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 reviews and thanks for reading. You guys rock! I hope you'll all like this chapter. ;)
Chapter 5
-Your Diet Will Crush Me-
In an angry, isolated silence I stare at the bowl of cereal Mark holds out to me.
"I said I'm not hungry." I growl at him, crossing my arms and turning away.
"I don't care if you're not hungry, you need to eat something." He says, with the same sort of menace. "When was the last time you ate?"
I shrug, staring at the wall. "I eat."
"You take handfuls of cereal to last you a week. You're going to eat, now."
He sets the bowl down on the table and grabs my arms, pulling me over to the table. I struggle and almost manage to pull away, but I've exhausted my body so much recently that eventually Mark wins out and I'm forced to sit in a broken chair in front of the bowl. I stare down into it, finding nothing appealing about the soggy little squares and the white liquid that smells just slightly sour. Mark sighs heavily and kneels beside me.
"What is wrong with you?" He asks, his voice less harsh, almost concerned.
I shrug again. I don't try to define anything anymore.
"Why are you punishing yourself? I mean, Rog..." He stops, unsure of how to continue, then looks back up at me. "You're starving yourself."
I avoid meeting his gaze, finding images inside the bowl. Like clouds. Cloudy liquid swirls that churn and make a shallow vortex to the bottom of the bowl, little squares spinning inside. But none of this happens. I ignore the pounding in my head when Mark grabs my arm.
"Did you hear me? I asked if you'd let me take you to a doctor. I mean, this isn't..."
Doctors. Doctors and questions. Doctors ask questions and doctors make judgements. Why did you cut yourself? Accident, accident. Skepticism. Why is your girlfriend here? Disgust, annoyance. Can't go back, can't make me, can't...
"No!" I shout, making him jump. "No, Mark. No doctors. Not again."
"But Roger..."
I jump to my feet, knocking the bowl over, watching the white trails slowly seep away. So much like...
Don't think about it. Don't.
"No, Mark. No doctors. I'm fine. I don't need this." I find myself backing up against a wall, pointing at him. "I don't need you. I don't need, I don't need..."
I know what I need.
No. No! My hands go to my head, raking through my hair as I collapse to the floor. Can't. Mark watches me in silent horror. Sparkle, sparkle. See a line of light on a sharp edge, a glint and then for a moment you're blind. See a line of steel embedded in a limb of flesh. And then for a moment you're saved.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Mark watches as I stand up. His eyes follow me across the room, follow me to the door of my room, but he makes no sound. Stand in the doorway for a moment, my eyes sweep over my room, then I go in. I kneel beside my mattress and slowly lift it up. One time, one time, I need it. Take one of the blades, sit on the floor. I hold it above my arm. One time, just this once. Just this once how many times? How many times is once?
Fuck. I drop the knife and it falls, the sudden sound startling me.
"Roger?" Mark calls from outside my door. He knocks hesitantly on the door. Once is too many right now, think. Think about it, don't do it. I turn the knife so I'm carefully clutching the blade and I stand up and open the door. Mark looks down at my hand holding the knife, saying nothing. I hold it out, the handle facing him. He doesn't move.
"Take it. Please, get it away from me. I don't care what you do with it, but take it."
Cautiously his hand closes over the handle I let go of my end. I look up at him and he gives me a slight smile before walking away. I collapse against the doorway, sliding down so I'm sitting against the narrow piece of wall. I bring my knees up to my chest and wrap my arms around them.
Not so bad, not so bad.
But there's four more. Under the mattress, they're under the mattress. I close my eyes. Mimi above, destruction below.
"Roger?" Mark asks gently. He comes over and sits next to me, hesitantly laying a hand on my arm.
"That's good what you did, you know? That's good." He tells me. I almost believe him until my arm starts to ache and I remember the rest of them.
"There's still more of them, Mark." I tell him. "But I can't, I not ready for, I can't fucking do this!"
The grip of his hand becomes tighter. "It's ok, Rog. It's still good, it's a start."
"I want to do it. I want it now. It's like fucking heroin, Mark! Why did I start? What the fuck..." My ability to string a sentence together is failing me. Mark very slowly moves closer and wraps an arm around my shoulders, pulling my body against his. I lean into him, letting him hold me, and for a few minutes the cold that's continually pressed around my body disappears.
"You'll be alright, Rog." He tells me gently. "You got through worse than this."
"It doesn't feel like there was anything worse than this."
He laughs softly. "Please. I was there for your withdrawal, Rog. I was there the whole time. That was worse. I know this must feel like shit, but c'mon, it's no big thing for you."
I know he's trying to reassure me. He knows that I need to think something is easy or I won't try it. I nod for him, sure I believe you. I could hope to believe you.
"Are you hungry?" He asks.
"Fuck you." I tell him.
He sighs and pulls his arm back.
"I'm going to make you a sandwich, and you're going to eat part of it. I don't care if you take one bite, but you're going to eat."
I shrug and he stands up and goes to the kitchen. I watch him leaving, I scratch involuntary at an itch on my arm. I look down at the skin I'm scratching and it suddenly seems like a good idea to keep going. I press my fingers down hard against my skin and roughly scrap the nails up and down in one area. A minute later and the skin is raw and sore. I pull my hand away and examine it. Just another way to cause pain for what I'm feeling. But it solves nothing, it's temporary. And it's evidence. I go in my room and pull a sweater over my head and wrap my arms around myself, feeling the chill take me over again. I walk into the kitchen and watch Mark finish my sandwich.
He holds it out to me and I take it and stare at it in my hands indifferently. I know Mark is watching me, refusing to look away or let me leave till I eat part of it. I pull off a corner with two fingers and hold it up to my lips. The crust of the bread feels hard and dry on my tongue, completely foreign and wrong. Whatever he put on it is sliding down my throat feeling slimy and thick. Choking me. Mark watches me, my reaction. I take another little piece and taste the white of the bread, like cotton. I shove the sandwich back at Mark and back away.
"I can't. Don't make me. I can't eat anymore."
He sets it down, looking more concerned than angry, which is not what I had expected.
"So it's not just that you won't, it's that you can't." He says softly.
I shrug. He starts to come over to me and he grabs my hands before I can make my escape and retreat.
"What did you do to yourself?" He asks, incredulous. "Why are you doing this?"
He knows this, we've talked about this. But I think he knows it goes deeper. I think he knows.
"Because it's my fault, Mark!" I yell at him, pulling my hands away.
"What's your fault?"
"That she's dead! It's my fault she's dead!" I'm back against the wall.
He looks completely shocked and almost angry. "Is that what this is about? You think it's your fault that Mimi died?"
"I don't think it is, Mark! I know it is! It was my fault she got so sick, it was my fault she died. If I had paid more fucking attention to her than the band she wouldn't be..."
"Roger!" He yells, forcing me to stop. He moves closer and there's no escape. He takes my hands again.
"Rog, it's not your fault. Mimi was already sick, we all knew that. She knew that too."
"We didn't have any money. She had to quit working when she started to get sick. We didn't have any AZT. I should've fucking gotten a real job so I could take care of her. But I was so sure the band..." I stop and shake my head. That doesn't matter now. "It's my fault. I didn't take care of her. I didn't do enough. And she died because of me."
"Why didn't you tell me you needed money for AZT?" He asks.
I shrug. "We weren't your problem."
"Rog, I would've given everything I had to help either one of you. You know that."
I nod slightly. I do know that. But I don't always want to depend on Mark. I want to be able to fix my fuck-ups without him. But I also know that's hardly possible.
Mark sighs. "Do you believe me? Cause it's not your fault. Ok?"
I shrug. I don't know. A chill sweeps through me everywhere but my hands. Hands that are being clasped tightly by Mark. He smiles at me, a fractured, lopsided grin I've grown fond of over the years. An uneven half smile, tainted by his inability to just be happy. Something I know well enough for the both of us. I let myself fall against his body and he barely catches me enough to return my embrace that I know surprised him. It surprised me too, because I realize this is letting him see exactly how thin I am. With his hands on my back he'll feel the ridges, and he'll realize just how close he can hold me because of the stomach that's not there. And I don't have to care, because I know he does.
We come apart together, his hands still clasping mine. I lean toward him slowly and he watches me, confused. I move all the more closer and let my lips press onto his. I feel his face and body react in surprise, but then he relaxes and his lips open to mine. I let go of his hands and bring mine to his face, letting them trail along his jaw line and neck. His hands find my waist and pull me closer to him. I feel Mark's tongue against my own, the gentle moisture of his mouth. His lips are hot, hot and soft. Another few moments and he slowly pulls away from me.
"Roger," He asks. "What was that?"
I smirk. "It's called a kiss, Marky. You see, when two people..."
He returns the bitter grin. "Ass. But, seriously. I mean, what are you doing?"
I lift one shoulder, then lower it again. "I don't know, Mark. I just, I was cold and..."
"You kissed me because you were cold?"
"Don't act like you didn't like it too!" I yell at him. He flinches and rolls his eyes.
"Will you stop yelling? It's a small place and I'm right here."
I say nothing.
"I'm not saying I didn't like it, or that it didn't mean anything, but I just don't get it."
"You never get it. You don't 'get' anything!"
"Roger, shut up. I just told you to stop yelling. Just calm down."
I grunt at him and cross my arms over my chest.
"What didn't I get? What am I supposed to take from that?"
"I don't know, Mark! I don't even know what it was. It just, happened. Just forget it, I guess. Forget it."
"No, Roger. I can't just forget you kissing me. I mean, that wasn't just a kiss. You meant something by it and so did I. I don't know what, but there was something there, you know?"
I shrug and he gets pissed.
"Dammit, Roger! Don't shut me out!"
"Don't yell." I mock him. "I'm right here."
He rolls his eyes and starts to walk away.
"I'm sorry." I breathe.
"What?" He asks harshly.
"I said, I'm sorry!" I yell.
He laughs bitterly. "What do we do now?"
"I don't know."
He comes back over to me and takes my hands, pulling me to him. He looks up at me for a moment, then goes up on his toes to kiss me. The only reaction that makes sense is to kiss him back with the same force and connection I felt earlier.
And for another few moments, I'm warm.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Notes: Thanks for the reviews and thanks for reading. You guys rock! I hope you'll all like this chapter. ;)
Chapter 5
-Your Diet Will Crush Me-
In an angry, isolated silence I stare at the bowl of cereal Mark holds out to me.
"I said I'm not hungry." I growl at him, crossing my arms and turning away.
"I don't care if you're not hungry, you need to eat something." He says, with the same sort of menace. "When was the last time you ate?"
I shrug, staring at the wall. "I eat."
"You take handfuls of cereal to last you a week. You're going to eat, now."
He sets the bowl down on the table and grabs my arms, pulling me over to the table. I struggle and almost manage to pull away, but I've exhausted my body so much recently that eventually Mark wins out and I'm forced to sit in a broken chair in front of the bowl. I stare down into it, finding nothing appealing about the soggy little squares and the white liquid that smells just slightly sour. Mark sighs heavily and kneels beside me.
"What is wrong with you?" He asks, his voice less harsh, almost concerned.
I shrug again. I don't try to define anything anymore.
"Why are you punishing yourself? I mean, Rog..." He stops, unsure of how to continue, then looks back up at me. "You're starving yourself."
I avoid meeting his gaze, finding images inside the bowl. Like clouds. Cloudy liquid swirls that churn and make a shallow vortex to the bottom of the bowl, little squares spinning inside. But none of this happens. I ignore the pounding in my head when Mark grabs my arm.
"Did you hear me? I asked if you'd let me take you to a doctor. I mean, this isn't..."
Doctors. Doctors and questions. Doctors ask questions and doctors make judgements. Why did you cut yourself? Accident, accident. Skepticism. Why is your girlfriend here? Disgust, annoyance. Can't go back, can't make me, can't...
"No!" I shout, making him jump. "No, Mark. No doctors. Not again."
"But Roger..."
I jump to my feet, knocking the bowl over, watching the white trails slowly seep away. So much like...
Don't think about it. Don't.
"No, Mark. No doctors. I'm fine. I don't need this." I find myself backing up against a wall, pointing at him. "I don't need you. I don't need, I don't need..."
I know what I need.
No. No! My hands go to my head, raking through my hair as I collapse to the floor. Can't. Mark watches me in silent horror. Sparkle, sparkle. See a line of light on a sharp edge, a glint and then for a moment you're blind. See a line of steel embedded in a limb of flesh. And then for a moment you're saved.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Mark watches as I stand up. His eyes follow me across the room, follow me to the door of my room, but he makes no sound. Stand in the doorway for a moment, my eyes sweep over my room, then I go in. I kneel beside my mattress and slowly lift it up. One time, one time, I need it. Take one of the blades, sit on the floor. I hold it above my arm. One time, just this once. Just this once how many times? How many times is once?
Fuck. I drop the knife and it falls, the sudden sound startling me.
"Roger?" Mark calls from outside my door. He knocks hesitantly on the door. Once is too many right now, think. Think about it, don't do it. I turn the knife so I'm carefully clutching the blade and I stand up and open the door. Mark looks down at my hand holding the knife, saying nothing. I hold it out, the handle facing him. He doesn't move.
"Take it. Please, get it away from me. I don't care what you do with it, but take it."
Cautiously his hand closes over the handle I let go of my end. I look up at him and he gives me a slight smile before walking away. I collapse against the doorway, sliding down so I'm sitting against the narrow piece of wall. I bring my knees up to my chest and wrap my arms around them.
Not so bad, not so bad.
But there's four more. Under the mattress, they're under the mattress. I close my eyes. Mimi above, destruction below.
"Roger?" Mark asks gently. He comes over and sits next to me, hesitantly laying a hand on my arm.
"That's good what you did, you know? That's good." He tells me. I almost believe him until my arm starts to ache and I remember the rest of them.
"There's still more of them, Mark." I tell him. "But I can't, I not ready for, I can't fucking do this!"
The grip of his hand becomes tighter. "It's ok, Rog. It's still good, it's a start."
"I want to do it. I want it now. It's like fucking heroin, Mark! Why did I start? What the fuck..." My ability to string a sentence together is failing me. Mark very slowly moves closer and wraps an arm around my shoulders, pulling my body against his. I lean into him, letting him hold me, and for a few minutes the cold that's continually pressed around my body disappears.
"You'll be alright, Rog." He tells me gently. "You got through worse than this."
"It doesn't feel like there was anything worse than this."
He laughs softly. "Please. I was there for your withdrawal, Rog. I was there the whole time. That was worse. I know this must feel like shit, but c'mon, it's no big thing for you."
I know he's trying to reassure me. He knows that I need to think something is easy or I won't try it. I nod for him, sure I believe you. I could hope to believe you.
"Are you hungry?" He asks.
"Fuck you." I tell him.
He sighs and pulls his arm back.
"I'm going to make you a sandwich, and you're going to eat part of it. I don't care if you take one bite, but you're going to eat."
I shrug and he stands up and goes to the kitchen. I watch him leaving, I scratch involuntary at an itch on my arm. I look down at the skin I'm scratching and it suddenly seems like a good idea to keep going. I press my fingers down hard against my skin and roughly scrap the nails up and down in one area. A minute later and the skin is raw and sore. I pull my hand away and examine it. Just another way to cause pain for what I'm feeling. But it solves nothing, it's temporary. And it's evidence. I go in my room and pull a sweater over my head and wrap my arms around myself, feeling the chill take me over again. I walk into the kitchen and watch Mark finish my sandwich.
He holds it out to me and I take it and stare at it in my hands indifferently. I know Mark is watching me, refusing to look away or let me leave till I eat part of it. I pull off a corner with two fingers and hold it up to my lips. The crust of the bread feels hard and dry on my tongue, completely foreign and wrong. Whatever he put on it is sliding down my throat feeling slimy and thick. Choking me. Mark watches me, my reaction. I take another little piece and taste the white of the bread, like cotton. I shove the sandwich back at Mark and back away.
"I can't. Don't make me. I can't eat anymore."
He sets it down, looking more concerned than angry, which is not what I had expected.
"So it's not just that you won't, it's that you can't." He says softly.
I shrug. He starts to come over to me and he grabs my hands before I can make my escape and retreat.
"What did you do to yourself?" He asks, incredulous. "Why are you doing this?"
He knows this, we've talked about this. But I think he knows it goes deeper. I think he knows.
"Because it's my fault, Mark!" I yell at him, pulling my hands away.
"What's your fault?"
"That she's dead! It's my fault she's dead!" I'm back against the wall.
He looks completely shocked and almost angry. "Is that what this is about? You think it's your fault that Mimi died?"
"I don't think it is, Mark! I know it is! It was my fault she got so sick, it was my fault she died. If I had paid more fucking attention to her than the band she wouldn't be..."
"Roger!" He yells, forcing me to stop. He moves closer and there's no escape. He takes my hands again.
"Rog, it's not your fault. Mimi was already sick, we all knew that. She knew that too."
"We didn't have any money. She had to quit working when she started to get sick. We didn't have any AZT. I should've fucking gotten a real job so I could take care of her. But I was so sure the band..." I stop and shake my head. That doesn't matter now. "It's my fault. I didn't take care of her. I didn't do enough. And she died because of me."
"Why didn't you tell me you needed money for AZT?" He asks.
I shrug. "We weren't your problem."
"Rog, I would've given everything I had to help either one of you. You know that."
I nod slightly. I do know that. But I don't always want to depend on Mark. I want to be able to fix my fuck-ups without him. But I also know that's hardly possible.
Mark sighs. "Do you believe me? Cause it's not your fault. Ok?"
I shrug. I don't know. A chill sweeps through me everywhere but my hands. Hands that are being clasped tightly by Mark. He smiles at me, a fractured, lopsided grin I've grown fond of over the years. An uneven half smile, tainted by his inability to just be happy. Something I know well enough for the both of us. I let myself fall against his body and he barely catches me enough to return my embrace that I know surprised him. It surprised me too, because I realize this is letting him see exactly how thin I am. With his hands on my back he'll feel the ridges, and he'll realize just how close he can hold me because of the stomach that's not there. And I don't have to care, because I know he does.
We come apart together, his hands still clasping mine. I lean toward him slowly and he watches me, confused. I move all the more closer and let my lips press onto his. I feel his face and body react in surprise, but then he relaxes and his lips open to mine. I let go of his hands and bring mine to his face, letting them trail along his jaw line and neck. His hands find my waist and pull me closer to him. I feel Mark's tongue against my own, the gentle moisture of his mouth. His lips are hot, hot and soft. Another few moments and he slowly pulls away from me.
"Roger," He asks. "What was that?"
I smirk. "It's called a kiss, Marky. You see, when two people..."
He returns the bitter grin. "Ass. But, seriously. I mean, what are you doing?"
I lift one shoulder, then lower it again. "I don't know, Mark. I just, I was cold and..."
"You kissed me because you were cold?"
"Don't act like you didn't like it too!" I yell at him. He flinches and rolls his eyes.
"Will you stop yelling? It's a small place and I'm right here."
I say nothing.
"I'm not saying I didn't like it, or that it didn't mean anything, but I just don't get it."
"You never get it. You don't 'get' anything!"
"Roger, shut up. I just told you to stop yelling. Just calm down."
I grunt at him and cross my arms over my chest.
"What didn't I get? What am I supposed to take from that?"
"I don't know, Mark! I don't even know what it was. It just, happened. Just forget it, I guess. Forget it."
"No, Roger. I can't just forget you kissing me. I mean, that wasn't just a kiss. You meant something by it and so did I. I don't know what, but there was something there, you know?"
I shrug and he gets pissed.
"Dammit, Roger! Don't shut me out!"
"Don't yell." I mock him. "I'm right here."
He rolls his eyes and starts to walk away.
"I'm sorry." I breathe.
"What?" He asks harshly.
"I said, I'm sorry!" I yell.
He laughs bitterly. "What do we do now?"
"I don't know."
He comes back over to me and takes my hands, pulling me to him. He looks up at me for a moment, then goes up on his toes to kiss me. The only reaction that makes sense is to kiss him back with the same force and connection I felt earlier.
And for another few moments, I'm warm.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .