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 so much for the reviews, I love you all!!!
Chapter 3
-Pathetic Acts For A Worthless Cause-
I wake up when I feel unfamiliar warmth on my forehead. The hand moves away as I open my eyes against the light in the room. Mark sits next to me on the floor, the hand that had been on my forehead now resting uneasily on the blanket beneath me.
"You're so cold." He says quietly. His fingers play along the edge of the blanket. I watch them, the thin digits poking at the ripped fabric. I can imagine the bones through the skin, see the definition of the bones in his hand. His knuckles look large and swollen compared to the tapered, thin flesh on either side. It's not his hand. It's mine. I pull it up to my face and stare at my fingers. I flex them a few times, watch the movement.
"Are you alright?" Mark asks nervously. "Maybe I should get you more blankets."
"Yeah." I find myself whispering to him. "Yeah, I'm cold."
A chill fills the room, flooding over me and my skin turns into a mess of little knobs. I shiver involuntarily, but Mark seems oblivious to the temperature. He leaves and returns in a matter of seconds with two more blankets.
"These are your blankets." I tell him as he tucks the first one around me.
He shrugs slightly. "I don't need them. I'm not cold."
"Bullshit." I cough. "You're always cold."
He shrugs again. "I have my coat. It matters more if you're cold anyway."
I watch him spread the second blanket over my body, pulling it up to my neck, tucking it neatly around my body.
"Are your feet cold?"
I laugh bitterly under my breath. "I'm fine. You've done enough." I don't mean for it to come out quite as hostile as it did, but I say nothing else. Mark bites his lip and looks down at me for long moment before nodding. He sets down a little bottle next to me and slowly stands up.
"Take your AZT. I know you haven't taken it in awhile."
I don't say anything and he silently slips out the door. I watch him go, both touched and annoyed. I'm no longer tired, but I'm so cold, and Mark gave me his blankets. So I stay, and soon enough find myself drifting.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
When I finally move, I push the blankets aside and shiver. I'm already wearing a sweater, but I pick up another one and pull it over my head. Wrapping my arms around myself I sit in my niche against the wall, across from the window. I start to poke at the cereal pieces left on top of my guitar case. I arrange them, then rearrange them. I take one out, then two, then replace them. I put them all in a straight line and put the piece of paper back over them. My eyes find the AZT bottle across the room. It's true I haven't been taking them. I haven't been taking them for almost three months now. And occasionally I feel the effects of it. But it's nothing I'm really concerned about anymore.
With these two huge sweaters, the bones don't really show.
I pick myself up off of the floor and open the door. Mark isn't anywhere in sight so I let myself out and head toward the bathroom. I stand in front of the mirror, my skin graying, my eyes bruised and dark. No wonder Mark looks nervous when he talks to me, I look like my own corpse. The dead one smirks. In a few months that's probably what you'll be.
Maybe I can just take the pills today. I roll up the sleeves on my left arm. Take a break today? Maybe just for Mimi's sake. Mimi wouldn't want me to do this to myself. So maybe just today. I roll the sleeves back down and press my hands into my stomach. Maybe I should eat that cereal in my room. But I'm just not hungry.
I go to the kitchen, but can't find anymore glasses or paper cups. They're all in my room. I cup my hand under the faucet and bring the small pool of water to my lips. It'll have to do.
"Roger? What are you doing?"
Slowly, I let my hand fall away, the excess liquid spilling back into the sink. I shut off the faucet and stand up straight. I lean carefully against the wall.
"Nothing. I was thirsty."
"Why didn't you use a glass?" He asks, a touch of humour in his voice. But there's really nothing funny.
"They're all dirty." I tell him.
"No, they're all in your room." He corrects. "Maybe you should clean those out." He suggests. Then his tone softens. "Are you feeling any better? Still cold?"
I shrug and turn away. He sighs.
"Roger, just when I think I'm getting a response out of you, I get shut out again. Why can't you just talk to me?"
He comes dangerously close to me, his fingertips grazing the lump of empty fabric on my arm. I don't pull away yet.
"Rog, it's been six months. Don't you think you should start opening up again?"
I say nothing, but look down at him. His glasses have slid down his nose, his brow furrowed with concern. His fingers start to press down onto my arm.
"Mark, I'm not worth the effort." I tell him quietly, pulling away. I hold my arm against my body and start to back away. "I'm sorry."
"Roger." He starts, but never finishes. He watches me retreat, his arms falling limply to his sides, looking defeated.
I go back to my room and close the door. I lift up the mattress and take a larger one this time, then settle in next to my guitar case against the wall. Push up the sleeves on my right arm and sink the knife into the skin. Rips through it like paper. Pierces like meat. I remember my promise earlier for Mimi. Not today. Well too late now, I'll just have to make it count. Blood spills, more than usual. A deep cut. I pull the knife back, wincing as it slides backwards out of my skin, and make another slice a few inches away. Blood wells so quickly I drop the knife in shock. I've never cut myself so deep before. I touch one of the wide bubbles forming over the cut and it splits and spills faster. Did I cut something? I start to feel a little dizzy. I ignore the feeling and shove my sleeve back down over the cut. For you, Mimi. Maybe I'll join you sooner than I hoped.
I start to push the cereal around again, two little vertical lines, one long horizontal one. Put them in a circle, push them apart again. There's a dark, dark stain on the sleeve of my shirt. Mark can't know, Mark can't know. The cereal blurs in front of me and I feel myself falling. My eyes land on the doorway, Mark is in the room as soon as he hears me fall. Right before he kneels at my side I close my eyes.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Still dizzy, now with a terrible headache included, I open my eyes. Mark is sitting in a chair next to the bed watching me. When I opened my eyes he immediately bent forward and rested his hand on the bed.
"Are you ok?" He asks desperately, then sighs and rolls his eyes, looking away. "Of course you're not ok. If you were ok you wouldn't be here. If you were ok you wouldn't have been doing this." He looks at me again, his eyes angry and sad.
"Why, Roger?" He asks me. I know from the redness around his eyes he's been crying. Those few silent tears Mark will shed when he's really upset. He wasted them on me. It leads me to wonder how many times I've made him cry in the past six months. In all the years I've known him.
I can't look at him anymore, and I don't answer his question. I don't know how to tell him I wasn't really trying to kill myself. I don't know how to tell him why, because I don't honestly know. Because I was depressed. Because I missed Mimi. It was something to do. I look back over at him and he gently reaches for my hand. His fingers entwine with mine, his hands warm and soft, mine cold and hard.
"I thought," He says quietly. "That I might have lost you." He looks down before I can see him blush. I hear him sniff. He looks back up.
"I try to help you, Rog. I really do. Why won't you let me help you?"
I glance down at the white bandage over my right arm, see in plain view all the little scars up and down my arms, knowing my legs look almost the same. This is too much to ask someone to help. I'm not worth it.
"Rog, they say you're really underweight too." Mark says softly. I look back up at him. "I know you miss Mimi, but she wouldn't want you to..."
"How do you know what Mimi would want, Mark?" I yell at him. He flinches backwards. "You don't know even know what you want out of life, let alone what I want. You don't know anything!"
A nurse comes in. "Is there a problem?"
"No." Mark says quickly. "No, he's fine."
"I can sedate him if you think he'd be more comfortable."
"Jesus, I'm right fucking here!" I yell at both of them.
"Mr. Davis, please." The nurse says, exasperated. She gives Mark one last look, asking him if he's sure, but he shakes his head and the nurse leaves.
"What did you tell them?" I ask him.
He doesn't answer right away. "I said it was an accident. I don't know if they believe me or not, but I don't think they'll put you in therapy or anything."
"Good." I say under my breath.
"Look, Rog." He tries again. "You, you weigh almost what I do, and you're a lot bigger than me. That's not healthy. You really should..."
"I don't want to hear it, ok Mark? Just, back off. I'm tired." I tell him, my voice weary and soft.
He nods reluctantly, but lets it drop.
"Can I get another blanket?" I ask him. "I'm really cold."
"Yeah, yeah, I'll get the nurse. I'll be right back." He tells me and stands up, letting go of my hand. I'm struck by the disappearance of the warmth from his hand. I pull it under the blankets to try to warm it up.
He comes back in with a couple blankets and begins to tuck them around me like he did hours ago, yesterday, I've lost track of the time. When my eyes meet his he smiles gently, but it's sad. I know no matter what he'll be here to take care of me and help me through it, but at this point I'm really not in the mood for any of his help.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Notes continued: Hope you enjoyed!
Notes: Thanks so much for the reviews, I love you all!!!
Chapter 3
-Pathetic Acts For A Worthless Cause-
I wake up when I feel unfamiliar warmth on my forehead. The hand moves away as I open my eyes against the light in the room. Mark sits next to me on the floor, the hand that had been on my forehead now resting uneasily on the blanket beneath me.
"You're so cold." He says quietly. His fingers play along the edge of the blanket. I watch them, the thin digits poking at the ripped fabric. I can imagine the bones through the skin, see the definition of the bones in his hand. His knuckles look large and swollen compared to the tapered, thin flesh on either side. It's not his hand. It's mine. I pull it up to my face and stare at my fingers. I flex them a few times, watch the movement.
"Are you alright?" Mark asks nervously. "Maybe I should get you more blankets."
"Yeah." I find myself whispering to him. "Yeah, I'm cold."
A chill fills the room, flooding over me and my skin turns into a mess of little knobs. I shiver involuntarily, but Mark seems oblivious to the temperature. He leaves and returns in a matter of seconds with two more blankets.
"These are your blankets." I tell him as he tucks the first one around me.
He shrugs slightly. "I don't need them. I'm not cold."
"Bullshit." I cough. "You're always cold."
He shrugs again. "I have my coat. It matters more if you're cold anyway."
I watch him spread the second blanket over my body, pulling it up to my neck, tucking it neatly around my body.
"Are your feet cold?"
I laugh bitterly under my breath. "I'm fine. You've done enough." I don't mean for it to come out quite as hostile as it did, but I say nothing else. Mark bites his lip and looks down at me for long moment before nodding. He sets down a little bottle next to me and slowly stands up.
"Take your AZT. I know you haven't taken it in awhile."
I don't say anything and he silently slips out the door. I watch him go, both touched and annoyed. I'm no longer tired, but I'm so cold, and Mark gave me his blankets. So I stay, and soon enough find myself drifting.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
When I finally move, I push the blankets aside and shiver. I'm already wearing a sweater, but I pick up another one and pull it over my head. Wrapping my arms around myself I sit in my niche against the wall, across from the window. I start to poke at the cereal pieces left on top of my guitar case. I arrange them, then rearrange them. I take one out, then two, then replace them. I put them all in a straight line and put the piece of paper back over them. My eyes find the AZT bottle across the room. It's true I haven't been taking them. I haven't been taking them for almost three months now. And occasionally I feel the effects of it. But it's nothing I'm really concerned about anymore.
With these two huge sweaters, the bones don't really show.
I pick myself up off of the floor and open the door. Mark isn't anywhere in sight so I let myself out and head toward the bathroom. I stand in front of the mirror, my skin graying, my eyes bruised and dark. No wonder Mark looks nervous when he talks to me, I look like my own corpse. The dead one smirks. In a few months that's probably what you'll be.
Maybe I can just take the pills today. I roll up the sleeves on my left arm. Take a break today? Maybe just for Mimi's sake. Mimi wouldn't want me to do this to myself. So maybe just today. I roll the sleeves back down and press my hands into my stomach. Maybe I should eat that cereal in my room. But I'm just not hungry.
I go to the kitchen, but can't find anymore glasses or paper cups. They're all in my room. I cup my hand under the faucet and bring the small pool of water to my lips. It'll have to do.
"Roger? What are you doing?"
Slowly, I let my hand fall away, the excess liquid spilling back into the sink. I shut off the faucet and stand up straight. I lean carefully against the wall.
"Nothing. I was thirsty."
"Why didn't you use a glass?" He asks, a touch of humour in his voice. But there's really nothing funny.
"They're all dirty." I tell him.
"No, they're all in your room." He corrects. "Maybe you should clean those out." He suggests. Then his tone softens. "Are you feeling any better? Still cold?"
I shrug and turn away. He sighs.
"Roger, just when I think I'm getting a response out of you, I get shut out again. Why can't you just talk to me?"
He comes dangerously close to me, his fingertips grazing the lump of empty fabric on my arm. I don't pull away yet.
"Rog, it's been six months. Don't you think you should start opening up again?"
I say nothing, but look down at him. His glasses have slid down his nose, his brow furrowed with concern. His fingers start to press down onto my arm.
"Mark, I'm not worth the effort." I tell him quietly, pulling away. I hold my arm against my body and start to back away. "I'm sorry."
"Roger." He starts, but never finishes. He watches me retreat, his arms falling limply to his sides, looking defeated.
I go back to my room and close the door. I lift up the mattress and take a larger one this time, then settle in next to my guitar case against the wall. Push up the sleeves on my right arm and sink the knife into the skin. Rips through it like paper. Pierces like meat. I remember my promise earlier for Mimi. Not today. Well too late now, I'll just have to make it count. Blood spills, more than usual. A deep cut. I pull the knife back, wincing as it slides backwards out of my skin, and make another slice a few inches away. Blood wells so quickly I drop the knife in shock. I've never cut myself so deep before. I touch one of the wide bubbles forming over the cut and it splits and spills faster. Did I cut something? I start to feel a little dizzy. I ignore the feeling and shove my sleeve back down over the cut. For you, Mimi. Maybe I'll join you sooner than I hoped.
I start to push the cereal around again, two little vertical lines, one long horizontal one. Put them in a circle, push them apart again. There's a dark, dark stain on the sleeve of my shirt. Mark can't know, Mark can't know. The cereal blurs in front of me and I feel myself falling. My eyes land on the doorway, Mark is in the room as soon as he hears me fall. Right before he kneels at my side I close my eyes.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Still dizzy, now with a terrible headache included, I open my eyes. Mark is sitting in a chair next to the bed watching me. When I opened my eyes he immediately bent forward and rested his hand on the bed.
"Are you ok?" He asks desperately, then sighs and rolls his eyes, looking away. "Of course you're not ok. If you were ok you wouldn't be here. If you were ok you wouldn't have been doing this." He looks at me again, his eyes angry and sad.
"Why, Roger?" He asks me. I know from the redness around his eyes he's been crying. Those few silent tears Mark will shed when he's really upset. He wasted them on me. It leads me to wonder how many times I've made him cry in the past six months. In all the years I've known him.
I can't look at him anymore, and I don't answer his question. I don't know how to tell him I wasn't really trying to kill myself. I don't know how to tell him why, because I don't honestly know. Because I was depressed. Because I missed Mimi. It was something to do. I look back over at him and he gently reaches for my hand. His fingers entwine with mine, his hands warm and soft, mine cold and hard.
"I thought," He says quietly. "That I might have lost you." He looks down before I can see him blush. I hear him sniff. He looks back up.
"I try to help you, Rog. I really do. Why won't you let me help you?"
I glance down at the white bandage over my right arm, see in plain view all the little scars up and down my arms, knowing my legs look almost the same. This is too much to ask someone to help. I'm not worth it.
"Rog, they say you're really underweight too." Mark says softly. I look back up at him. "I know you miss Mimi, but she wouldn't want you to..."
"How do you know what Mimi would want, Mark?" I yell at him. He flinches backwards. "You don't know even know what you want out of life, let alone what I want. You don't know anything!"
A nurse comes in. "Is there a problem?"
"No." Mark says quickly. "No, he's fine."
"I can sedate him if you think he'd be more comfortable."
"Jesus, I'm right fucking here!" I yell at both of them.
"Mr. Davis, please." The nurse says, exasperated. She gives Mark one last look, asking him if he's sure, but he shakes his head and the nurse leaves.
"What did you tell them?" I ask him.
He doesn't answer right away. "I said it was an accident. I don't know if they believe me or not, but I don't think they'll put you in therapy or anything."
"Good." I say under my breath.
"Look, Rog." He tries again. "You, you weigh almost what I do, and you're a lot bigger than me. That's not healthy. You really should..."
"I don't want to hear it, ok Mark? Just, back off. I'm tired." I tell him, my voice weary and soft.
He nods reluctantly, but lets it drop.
"Can I get another blanket?" I ask him. "I'm really cold."
"Yeah, yeah, I'll get the nurse. I'll be right back." He tells me and stands up, letting go of my hand. I'm struck by the disappearance of the warmth from his hand. I pull it under the blankets to try to warm it up.
He comes back in with a couple blankets and begins to tuck them around me like he did hours ago, yesterday, I've lost track of the time. When my eyes meet his he smiles gently, but it's sad. I know no matter what he'll be here to take care of me and help me through it, but at this point I'm really not in the mood for any of his help.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Notes continued: Hope you enjoyed!