Electric Taped You
Scan, close in on a young man. He stood on the street corner, fingering the edge of the grey threadbare sweatshirt that hung off his skinny frame, making him look like the skeleton he was. He wasn't wearing shoes, either. The cold sidewalks of New York stung his feet as he walked. A brisk October wind swept through the streets, chilling him to the bone. He shivered slightly. The sweatshirt did very little to keep him warm but he wore it anyway. That's the kind of person he is.
The city. The city looked like a movie even without Mark's assistance. No one needed Mark's assistance. He was a useless pawn. Roger... Roger need Mark. Screen partners. Together, playing off eachother like the moon plays off the sun. Light and dark. Mark was the night. Have ccovered in the shadows he stood, always. Spotlight only catching half of his pale face, the light reflecting off his glasses and back into oblivion.
There was nowhere to go. Nobody to see, no one who Mark wanted contact with. Maureen... Maureen tormented him beyond her worldly comprehension. The one person he opened up to, he let himself love, let himself be free. She cast him away as if he were nothing. That's what he was after all, nothing.
He didn't know why he went out. So his mind would clear and he could stop thinking altogther? Perhaps. To get away from what his life was meant to be? Maybe. To avoid the slip, fall, breakdown? Defintly.
Focus on Mark's only choice. Apartment, cold. Cold and dark. Watch Mark be illuminated. The door creaked when he opened it. Normally, he would have made some idle comment to himself about getting it fixed. It didn't matter much now. No one came by anymore.
Mark said, giving up on any sort of pretense or calling notion. He heard a mumble come from the other room. He pulled his sweatshirt up over his head, knocking his glasses askew. Vision blurred. View the empty room. View the full room. View the room full of the two empty boys. View the room empty without the full boys. He adjusted them as necessary and minced his way to where Roger was.
Close up. Mark's friend. Mark's only friend. Mark's only anchor, Mark's only hope, Mark's only life. A skinny blonde with fading heroin tracks. Watch his face as he plays, watch his concentration. Watch his ignorance. Watch Mark try.
Mark sat on the floor.
Where were you?
Roger plucked out a dismal tune on his guitar. Girls always did love the boys in bands. You're getting more sullen then me you know that? Mark smiled weakly. He avoided this place for reasons like this. Pull back. Mark's skeleton shrinks. He could already feel the ground shift beneath him. He took hold of a nearby chairleg. You okay Mark? Roger stopped strumming, watching Mark pale. Darkness, fading in on darkness, zoom in on my empty life, empty... empty empty. Mark put two hands on the chairleg. Pan left, close on... Mark. Mark's failure. Mark's uselessness. Focus on Roger... Roger's witnessing. Roger's panicking. Mark's panicking. Mark's over. It's over Mark... over, over, over.
Roger threw the guitar down on the bed and ran next to his companion. He watched his pupils dilate in size as he stared at a dark spot on the carpet.
Mark said thinly, surrealy. Montage. Montage of scenes, montage of black, of nothing. Montage of Roger, wasted Roger. Montage of Maureen...een...een. No one wants to see a montage of Mark, shot through those coke bottle glasses. Mark could create, Mark could visualize. Visualize Mark, imagine that. He could feel a distant shape of Roger hunch over him and pry his cold hands from the chair.
Close in on Roger's guitar. Watch it play itself, away from such hands.
Mark, calm down. There's nothing here. Here? Everything's here. All the memories, all the losses, all the gains. Surronded every day by reminders of them. There's where they... Mark lifted his hand and gestured vaguely to a corner. And remember when Collins... he swiftly moved his hand to the otherside, almost knocking Roger in the face. And that's when... oh that was funny. Mark laughed bitterly in spite of himself. Okay Mark, you're beginning to scare me. Confusion. This had happened before, Roger had been there before. And then the world pieced together again. He watched as the walls flew in from all angles, forming the room he had previously been sitting in. He watched the light grow and grow until it bathed the room in that milky color.
Hold on Mark.
I'm fine. Mark said, in that same ethreal voice. He wasn't concious of what he was saying anymore. It spilled out of his lips as he mind slipped puzzle pieces back together. Close up on Roger. Mark notices things. Mark notices Roger's worried eyes. Mark's imagination plays quietly in his subconcious.
Are you sure? You seemed pretty edgy back there.
Mark's pupils shrunk in the needed light. Focus on Mark's hands. Mark's empty, empty hands. Empty... no, full. He walked back to the kitchen and filled his loneliness with the camera. Mark wasn't really there. It was that witty camera man, you know him, the happy one. He listened to the whirr of the machine and felt it vibrate in his hands.
Close on Roger. Smile. He zoomed in on Roger. He saw Roger, not a person, not a friend, just Roger. The grainy color seemed better suited to his eyes. Roger ignored his comment and gave him a sideways glance as he picked up his guitar. Zoom in on the guitar. It shimmers in the white light. The same lines repeat in his head. You okay Mark... okay... mark.. you... mark... okay... mark... you. Mark. Okay.
A faint smile played on Mark's lips. Cheerful Mark, he could keep it together. He was attached. He filmed the empty corners of the rooms where people once stood. Maureen could laugh all she wanted. He was away now, he didn't have to deal with them and go back to be Mark. Mark Cohen. The prodigal failure. The black whole. Zoom in on Mark's nose dive.
A/N: yes I wrote this without the aid of drugs. I wrote this on sleep deprivation and the continued rewriting it. Over and over. I told you all I was taking a break from humor. Now excuse me, my brain is going to go repeat words to itself.