Disclaimer: I do not own, nor am I affiliated with RENT. Story is most
definitely rated R and not for the kiddies or close-minded.
Notes: Thanks for the awesome reviews guys, you really rock.
And note to MistressFlame: But melodrama is what I do best! ;) Enjoy guys!
Chapter 2
-There Is Nothing Nice Inside My Mind-
I cautiously open my door, but Mark makes no movement besides sending a casual glance upwards. I open it the rest of the way and head to the kitchen. I fill a glass with tap water and climb up onto the table, staring at the floor as I drink it. I see Mark hesitantly stand and make his way over. I glance up at him but say nothing. He's close enough to touch when I slide off of the table and go to refill the glass.
"Hey, Roger?" He calls. I don't answer him and I hear his cautious footsteps coming into the kitchen.
"Hey." He says softly, leaning against the wall, watching me. He shoves his hands in his pockets.
I shrug at him and drink more water.
"Do you want anything?" He asks me. He picks up the cereal sitting next to the sink and shakes the box at me. "We've got some food for once, why not take advantage of it?"
Clever, Mark. Very clever. I give him a long look, wondering the effects of acknowledging his presence, then hold out my hand. He stares at it for a moment, then turns the box on its side and pours some cereal into my outstretched hand. I resist the urge to toss some back in the box when he gives me too much. I refill the glass once more and head back to my room, leaving Mark standing with the cereal box.
I sit on my floor and lean against the wall and set the glass of water down next to me. I cross my legs and hold the handful of cereal out in front of me. I cautiously pick up a piece and put it in my mouth. Chew it slowly, and a few minutes later it's gone. I take two more, then lay the little pile on top of my guitar case and cover it with a sheet of paper in case Mark decides to look in again. Chewing, I rest my head against the wall behind me and close my eyes.
I cross my arms in front of me and let them rest against my stomach. They sink in further than I remember them going before. I open my eyes and look down. My too-prominent hipbones have been joined by a too-prominent ribcage. Gently, I let my fingers slide over what is becoming a ledge underneath my ribs, above my stomach. I lift up my shirt and take it off. I don't remember being quite this thin before. I place my hands on my sides and run them down toward my hips, letting my fingers bump over every ridge on the way. I move the piece of paper and pick up one more square of cereal. I'm not really hungry, but I think of Mimi. She wouldn't want me to be starving myself, would she? So I manage the one last little square.
I hear a pounding and I shift my head on the wall, wondering at the noise, until I realize it's Mark at the door again. I pull my shirt back on over my head and reluctantly go to it. I stand with my hand on the knob for a good minute until I hear him speak.
"Hey, Roger? Maureen's here, you want to come out?"
I slump against the wall and shove my hands in my pockets. Mark knocks again.
"Roger?"
Slowly I peel myself away from the wall and open the door cautiously. I'm met with Mark's worried, but hopeful face and a distraught Maureen sitting on the threadbare couch. Before I can retreat, Mark takes hold of my arm and all but pulls me out. I quickly pull my arm away, before he feels through the thick fabric of my sweater. Because Mark can't know. One or two little scars is one thing, and the old tracks he knows about, but not this. He doesn't notice my near panic, nor does he notice the missing skin around my stomach. He nudges me toward the couch and I reluctantly collapse on the far end from Maureen. She looks over apathetically, I doubt it really mattered to her whether or not I came out.
Mark pulls up a three-legged chair that you have to support yourself on when you sit down in front of us. He sets his camera down beside him.
"Why'd you break up this time, Maureen?" He asks gently, forever her savior.
She sniffs dramatically and looks out the window with her eyebrows knit together and her hands clasped in front of her.
"I don't understand why, Marky." She says sadly. "I was talking with this girl at this club I took Joanne too, and..."
Mark smiles knowingly. "So you dragged Joanne to a club she didn't want to go to and started hitting on another woman?"
"Right." Maureen says. "I didn't do anything with her, much." She adds as an afterthought.
"So you cheated, again?" Mark shakes his head.
"But it didn't mean anything! You know? Sometimes it's just sex and sometimes..."
"Maureen," Mark says. "I think sometimes relationships are only about the sex."
He never directly accuses her of anything, but he has a subtle way of telling her when she's wrong. Maureen smiles sadly.
"Pookie, when we..."
Mark gets up and goes to the kitchen. He comes back with a glass of water that he hands to Maureen.
"You're lucky, I thought Roger might have drank it all." He smiles at me but I'm staring at Maureen, who's staring at me. Or more accurately, at the inch of wrist exposed from the cuff of my shirt.
"What happened to your arm?" She asks softly.
I shrug and push the sleeve down and cross my arms over my hollow stomach, loosely, so they don't show how much isn't there.
Maureen sips at her water and looks away. Mark sits across from us again.
"So what do I do, Marky? I really want her back, but she gets so pissy when I try to have fun." She stares pointedly at Mark, then lowers her eyes to the left to a spot on the floor.
"Did you ever think, Maureen, that people don't like to be cheated on?" I ask her, my voice a gravel-filled rasp in my throat.
She looks over at me but says nothing. I slowly get up and retreat. I shut the door behind me and go back to my space to sit. I run a hand through my dirty hair, the strands falling into my face. I push up the sleeves on my shirt and stare down at the beginning of the end. Little red lines, little white lines, little pink lines. Brown knots in between. Most faded and older by now, but still there. Dried blood up near my elbow. I pick it off, run my fingers over the wound, feel a sting from my touch. Not much to see here. I pull the sleeve back down. I stare at the mattress across the room, but I'm tired. Too tired to move, really. So I stay where I am and run my fingers up and down my left arm, the textures keeping me entertained.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
A gentle prod in my leg. I open my eyes and look up. Maureen stares down at me, then kneels in front of me. I say nothing.
"You're really thin. Does Mark know how thin you are?" She asks, her dramatic act from before gone.
I shrug and look at the wall behind her.
"How have you been since, well, since Mimi died?" She tries.
I shrug, hating hearing her name.
"Why are your blankets on the floor? Why is there a pile of cereal on your guitar case? Why is your room full of half-filled glasses of water?"
I shrug to each question, hating her pretty brown eyes and her nest of sweet-smelling blonde hair. Hating her thin fingers that she touches the side of my face with. I pull away from them sharply.
"Mark says you never talk to him anymore. That you never do anything. Don't you think..."
"No." I focus on her instead of the wall. Hating the curve of her lips, the shine of her teeth that suddenly seems blinding.
She pulls back, and stands up. She stares down at me sadly.
"You should eat something."
And then she leaves. And I hear the front door open and shut as well.
I hate when they try to understand, I hate when someone tries to relate. I pull myself up, using the wall for support and stand. I make my way out of my room and go to Mark's closed door. I can hear a gentle snore from inside and for a moment wonder if there's someone else in there because Mark hasn't slept well for weeks. I know, I can hear him pacing or narrating to his camera early in the mornings. But no one's been here besides Maureen. I gently turn the knob and go inside.
Mark lies on his stomach, the blankets covering him entirely except for his exposed shoulders. His face is toward the door, surprisingly younger and thinner without his glasses. I close the door behind me and walk over toward his bed. He wakes up before I can say a word.
"Roger?" He asks in a deeper voice than usual, tinged with morning and exhaust. "Jesus, what are doing?" He pulls himself up to a sitting position and looks over at me.
"Are you alright?"
I nod and look at the floor. A sudden overwhelming urge to finally have that 'talk' he's been asking for hits me. I look back up at him, seeing his round, tired eyes and the two little spots on each side of his nose where his glasses sit everyday.
"Next time you see Maureen, tell her not to talk me anymore." I tell him, and turn around and head for the door.
"Wait! Roger, wait!" He calls out, and I hear him stumbling out of bed and reaching for his glasses. But I'm out already, retreating. No nerve anymore. All I have is an incessant desire to hold something gleaming and deadly. Poise it above a vein and just imagine the possibilities. Who has time for life, when you can spend yours challenging it?
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Notes: Thanks for the awesome reviews guys, you really rock.
And note to MistressFlame: But melodrama is what I do best! ;) Enjoy guys!
Chapter 2
-There Is Nothing Nice Inside My Mind-
I cautiously open my door, but Mark makes no movement besides sending a casual glance upwards. I open it the rest of the way and head to the kitchen. I fill a glass with tap water and climb up onto the table, staring at the floor as I drink it. I see Mark hesitantly stand and make his way over. I glance up at him but say nothing. He's close enough to touch when I slide off of the table and go to refill the glass.
"Hey, Roger?" He calls. I don't answer him and I hear his cautious footsteps coming into the kitchen.
"Hey." He says softly, leaning against the wall, watching me. He shoves his hands in his pockets.
I shrug at him and drink more water.
"Do you want anything?" He asks me. He picks up the cereal sitting next to the sink and shakes the box at me. "We've got some food for once, why not take advantage of it?"
Clever, Mark. Very clever. I give him a long look, wondering the effects of acknowledging his presence, then hold out my hand. He stares at it for a moment, then turns the box on its side and pours some cereal into my outstretched hand. I resist the urge to toss some back in the box when he gives me too much. I refill the glass once more and head back to my room, leaving Mark standing with the cereal box.
I sit on my floor and lean against the wall and set the glass of water down next to me. I cross my legs and hold the handful of cereal out in front of me. I cautiously pick up a piece and put it in my mouth. Chew it slowly, and a few minutes later it's gone. I take two more, then lay the little pile on top of my guitar case and cover it with a sheet of paper in case Mark decides to look in again. Chewing, I rest my head against the wall behind me and close my eyes.
I cross my arms in front of me and let them rest against my stomach. They sink in further than I remember them going before. I open my eyes and look down. My too-prominent hipbones have been joined by a too-prominent ribcage. Gently, I let my fingers slide over what is becoming a ledge underneath my ribs, above my stomach. I lift up my shirt and take it off. I don't remember being quite this thin before. I place my hands on my sides and run them down toward my hips, letting my fingers bump over every ridge on the way. I move the piece of paper and pick up one more square of cereal. I'm not really hungry, but I think of Mimi. She wouldn't want me to be starving myself, would she? So I manage the one last little square.
I hear a pounding and I shift my head on the wall, wondering at the noise, until I realize it's Mark at the door again. I pull my shirt back on over my head and reluctantly go to it. I stand with my hand on the knob for a good minute until I hear him speak.
"Hey, Roger? Maureen's here, you want to come out?"
I slump against the wall and shove my hands in my pockets. Mark knocks again.
"Roger?"
Slowly I peel myself away from the wall and open the door cautiously. I'm met with Mark's worried, but hopeful face and a distraught Maureen sitting on the threadbare couch. Before I can retreat, Mark takes hold of my arm and all but pulls me out. I quickly pull my arm away, before he feels through the thick fabric of my sweater. Because Mark can't know. One or two little scars is one thing, and the old tracks he knows about, but not this. He doesn't notice my near panic, nor does he notice the missing skin around my stomach. He nudges me toward the couch and I reluctantly collapse on the far end from Maureen. She looks over apathetically, I doubt it really mattered to her whether or not I came out.
Mark pulls up a three-legged chair that you have to support yourself on when you sit down in front of us. He sets his camera down beside him.
"Why'd you break up this time, Maureen?" He asks gently, forever her savior.
She sniffs dramatically and looks out the window with her eyebrows knit together and her hands clasped in front of her.
"I don't understand why, Marky." She says sadly. "I was talking with this girl at this club I took Joanne too, and..."
Mark smiles knowingly. "So you dragged Joanne to a club she didn't want to go to and started hitting on another woman?"
"Right." Maureen says. "I didn't do anything with her, much." She adds as an afterthought.
"So you cheated, again?" Mark shakes his head.
"But it didn't mean anything! You know? Sometimes it's just sex and sometimes..."
"Maureen," Mark says. "I think sometimes relationships are only about the sex."
He never directly accuses her of anything, but he has a subtle way of telling her when she's wrong. Maureen smiles sadly.
"Pookie, when we..."
Mark gets up and goes to the kitchen. He comes back with a glass of water that he hands to Maureen.
"You're lucky, I thought Roger might have drank it all." He smiles at me but I'm staring at Maureen, who's staring at me. Or more accurately, at the inch of wrist exposed from the cuff of my shirt.
"What happened to your arm?" She asks softly.
I shrug and push the sleeve down and cross my arms over my hollow stomach, loosely, so they don't show how much isn't there.
Maureen sips at her water and looks away. Mark sits across from us again.
"So what do I do, Marky? I really want her back, but she gets so pissy when I try to have fun." She stares pointedly at Mark, then lowers her eyes to the left to a spot on the floor.
"Did you ever think, Maureen, that people don't like to be cheated on?" I ask her, my voice a gravel-filled rasp in my throat.
She looks over at me but says nothing. I slowly get up and retreat. I shut the door behind me and go back to my space to sit. I run a hand through my dirty hair, the strands falling into my face. I push up the sleeves on my shirt and stare down at the beginning of the end. Little red lines, little white lines, little pink lines. Brown knots in between. Most faded and older by now, but still there. Dried blood up near my elbow. I pick it off, run my fingers over the wound, feel a sting from my touch. Not much to see here. I pull the sleeve back down. I stare at the mattress across the room, but I'm tired. Too tired to move, really. So I stay where I am and run my fingers up and down my left arm, the textures keeping me entertained.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
A gentle prod in my leg. I open my eyes and look up. Maureen stares down at me, then kneels in front of me. I say nothing.
"You're really thin. Does Mark know how thin you are?" She asks, her dramatic act from before gone.
I shrug and look at the wall behind her.
"How have you been since, well, since Mimi died?" She tries.
I shrug, hating hearing her name.
"Why are your blankets on the floor? Why is there a pile of cereal on your guitar case? Why is your room full of half-filled glasses of water?"
I shrug to each question, hating her pretty brown eyes and her nest of sweet-smelling blonde hair. Hating her thin fingers that she touches the side of my face with. I pull away from them sharply.
"Mark says you never talk to him anymore. That you never do anything. Don't you think..."
"No." I focus on her instead of the wall. Hating the curve of her lips, the shine of her teeth that suddenly seems blinding.
She pulls back, and stands up. She stares down at me sadly.
"You should eat something."
And then she leaves. And I hear the front door open and shut as well.
I hate when they try to understand, I hate when someone tries to relate. I pull myself up, using the wall for support and stand. I make my way out of my room and go to Mark's closed door. I can hear a gentle snore from inside and for a moment wonder if there's someone else in there because Mark hasn't slept well for weeks. I know, I can hear him pacing or narrating to his camera early in the mornings. But no one's been here besides Maureen. I gently turn the knob and go inside.
Mark lies on his stomach, the blankets covering him entirely except for his exposed shoulders. His face is toward the door, surprisingly younger and thinner without his glasses. I close the door behind me and walk over toward his bed. He wakes up before I can say a word.
"Roger?" He asks in a deeper voice than usual, tinged with morning and exhaust. "Jesus, what are doing?" He pulls himself up to a sitting position and looks over at me.
"Are you alright?"
I nod and look at the floor. A sudden overwhelming urge to finally have that 'talk' he's been asking for hits me. I look back up at him, seeing his round, tired eyes and the two little spots on each side of his nose where his glasses sit everyday.
"Next time you see Maureen, tell her not to talk me anymore." I tell him, and turn around and head for the door.
"Wait! Roger, wait!" He calls out, and I hear him stumbling out of bed and reaching for his glasses. But I'm out already, retreating. No nerve anymore. All I have is an incessant desire to hold something gleaming and deadly. Poise it above a vein and just imagine the possibilities. Who has time for life, when you can spend yours challenging it?
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .