none of that was real. If I had had either I wouldn't have needed heroin. I wouldn't need heroin now.
I pick up the bag cautiously and stuff it back in the pocket, all the way down. I wish I could bring myself to get rid of it. I look back at my guitar. Suddenly I'm no longer in the mood to play. I lay it back in the case, and close it.
I stand up and leave the room. There doesn't appear to be anyone else around so I walk over to the table and hop up onto it. I don't really like being around Mark's roommates, no matter how welcoming Collins is. Benny's an asshole and Maureen's being a real bitch about me being here. I smirk slightly. If Collins knew what I was contemplating only a couple minutes before his mood wouldn't be too different from theirs. I frown. And Mark's wouldn't be either.
Is this what it's done to me? I'm not even the same person I was before. I remember vaguely my old self, what I stood for, what I enjoyed, what got me through the day. Who I am now barely compares. I stand for nothing; I'd probably give up everything for one more hit. What do I enjoy? It's not my vinyl or spending the day in the city with Mark anymore. It's not even my guitar. It's remembering that blissful feeling I got the first couple times I shot up. That was all that got me through the day.
I'm so much more bitter, unforgiving. Of myself, of everything. I'm blaming heroin, I'm blaming April, I should be blaming myself and my inability to ask for help. Why don't I just tell Mark I found the heroin? Tell him I need him to help me get rid of it. He'd do it, he'd be proud of me for asking, for telling him. The idea seems appealing. I close my eyes against the image of the needle sliding into a scarred vein. That warm, soothing feeling as it drifts through my veins. Knowing it would help, trusting it. I shake my head, finally letting it fall into my hands. Don't think about it, don't ever think about it. Tell Mark. Tell Mark now. Tell him you need help.
"Roger? You ok?" I hear his voice, I see him standing in his doorway, his hair disheveled, wearing only a pair of pajama pants. He smiles sleepily.
Tell him.
I return the smile, sliding off the table.
"No, I'm fine, Mark."
+++
Notes Continued: Oh, bad Roger! Kind of a rambling chapter, sorry. Hope it gave you all a little more insight to the Roger/April relationship. Thanks for reading!