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 again you all, you're too nice to me! ;)
Chapter 4
-I Am All The Things That You Regret-
I lay on the floor, enveloped in blankets, watching as Mark clears my room of the water glasses. He shakes his head at me and smiles nervously.
"Why do you do this?" He asks me. I don't think he's just asking about the glasses.
I say nothing and close my eyes. I hear him sigh, then the gentle clink of glass on glass as he sets down the ones he's holding and kneels beside me.
"I'm here for you, Rog. You know that, right?"
I rub my sore arm under the blankets with my left hand and try to ignore him. I press my fingers into the bandage, savoring the gentle, poking prod of pain.
"I know you don't really want to talk yet, or do much of anything, but please tell me when you need help! Don't..." He pauses and I open my eyes to look up at him. "Don't do something stupid again, please."
His eyes connect with mine and I see the pink tinge in his cheeks. He looks down quickly.
"Cause, I mean, if you..."
"It really wasn't so stupid, Mark." I rasp. "What good am I to anyone anyway?"
To my surprise he throws one of the glasses. It shatters against my wall and a shower of sharp little crystals falls to the floor.
"Will you stop feeling sorry for yourself? People die, shit happens! How come nobody else seems to hole up inside themselves for months at a time?" He stands up and glares down at me, his thin little face contorted in rage finally coming to a head after half a year of my bullshit.
"I don't know, Mark." I tell him softly.
"Because they're not fucking weak like you! You're not the only one that matters here! I haven't gone anywhere in..."
"So fucking go!" I tell him, barely raising my voice. "No one told you that you have to stay here."
He says nothing, then shakes his head. "I can't go." He says quietly, his tone softening.
"Why not?"
"Because I don't trust you alone." He groans and sits down again. "Look at the shit you do while I'm here! I'm just afraid that I'll leave you here alone and..."
"I won't be here when you get back?"
He nods, a quick little gesture I might have missed if I hadn't been watching him so closely at the moment. I hear him sigh and he looks down at me.
"Why, Roger? I mean, do you really just want me to leave you alone?"
I shrug at him and say nothing. I can sense him losing his temper again.
"You have to get over it, Roger. You have to get over Mimi. You can't live the rest of your life this way."
My eyes meet his and I stare into them for a long moment. "Is that what you'll do when I die? Get over it? Forget me?" I drop my head back onto the blanket I use as a pillow. "You can't just forget people, Mark. They're a part of you. When you lose someone you love, you lose a part of yourself." I shrug, watching his reaction to my words. I cough slightly into the air and quickly bring a fist up to my mouth. Mark moves forward instantly and his fingertips brush against my shoulder before he pulls back again. I stare up at him.
"I didn't mean forget her, Roger." He says. "But you need to realize that..."
"I don't want to hear it, Mark." I tell him firmly. I sigh and rub my eyes with the tips of my fingers. "I'll tell you when I want to talk, alright? But, just back off." I try to keep my tone somewhat calm, and for the most part, I succeed.
He stands up, his hands dropping to his sides, staring down at me with a hopeless sort of disappointment.
"Fine." He says. "Just let me know then." He shrugs. "I'll stop bothering you, I guess."
He leaves my room, closing the door behind him. I rub at my arm, pushing the soreness around under the bandage.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
A few hours of my new solitude and I'm wondering what it was inside of me that demanded for time alone. The cracks on the wall are no comfort for the pounding sound of silence in my head, nor is the sharp, gleaming and silver stash under the mattress next to me. Once I found my peace, I found I hated it.
Slowly, I pull myself up off of the floor and stagger to the door. I lay a hand against the door to steady myself before opening it and starting toward Mark's room. His door is closed, and I decide against knocking. Instead I wrap bony fingers around the knob and slowly open the door.
Mark's lying on his bed. Not doing much of anything. He has his arms up, his hands under his head and his eyes closed. I think he might actually be sleeping, but don't know for sure. I walk into his room, slowly sink to my knees beside his bed and watch him for a few minutes. He's still wearing his glasses. I reach up and over and try to pull them off without waking him, since I'm sure by now he's completely asleep. Unfortunately he makes a noise of protest and stirs. I immediately pull my hands back.
"Roger?" He asks sleepily, squinting at me through his glasses. "What's wrong? Do you..." He yawns and sits up. "You ok?"
I nod and look at the floor, tracing a finger over the edge of one of the floorboards. I hear him sigh above me.
"Then what? I thought you wanted me to leave you alone."
I shrug and look back up at him. "I was wrong." I tell him, then look away again.
Mark slides off of his bed and sits beside me on the floor.
"So, you want to talk?" He asks cautiously.
I shrug. He sighs.
"Roger." He says simply, and I nod.
He says nothing for a moment. "Why don't you just start at the beginning? Start when," He hesitates. "When Mimi died."
My eyes meet his and I wonder at his audacity for a moment, then relax and start to think about it. My mind's clearer than it's been in months.
"You can't," I start, then hesitate and try again. "I loved her, Mark. I loved her and now she's gone, you know?" I look in his eyes, hoping he understands my meaning even though I'm not saying it. He nods at me and I feel the gentle nudge of his fingertips near my hand. I let his fingers connect with mine, he rubs his thumb over my knuckles and stares down at our hands. I don't have to say anything else, he understands.
I sit with him in silence for a few minutes before he looks back up again. I meet his gaze and question him with my eyes. His fingers move to rest on my wrist and he slowly pulls the sleeve of my sweater up to my elbow. I look down at the maze of little cuts, and big cuts and healing ones still sore and red, and old white lines.
"But why this, Roger? I just, I don't get it." He says.
I pull my arm away from his reach and push my sleeve back down. I shrug at him. He sighs heavily and crosses his arms and looks down at the floor.
"Without Mimi, I don't like myself." I tell him in a shaking voice. "I feel like I'm that person again, that shell that you lived with after April, you know? Once I realized what I had been doing then, I... I don't know, it was so stupid. But without Mimi, I don't think I can be anything else, you know? I'd need her to feel that way again."
"But Roger," Mark says. "You've made yourself that way again. You don't need Mimi to be alive, or to love or whatever. I'm not saying to forget her," He says to my noise of protest. "But you do this to yourself. There was a time before April you were normal too. Remember that?" I nod faintly. "Before the drugs, before April, there was you. There was you and you were already great. You don't need anyone or anything to make you any better than you are on your own. Don't you get it yet?"
I laugh softly. "Jesus, Mark. You sound so weird talking like that."
His cheeks darken faintly but he stands firm. "Do you hear me, Rog? Do you understand what I'm telling you?"
I nod and run my hands through my hair, tired and annoyed, but mostly with myself. I stand up and start to head for the door.
"Rog? Where you going?"
"To sleep." I tell him, my hand on the knob.
"Oh." He says. "Don't you want anything to eat? We could order takeout if you want, we've got some..."
"It's fine, Mark. I don't want anything."
He watches me nervously, as I slip out the door. I feel guilty because I know exactly what my hands are itching for.
Stupid, stupid, stupid, you've almost killed yourself now, a voice that sounds like Mark's says in my head. Think of Mimi, think of life, think of what could apparently be yours again if you stop blaming yourself for Mimi's death. Because after all, it wasn't your fault.
Tiny cut near the wrist. The band needed to practice.
Another, up a few inches. No money for AZT.
Trickle of blood down the arm. She never really looked sick.
Larger cut. Should have fucking noticed.
I wipe frantically at the blood staining my arm and the edge of the bandage. I've done it again, and I've promised, and I've told myself, and I've made it count. And fuck it all, I'm bleeding on the floor.
"Mark!" I yell, my voice grating through my throat, forcing its way out of the parched and sore airway. I call his name again, shoving the knife away and clutching my arm close to my body. I didn't mean it this time, I didn't mean it.
"Mark!"
I hear him coming, his footsteps pounding over the creaking floorboards. He comes into the room and kneels down beside me, reaching for my arm. I push his hands away and lay back on the floor. He picks a t-shirt up off of the floor and wraps it around my arm.
"Not again, Rog." He says, exasperated. Angry, frustrated, sad. I stare up at him as he pulls the t-shirt gently away from my skin to examine the damage.
"I don't think they're that deep." He says quietly, relieved. He re- wraps the shirt and looks down at me. His eyes are sad, I know I've disappointed him and his ongoing belief in me. He runs a hand through my hair, his touch cautious. His hand is cold on my skin. He pulls his hand back and helps to move me to my blankets. When he starts to tuck them around me I watch his hands moving, his brow furrowed in the smallest impression of concentration.
"I'm sorry." I say throatily.
He stops for a moment and looks into my eyes. He sighs.
"I know, Rog." He says. He starts to get up. I reach for his arm.
"Will you stay in here tonight?" I ask him. I feel my face burn when he only stares. "I just... I don't want to do it again and I don't think that..."
"Yeah." He says quickly. "Yeah, I'll stay here." He looks around my room. "Where do you want me to stay?"
Under the mattress, they're under the mattress.
"You can have my bed, I just want you here."
"Alright, Rog. I'll be right back."
He leaves and comes back with a blanket, the only one he's left himself, and wearing his coat. He steps over me and lays out his blanket on my bed, lying down on his side, facing me.
"Do you need me to stay awake?" He asks.
I shake my head. I can't lift the mattress if he's on it. I could have before, but not anymore.
"Alright. Goodnight, Roger."
I nod, pulling the blankets tighter around me, feeling the sting of the fresh cuts under the thin cloth around my arm. As I close my eyes, my stomach growls angrily.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Notes: Thanks again you all, you're too nice to me! ;)
Chapter 4
-I Am All The Things That You Regret-
I lay on the floor, enveloped in blankets, watching as Mark clears my room of the water glasses. He shakes his head at me and smiles nervously.
"Why do you do this?" He asks me. I don't think he's just asking about the glasses.
I say nothing and close my eyes. I hear him sigh, then the gentle clink of glass on glass as he sets down the ones he's holding and kneels beside me.
"I'm here for you, Rog. You know that, right?"
I rub my sore arm under the blankets with my left hand and try to ignore him. I press my fingers into the bandage, savoring the gentle, poking prod of pain.
"I know you don't really want to talk yet, or do much of anything, but please tell me when you need help! Don't..." He pauses and I open my eyes to look up at him. "Don't do something stupid again, please."
His eyes connect with mine and I see the pink tinge in his cheeks. He looks down quickly.
"Cause, I mean, if you..."
"It really wasn't so stupid, Mark." I rasp. "What good am I to anyone anyway?"
To my surprise he throws one of the glasses. It shatters against my wall and a shower of sharp little crystals falls to the floor.
"Will you stop feeling sorry for yourself? People die, shit happens! How come nobody else seems to hole up inside themselves for months at a time?" He stands up and glares down at me, his thin little face contorted in rage finally coming to a head after half a year of my bullshit.
"I don't know, Mark." I tell him softly.
"Because they're not fucking weak like you! You're not the only one that matters here! I haven't gone anywhere in..."
"So fucking go!" I tell him, barely raising my voice. "No one told you that you have to stay here."
He says nothing, then shakes his head. "I can't go." He says quietly, his tone softening.
"Why not?"
"Because I don't trust you alone." He groans and sits down again. "Look at the shit you do while I'm here! I'm just afraid that I'll leave you here alone and..."
"I won't be here when you get back?"
He nods, a quick little gesture I might have missed if I hadn't been watching him so closely at the moment. I hear him sigh and he looks down at me.
"Why, Roger? I mean, do you really just want me to leave you alone?"
I shrug at him and say nothing. I can sense him losing his temper again.
"You have to get over it, Roger. You have to get over Mimi. You can't live the rest of your life this way."
My eyes meet his and I stare into them for a long moment. "Is that what you'll do when I die? Get over it? Forget me?" I drop my head back onto the blanket I use as a pillow. "You can't just forget people, Mark. They're a part of you. When you lose someone you love, you lose a part of yourself." I shrug, watching his reaction to my words. I cough slightly into the air and quickly bring a fist up to my mouth. Mark moves forward instantly and his fingertips brush against my shoulder before he pulls back again. I stare up at him.
"I didn't mean forget her, Roger." He says. "But you need to realize that..."
"I don't want to hear it, Mark." I tell him firmly. I sigh and rub my eyes with the tips of my fingers. "I'll tell you when I want to talk, alright? But, just back off." I try to keep my tone somewhat calm, and for the most part, I succeed.
He stands up, his hands dropping to his sides, staring down at me with a hopeless sort of disappointment.
"Fine." He says. "Just let me know then." He shrugs. "I'll stop bothering you, I guess."
He leaves my room, closing the door behind him. I rub at my arm, pushing the soreness around under the bandage.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
A few hours of my new solitude and I'm wondering what it was inside of me that demanded for time alone. The cracks on the wall are no comfort for the pounding sound of silence in my head, nor is the sharp, gleaming and silver stash under the mattress next to me. Once I found my peace, I found I hated it.
Slowly, I pull myself up off of the floor and stagger to the door. I lay a hand against the door to steady myself before opening it and starting toward Mark's room. His door is closed, and I decide against knocking. Instead I wrap bony fingers around the knob and slowly open the door.
Mark's lying on his bed. Not doing much of anything. He has his arms up, his hands under his head and his eyes closed. I think he might actually be sleeping, but don't know for sure. I walk into his room, slowly sink to my knees beside his bed and watch him for a few minutes. He's still wearing his glasses. I reach up and over and try to pull them off without waking him, since I'm sure by now he's completely asleep. Unfortunately he makes a noise of protest and stirs. I immediately pull my hands back.
"Roger?" He asks sleepily, squinting at me through his glasses. "What's wrong? Do you..." He yawns and sits up. "You ok?"
I nod and look at the floor, tracing a finger over the edge of one of the floorboards. I hear him sigh above me.
"Then what? I thought you wanted me to leave you alone."
I shrug and look back up at him. "I was wrong." I tell him, then look away again.
Mark slides off of his bed and sits beside me on the floor.
"So, you want to talk?" He asks cautiously.
I shrug. He sighs.
"Roger." He says simply, and I nod.
He says nothing for a moment. "Why don't you just start at the beginning? Start when," He hesitates. "When Mimi died."
My eyes meet his and I wonder at his audacity for a moment, then relax and start to think about it. My mind's clearer than it's been in months.
"You can't," I start, then hesitate and try again. "I loved her, Mark. I loved her and now she's gone, you know?" I look in his eyes, hoping he understands my meaning even though I'm not saying it. He nods at me and I feel the gentle nudge of his fingertips near my hand. I let his fingers connect with mine, he rubs his thumb over my knuckles and stares down at our hands. I don't have to say anything else, he understands.
I sit with him in silence for a few minutes before he looks back up again. I meet his gaze and question him with my eyes. His fingers move to rest on my wrist and he slowly pulls the sleeve of my sweater up to my elbow. I look down at the maze of little cuts, and big cuts and healing ones still sore and red, and old white lines.
"But why this, Roger? I just, I don't get it." He says.
I pull my arm away from his reach and push my sleeve back down. I shrug at him. He sighs heavily and crosses his arms and looks down at the floor.
"Without Mimi, I don't like myself." I tell him in a shaking voice. "I feel like I'm that person again, that shell that you lived with after April, you know? Once I realized what I had been doing then, I... I don't know, it was so stupid. But without Mimi, I don't think I can be anything else, you know? I'd need her to feel that way again."
"But Roger," Mark says. "You've made yourself that way again. You don't need Mimi to be alive, or to love or whatever. I'm not saying to forget her," He says to my noise of protest. "But you do this to yourself. There was a time before April you were normal too. Remember that?" I nod faintly. "Before the drugs, before April, there was you. There was you and you were already great. You don't need anyone or anything to make you any better than you are on your own. Don't you get it yet?"
I laugh softly. "Jesus, Mark. You sound so weird talking like that."
His cheeks darken faintly but he stands firm. "Do you hear me, Rog? Do you understand what I'm telling you?"
I nod and run my hands through my hair, tired and annoyed, but mostly with myself. I stand up and start to head for the door.
"Rog? Where you going?"
"To sleep." I tell him, my hand on the knob.
"Oh." He says. "Don't you want anything to eat? We could order takeout if you want, we've got some..."
"It's fine, Mark. I don't want anything."
He watches me nervously, as I slip out the door. I feel guilty because I know exactly what my hands are itching for.
Stupid, stupid, stupid, you've almost killed yourself now, a voice that sounds like Mark's says in my head. Think of Mimi, think of life, think of what could apparently be yours again if you stop blaming yourself for Mimi's death. Because after all, it wasn't your fault.
Tiny cut near the wrist. The band needed to practice.
Another, up a few inches. No money for AZT.
Trickle of blood down the arm. She never really looked sick.
Larger cut. Should have fucking noticed.
I wipe frantically at the blood staining my arm and the edge of the bandage. I've done it again, and I've promised, and I've told myself, and I've made it count. And fuck it all, I'm bleeding on the floor.
"Mark!" I yell, my voice grating through my throat, forcing its way out of the parched and sore airway. I call his name again, shoving the knife away and clutching my arm close to my body. I didn't mean it this time, I didn't mean it.
"Mark!"
I hear him coming, his footsteps pounding over the creaking floorboards. He comes into the room and kneels down beside me, reaching for my arm. I push his hands away and lay back on the floor. He picks a t-shirt up off of the floor and wraps it around my arm.
"Not again, Rog." He says, exasperated. Angry, frustrated, sad. I stare up at him as he pulls the t-shirt gently away from my skin to examine the damage.
"I don't think they're that deep." He says quietly, relieved. He re- wraps the shirt and looks down at me. His eyes are sad, I know I've disappointed him and his ongoing belief in me. He runs a hand through my hair, his touch cautious. His hand is cold on my skin. He pulls his hand back and helps to move me to my blankets. When he starts to tuck them around me I watch his hands moving, his brow furrowed in the smallest impression of concentration.
"I'm sorry." I say throatily.
He stops for a moment and looks into my eyes. He sighs.
"I know, Rog." He says. He starts to get up. I reach for his arm.
"Will you stay in here tonight?" I ask him. I feel my face burn when he only stares. "I just... I don't want to do it again and I don't think that..."
"Yeah." He says quickly. "Yeah, I'll stay here." He looks around my room. "Where do you want me to stay?"
Under the mattress, they're under the mattress.
"You can have my bed, I just want you here."
"Alright, Rog. I'll be right back."
He leaves and comes back with a blanket, the only one he's left himself, and wearing his coat. He steps over me and lays out his blanket on my bed, lying down on his side, facing me.
"Do you need me to stay awake?" He asks.
I shake my head. I can't lift the mattress if he's on it. I could have before, but not anymore.
"Alright. Goodnight, Roger."
I nod, pulling the blankets tighter around me, feeling the sting of the fresh cuts under the thin cloth around my arm. As I close my eyes, my stomach growls angrily.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .