Disclaimers and summary on first chapter
Notes: Sorry again about the lack of updates, but it's tech week for the school musical. I've been getting home around 11:00-11:30 every night and tonight was our first real performance. I'll try to be more frequent after this. Hope you all enjoy!!
Chapter 25 -That's More Than You'd Ever Do For Me-
+Roger's POV+ -one week later-
If only my life were improving, yet it's not. I push Mark further away each day and he doesn't understand why. Every day I think about my secret stash and pray for the courage to do something with it. Toss it, use it. . . just fucking get rid of it. Heroin has me in its fucking palm.
I sit next to my guitar case on the floor, holding my knees up to my body. Mark reaches out for me but I pull away. He drops his arm in frustration and stands up.
"What is wrong with you, Roger?"
I want to blame him, anything. I want something to give me a reason for what I'm contemplating.
"Roger? Rog?" Mark's voice is small, almost inaudible. I'm scaring him. I stare at one place on the floor, ignoring him. He sits in front of me and grabs hold of my shoulders, shaking me gently.
"Are you on something?"
Not yet. I look over at the case, in my mind begging for Mark to leave, I need it now. I feel my veins burning, the pain already dying at the thought of having it. I look back up at Mark. His eyes are wide in fear and concern. I don't know how long ago he asked the question, but I shake my head at him now. He tries to take my hands but I pull them away angrily.
"Leave me alone, Mark!" I bellow, pushing him away roughly.
Someone knocks on the door a moment or so later. Collins opens the door and comes inside. His face is stern, but he's not really angry, not yet.
"Is there a problem?" He looks at Mark questioningly. Mark swallows and shakes his head.
"He's fine, Collins. We're just. . ."
"Are you ok?" He asks him, before turning to glare at me.
"I'm fine. It's alright."
Maureen pushes the door open the rest of the way.
"What happened? I heard Roger yelling." She says, her eyes burning into mine. She goes over to Mark and puts her hands protectively on his shoulders.
"What did you do to him?" She asks, her voice low and angry.
I stand up slowly, my hands shaking as I think about how close it is, yet unattainable at the moment. I start to walk out of the room.
"Roger, no! Where are you going?" I hear Mark cry out.
I shrug. It doesn't matter. They don't follow me out of the room. I approach the door leading to the hallway and spot not only Mark's but Collins's coats on the floor. Cautiously, but quickly in case they decide to follow, I kneel on the floor and quickly shift through their pockets. I find only two singles in Mark's coat, but in Collins's I find eleven dollars. Thirteen altogether, my new lucky number. It's mine now. I run down the stairs, going a lot faster than I'm sure is healthy for me. Halfway down I realize my needle, my stuff, is still in my guitar case. Praying The Man has an extra, and he's feeling generous I continue on.
He stands on his usual corner, like some sort of gleaming beacon of godly light. My relief. Why did I ever give this up? If only for that natural rush when I think about it, it's worth it. He sees me and casually waves me over. I think I've missed that gesture.
"What'll be, cutiepie? Do we have money this time?" I see that typical horrible glaze come over his eyes.
I dig in my pocket and triumphantly hold up my thirteen dollars.
"Well, that'll buy you something. But I but you don't have anything to put it in."
I take step backwards when he winks at me. Not that, no. . .
"Oh relax, boy. I just want you to blow something up for me."
I watch his eyes hesitantly, then step back towards him and he gestures toward the alley. I stare at his pocket hungrily. In the alley he pushes down on my shoulders as he leans against the wall. I'm not really happy to do this or anything, but if it'll get me a little bit of life I'm more than willing.
I've never really liked the feeling of it in my mouth. It's awkward, uncomfortable and just tastes generally strange. He pushes my head too far and I gag. I hate that. I hate feeling his hand on my head, in my hair. I hate the painful tightening of his fingers and the sharp intake of breath above me. I hate most of all that he drops the bag on the ground and I can feel his semen on the side of my face. I feel on the ground beside me. He left everything I needed. I gather it to my chest hurriedly and start to stand up. I take a bad step and slip and fall forward. Terrified, shaking, I look down but it's fine. I'm fine.
I hear him before I see him. I hear his footsteps, I see him kneel beside me. He reaches in front of me and picks up the bag. I see his hand shaking in anger. I've never known him to be this angry before. I find myself cringing, moving away, something I've seen him do so many times if I or anyone else is angry. I swallow and look up at him, any pride or joy gone from me completely.
"What did you see?" I ask him softly, frightened. I would never want him to know. I don't want him to see what I do for heroin, what it does to me. His eyes, his pale, blue eyes that are always so warm, that I've always found my comfort in, are hard and cold. Ice. His glare chills me more than the air out here. Judging me, hating me.
"Everything." He says quietly, in a voice I've never heard. It's far more dangerous than if it were loud. I understand yelling, I understand a loud, angry voice and what it signifies. But someone who's quiet when they're angry, who's soft, low voice gives me more fear than guilt or grief, I don't. And this from Mark. I've never been afraid of him before, I've never had a reason to be.
"What you do for this, Roger." He says, holding the bag up. "I want to believe that it owns you, that it makes you do these things." He shakes his head. "But you're willing to do it. You are willing to steal, lie, degrade yourself for this." He throws it on the ground. "That's more than you'd ever do for me."
"No! No it's not. I gave it up for you, Mark!" I cry, reaching for him. He roughly pushes me away.
"No you didn't!" His voice rises briefly, but he composes himself and continues in the same soft tone. "What are you doing now, Roger? What is this in front of you? You stole form me, from Collins, you lied to me."
He sighs and I see his anger crack briefly. Our eyes connect and I know his pain, I know how much I've hurt him. He looks away a moment later.
"I want you gone." I look up at him in shock. "Let me be, Roger. I can't have you do this to me anymore. Please just leave me now. Just let me be."
"But. . ."
"You can only hurt me so many times and this time I think it's a lot more permanent. Please be gone tomorrow."
+++
Notes Continued: I'm sorry it's a short, downer chapter. I'm going to try to post the new one tomorrow or Sunday, depending on how my musical filled days go. Until then, enjoy and thank you for reading.
Notes: Sorry again about the lack of updates, but it's tech week for the school musical. I've been getting home around 11:00-11:30 every night and tonight was our first real performance. I'll try to be more frequent after this. Hope you all enjoy!!
Chapter 25 -That's More Than You'd Ever Do For Me-
+Roger's POV+ -one week later-
If only my life were improving, yet it's not. I push Mark further away each day and he doesn't understand why. Every day I think about my secret stash and pray for the courage to do something with it. Toss it, use it. . . just fucking get rid of it. Heroin has me in its fucking palm.
I sit next to my guitar case on the floor, holding my knees up to my body. Mark reaches out for me but I pull away. He drops his arm in frustration and stands up.
"What is wrong with you, Roger?"
I want to blame him, anything. I want something to give me a reason for what I'm contemplating.
"Roger? Rog?" Mark's voice is small, almost inaudible. I'm scaring him. I stare at one place on the floor, ignoring him. He sits in front of me and grabs hold of my shoulders, shaking me gently.
"Are you on something?"
Not yet. I look over at the case, in my mind begging for Mark to leave, I need it now. I feel my veins burning, the pain already dying at the thought of having it. I look back up at Mark. His eyes are wide in fear and concern. I don't know how long ago he asked the question, but I shake my head at him now. He tries to take my hands but I pull them away angrily.
"Leave me alone, Mark!" I bellow, pushing him away roughly.
Someone knocks on the door a moment or so later. Collins opens the door and comes inside. His face is stern, but he's not really angry, not yet.
"Is there a problem?" He looks at Mark questioningly. Mark swallows and shakes his head.
"He's fine, Collins. We're just. . ."
"Are you ok?" He asks him, before turning to glare at me.
"I'm fine. It's alright."
Maureen pushes the door open the rest of the way.
"What happened? I heard Roger yelling." She says, her eyes burning into mine. She goes over to Mark and puts her hands protectively on his shoulders.
"What did you do to him?" She asks, her voice low and angry.
I stand up slowly, my hands shaking as I think about how close it is, yet unattainable at the moment. I start to walk out of the room.
"Roger, no! Where are you going?" I hear Mark cry out.
I shrug. It doesn't matter. They don't follow me out of the room. I approach the door leading to the hallway and spot not only Mark's but Collins's coats on the floor. Cautiously, but quickly in case they decide to follow, I kneel on the floor and quickly shift through their pockets. I find only two singles in Mark's coat, but in Collins's I find eleven dollars. Thirteen altogether, my new lucky number. It's mine now. I run down the stairs, going a lot faster than I'm sure is healthy for me. Halfway down I realize my needle, my stuff, is still in my guitar case. Praying The Man has an extra, and he's feeling generous I continue on.
He stands on his usual corner, like some sort of gleaming beacon of godly light. My relief. Why did I ever give this up? If only for that natural rush when I think about it, it's worth it. He sees me and casually waves me over. I think I've missed that gesture.
"What'll be, cutiepie? Do we have money this time?" I see that typical horrible glaze come over his eyes.
I dig in my pocket and triumphantly hold up my thirteen dollars.
"Well, that'll buy you something. But I but you don't have anything to put it in."
I take step backwards when he winks at me. Not that, no. . .
"Oh relax, boy. I just want you to blow something up for me."
I watch his eyes hesitantly, then step back towards him and he gestures toward the alley. I stare at his pocket hungrily. In the alley he pushes down on my shoulders as he leans against the wall. I'm not really happy to do this or anything, but if it'll get me a little bit of life I'm more than willing.
I've never really liked the feeling of it in my mouth. It's awkward, uncomfortable and just tastes generally strange. He pushes my head too far and I gag. I hate that. I hate feeling his hand on my head, in my hair. I hate the painful tightening of his fingers and the sharp intake of breath above me. I hate most of all that he drops the bag on the ground and I can feel his semen on the side of my face. I feel on the ground beside me. He left everything I needed. I gather it to my chest hurriedly and start to stand up. I take a bad step and slip and fall forward. Terrified, shaking, I look down but it's fine. I'm fine.
I hear him before I see him. I hear his footsteps, I see him kneel beside me. He reaches in front of me and picks up the bag. I see his hand shaking in anger. I've never known him to be this angry before. I find myself cringing, moving away, something I've seen him do so many times if I or anyone else is angry. I swallow and look up at him, any pride or joy gone from me completely.
"What did you see?" I ask him softly, frightened. I would never want him to know. I don't want him to see what I do for heroin, what it does to me. His eyes, his pale, blue eyes that are always so warm, that I've always found my comfort in, are hard and cold. Ice. His glare chills me more than the air out here. Judging me, hating me.
"Everything." He says quietly, in a voice I've never heard. It's far more dangerous than if it were loud. I understand yelling, I understand a loud, angry voice and what it signifies. But someone who's quiet when they're angry, who's soft, low voice gives me more fear than guilt or grief, I don't. And this from Mark. I've never been afraid of him before, I've never had a reason to be.
"What you do for this, Roger." He says, holding the bag up. "I want to believe that it owns you, that it makes you do these things." He shakes his head. "But you're willing to do it. You are willing to steal, lie, degrade yourself for this." He throws it on the ground. "That's more than you'd ever do for me."
"No! No it's not. I gave it up for you, Mark!" I cry, reaching for him. He roughly pushes me away.
"No you didn't!" His voice rises briefly, but he composes himself and continues in the same soft tone. "What are you doing now, Roger? What is this in front of you? You stole form me, from Collins, you lied to me."
He sighs and I see his anger crack briefly. Our eyes connect and I know his pain, I know how much I've hurt him. He looks away a moment later.
"I want you gone." I look up at him in shock. "Let me be, Roger. I can't have you do this to me anymore. Please just leave me now. Just let me be."
"But. . ."
"You can only hurt me so many times and this time I think it's a lot more permanent. Please be gone tomorrow."
+++
Notes Continued: I'm sorry it's a short, downer chapter. I'm going to try to post the new one tomorrow or Sunday, depending on how my musical filled days go. Until then, enjoy and thank you for reading.