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 all the totally sexy reviews, they make my life. I love that you love it. ;)
Chapter 7
–My Insides Will Look Like War-
Retreat. Retreat far back into my own mind, thoughts mixing and developing, finally settling on the unparalleled thrill of watching red rivers run down my arms. I rub at my arms, sore from healing, and feel a terrible quake of need course through my body. For the first time in two years I desperately want a hit. Anything to make the pain of not hurting go away.
Besides this, a steady diet of nothing is killing me. I feel my stomach, empty and hollow, resting uselessly against my insides. Despite the little pieces Mark can convince me to choke down, which usually end up swimming in stomach bile and blood not much later, the signs of starvation are starting to set in. My skin is gray, dark and sick looking. The bruises under my eyes are darker, painful if I touch them, and my cheeks are sunken in and bruised as well, my cheekbones jutting out from my face at a very sharp, unhealthy angle. I spend hours in front of the mirror at night or when Mark isn't home, staring at every fault and wondering what the final bliss of death could be like.
The usual dizziness and sense of nausea sets in and I collapse on the bathroom floor, leaning against the wall with my arms wrapped around my stomach. There's a need, and a want to do some damage. But there's also a need and a want to not hurt Mark again. I take one of my hands away and slip it into my pocket, my fingers closing around my pocketknife. Slowly I pull it out, flicking it open.
Just once. Close my eyes. How many times is once? Just one, just once. Watch the light catch the blade and I rotate the knife and watch the light reflect onto the wall. Just once.
I hold the blade to my skin and press down. Not far enough to bleed, but enough to feel. Through the tiny square of an open window I hear someone shout outside and the knife slips and I cut. A thick line of blood wells up a moment later and then it's heroin.
Shouldn't do this to myself. Small cut by the wrist.
Shouldn't do this to Mark. Larger one above the elbow.
I want to stop, but I can't now. It's been days and the burn has been there, the pain has been there and the need has been there. Then came the want and I was done for. I'm trembling. Bleeding and trembling. I drop the knife, run my fingers through my hair, feeling the blood dripping onto my clothes, into my hair. My body starts to shake with horrible choked cries and sobbing and I pull my knees against my body and hold my head and cry. I don't know how long it is before Mark comes home.
"Roger?" I hear him call worriedly, I know he can hear me. He pounds on the bathroom door.
"Open the door, Roger." He yells, once he's tried the knob. I'd forgotten I'd locked it. I can't move. I can't move until Mark is near me, telling me I'll be all right. I can't believe it until he tells me.
"Roger, open the door!" His voice cracks with the force of his scream and I can't move. I hear him kicking the door, slamming his body against it. The door creaks, groaning from the force, but doesn't break. I reach a hand up slowly, my fingers brushing against the knob weakly. I turn the handle enough that the lock clicks open and Mark is at my side a moment later, angry and worried. He picks up the knife, sending me a glare that forces me to cower against the wall. I pull my arms away from him when he reaches for them.
"Don't touch me. Don't touch me, Mark." I say weakly, holding my arms against my body.
"Oh fuck off, Roger, let me see." He grabs my hands so he can see the damage. He sighs audibly, but his anger fades slightly. He grabs some toilet paper and presses it to one of my worst cuts.
"You shouldn't do that, Marky." I tell him.
He shrugs. "I'm careful. Don't worry, Rog." He says gently. His anger has faded considerably.
He cleans my cuts for me, wiping the blood away until it clots, giving me band-aids for the worst two, then sits against the wall beside me and puts an arm around my shoulders. He doesn't say anything for a long time, then he sighs loudly.
"You didn't eat anything today, did you?" He asks.
"I can't if you're not here."
"Roger, I'm not always going to be here. You have to learn how to eat on your own."
I shake my head at him but say nothing.
"Roger," He says quietly, very slowly. "I think you might need more help than I can give you."
I'm shaking my head before he even finishes.
"No, Mark. Please, no. I can't go, I can't."
"Why not?" He asks gently, his hand rubbing my shoulder, the warmth flooding through me.
"They don't care like you do. They can't help me. If you scream there, no one comes to help you."
"Roger..."
"I can't be alone, I need you. I need someone. I need to scream, and I need to feel like someone is listening."
He doesn't say anything for a long time. I hate myself.
"Alright, Roger." He says quietly. He pulls me closer to him and sets down the pocketknife to wrap his arms around my shaking body. I fall against his chest and let him hold me.
When he pulls away from me I reach for the knife. He watches me pick it up and move to put it in my pocket.
"Give me the knife, Roger." Mark says. His eyes tell me I don't have a choice. I stare back evenly, drop the knife in my pocket and pull my hand out. He narrows his eyes, but says nothing. I try to push past him out of the bathroom, but he grabs my arm. I let out an animalistic cry of pain, which he ignores as his hand dives into my pocket and pulls out the pocketknife.
He walks out of the room, leaving me rubbing my bruised arm. I try to be angry with him, but I can't. I'm pushed into apathy. I shrug my shoulders and head to my bedroom. When I get there Mark is standing in the middle of the room waiting for me.
"Where are they, Roger?" He asks.
I shake my head. He can't take them yet. I'm not ready to let go. I shake my head again, shrinking down into my niche next to my guitar case.
"Roger..."
I ignore him and pull my knees up to my chest, then hide my face in them. I hear him drop down to his knees in front of me. He lays his hands on my shoulders and I look up at him.
"Tell me. I can't help you unless you want to be helped."
"I do," I say miserably.
"Then tell me where you keep them. I don't want you to hurt yourself again."
"You can't stop me." I say harshly.
"Then maybe you should be at a hospital." He replies, with just as much venom, pushing me backwards against the wall.
The sick feeling of fear clenches in my stomach and I shake my head at him, looking up into his eyes.
"No, no please..."
"Where?"
I gesture vaguely toward my bed. He looks back over his shoulder, then back at me.
"They're under the mattress." I tell him softly.
Mark goes across the room and lifts up one side of the mattress. One of them catches the light and sends little streams of light about the room. Mark picks one of them up, then throws it back down. He shakes his head and drops the mattress and leaves. When he comes back he has a plastic bag that he puts them in. He pulls the pocketknife out of his pocket and puts it in the bag as well. He gestures to me.
"What?"
"C'mon, you're going to throw these away."
"I am?"
"Yeah." He grabs my wrists and pulls me up to stand. He takes my hand and I follow him out of the room. He doesn't stop walking until we're at a dumpster a few blocks away. He hands me the bag.
"Throw them out." He says.
I give him one last hopeless look, but when I'm met with no emotion or pity I lift up the lid on the dumpster and throw the bag in, feeling part of my life slip with it. When they're gone Mark smiles at me and takes my hand again. He wraps his other arm around my waist and pulls me close. I feel his lips brush against my cheek.
"Good." He says. "That's good."
I shake my head at him, but say nothing. He tightens his grip on my waist and starts us walking back to the loft. When we're back he lays me down in my bed, tucks my blankets around me.
"I'm proud of you." He tells me, with a generous smile. I feel his fingers in my hair and he gently kisses my forehead.
"I'm so fucked up."
He lets out a choked sort of laugh. "No, no you're not. Well, you are, but that doesn't mean anything."
"What does that mean?" I ask him.
He shakes his head, laughing. "I have no idea. I just, well you make me nervous sometimes."
"Why? 'Cause I'm fucked up?"
"No." He says quietly. "Because of... well, what's been happening."
"Oh."
Neither one of us says anything for a long time. Mark lies down beside me over the blankets.
"What is happening?" He asks, in an almost shy voice.
I shrug, not looking at him. "I don't know."
"You kissed me first." He says.
"You kissed back."
Silence.
"Well," He says. "I know that I liked it. I liked kissing you, I want to kiss you more." I hear his voice shake slightly at the end, knowing he's nervous as he always is while emotionally vulnerable. For once it's me that could break him in an instant, with a few words, but I won't.
"Yeah." I tell him. "Yeah, me too."
He sighs loudly, and I laugh at him under my breath. My stomach chooses this moment to make a very inconvenient rumble of hunger. The realization of what is happening to me returns and our relief and pleasure is overcome with a sick sense of reality.
"Want me to get you something?" He asks a moment later. I nod slightly, hoping he saw the subtle motion. He gets up and when he returns he's holding a bowl of soap. I stare at it nervously and he smiles at me.
"It's only half full, it's not too hot." He says gently, seeing my discomfort.
He sits beside me on the bed and I sit up and lean against the wall. I look down into the bowl full of red liquid.
"We had tomato soup?" I ask him, unbelieving.
"I bought it earlier." He says with a smirk. Bastard. He knows I love tomato soup.
Mark holds a small spoonful up to me and after giving him an indignant look for feeding me, I take it. I feel the warm liquid slid down my throat and it feels good, better than it's been in long time. I still don't eat very much of it, not even half of what's in the bowl, but Mark still kisses my temple and grins at me. He puts the rest of the soup back in the kitchen and comes back to me.
"Feel any better?" He asks.
My stomach is knotting itself tightly against digesting the soup, but I try to ignore the sick feeling that is growing and I nod at him. He smiles again and slips under the covers beside me, moving close and resting his head against my shoulder. I feel my lips curve slightly upwards and I close my eyes.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Notes continued: I love tomato soup, so Roger does too. ;) hope you all liked! Thanks again for the reviews!
Notes: Thanks for all the totally sexy reviews, they make my life. I love that you love it. ;)
Chapter 7
–My Insides Will Look Like War-
Retreat. Retreat far back into my own mind, thoughts mixing and developing, finally settling on the unparalleled thrill of watching red rivers run down my arms. I rub at my arms, sore from healing, and feel a terrible quake of need course through my body. For the first time in two years I desperately want a hit. Anything to make the pain of not hurting go away.
Besides this, a steady diet of nothing is killing me. I feel my stomach, empty and hollow, resting uselessly against my insides. Despite the little pieces Mark can convince me to choke down, which usually end up swimming in stomach bile and blood not much later, the signs of starvation are starting to set in. My skin is gray, dark and sick looking. The bruises under my eyes are darker, painful if I touch them, and my cheeks are sunken in and bruised as well, my cheekbones jutting out from my face at a very sharp, unhealthy angle. I spend hours in front of the mirror at night or when Mark isn't home, staring at every fault and wondering what the final bliss of death could be like.
The usual dizziness and sense of nausea sets in and I collapse on the bathroom floor, leaning against the wall with my arms wrapped around my stomach. There's a need, and a want to do some damage. But there's also a need and a want to not hurt Mark again. I take one of my hands away and slip it into my pocket, my fingers closing around my pocketknife. Slowly I pull it out, flicking it open.
Just once. Close my eyes. How many times is once? Just one, just once. Watch the light catch the blade and I rotate the knife and watch the light reflect onto the wall. Just once.
I hold the blade to my skin and press down. Not far enough to bleed, but enough to feel. Through the tiny square of an open window I hear someone shout outside and the knife slips and I cut. A thick line of blood wells up a moment later and then it's heroin.
Shouldn't do this to myself. Small cut by the wrist.
Shouldn't do this to Mark. Larger one above the elbow.
I want to stop, but I can't now. It's been days and the burn has been there, the pain has been there and the need has been there. Then came the want and I was done for. I'm trembling. Bleeding and trembling. I drop the knife, run my fingers through my hair, feeling the blood dripping onto my clothes, into my hair. My body starts to shake with horrible choked cries and sobbing and I pull my knees against my body and hold my head and cry. I don't know how long it is before Mark comes home.
"Roger?" I hear him call worriedly, I know he can hear me. He pounds on the bathroom door.
"Open the door, Roger." He yells, once he's tried the knob. I'd forgotten I'd locked it. I can't move. I can't move until Mark is near me, telling me I'll be all right. I can't believe it until he tells me.
"Roger, open the door!" His voice cracks with the force of his scream and I can't move. I hear him kicking the door, slamming his body against it. The door creaks, groaning from the force, but doesn't break. I reach a hand up slowly, my fingers brushing against the knob weakly. I turn the handle enough that the lock clicks open and Mark is at my side a moment later, angry and worried. He picks up the knife, sending me a glare that forces me to cower against the wall. I pull my arms away from him when he reaches for them.
"Don't touch me. Don't touch me, Mark." I say weakly, holding my arms against my body.
"Oh fuck off, Roger, let me see." He grabs my hands so he can see the damage. He sighs audibly, but his anger fades slightly. He grabs some toilet paper and presses it to one of my worst cuts.
"You shouldn't do that, Marky." I tell him.
He shrugs. "I'm careful. Don't worry, Rog." He says gently. His anger has faded considerably.
He cleans my cuts for me, wiping the blood away until it clots, giving me band-aids for the worst two, then sits against the wall beside me and puts an arm around my shoulders. He doesn't say anything for a long time, then he sighs loudly.
"You didn't eat anything today, did you?" He asks.
"I can't if you're not here."
"Roger, I'm not always going to be here. You have to learn how to eat on your own."
I shake my head at him but say nothing.
"Roger," He says quietly, very slowly. "I think you might need more help than I can give you."
I'm shaking my head before he even finishes.
"No, Mark. Please, no. I can't go, I can't."
"Why not?" He asks gently, his hand rubbing my shoulder, the warmth flooding through me.
"They don't care like you do. They can't help me. If you scream there, no one comes to help you."
"Roger..."
"I can't be alone, I need you. I need someone. I need to scream, and I need to feel like someone is listening."
He doesn't say anything for a long time. I hate myself.
"Alright, Roger." He says quietly. He pulls me closer to him and sets down the pocketknife to wrap his arms around my shaking body. I fall against his chest and let him hold me.
When he pulls away from me I reach for the knife. He watches me pick it up and move to put it in my pocket.
"Give me the knife, Roger." Mark says. His eyes tell me I don't have a choice. I stare back evenly, drop the knife in my pocket and pull my hand out. He narrows his eyes, but says nothing. I try to push past him out of the bathroom, but he grabs my arm. I let out an animalistic cry of pain, which he ignores as his hand dives into my pocket and pulls out the pocketknife.
He walks out of the room, leaving me rubbing my bruised arm. I try to be angry with him, but I can't. I'm pushed into apathy. I shrug my shoulders and head to my bedroom. When I get there Mark is standing in the middle of the room waiting for me.
"Where are they, Roger?" He asks.
I shake my head. He can't take them yet. I'm not ready to let go. I shake my head again, shrinking down into my niche next to my guitar case.
"Roger..."
I ignore him and pull my knees up to my chest, then hide my face in them. I hear him drop down to his knees in front of me. He lays his hands on my shoulders and I look up at him.
"Tell me. I can't help you unless you want to be helped."
"I do," I say miserably.
"Then tell me where you keep them. I don't want you to hurt yourself again."
"You can't stop me." I say harshly.
"Then maybe you should be at a hospital." He replies, with just as much venom, pushing me backwards against the wall.
The sick feeling of fear clenches in my stomach and I shake my head at him, looking up into his eyes.
"No, no please..."
"Where?"
I gesture vaguely toward my bed. He looks back over his shoulder, then back at me.
"They're under the mattress." I tell him softly.
Mark goes across the room and lifts up one side of the mattress. One of them catches the light and sends little streams of light about the room. Mark picks one of them up, then throws it back down. He shakes his head and drops the mattress and leaves. When he comes back he has a plastic bag that he puts them in. He pulls the pocketknife out of his pocket and puts it in the bag as well. He gestures to me.
"What?"
"C'mon, you're going to throw these away."
"I am?"
"Yeah." He grabs my wrists and pulls me up to stand. He takes my hand and I follow him out of the room. He doesn't stop walking until we're at a dumpster a few blocks away. He hands me the bag.
"Throw them out." He says.
I give him one last hopeless look, but when I'm met with no emotion or pity I lift up the lid on the dumpster and throw the bag in, feeling part of my life slip with it. When they're gone Mark smiles at me and takes my hand again. He wraps his other arm around my waist and pulls me close. I feel his lips brush against my cheek.
"Good." He says. "That's good."
I shake my head at him, but say nothing. He tightens his grip on my waist and starts us walking back to the loft. When we're back he lays me down in my bed, tucks my blankets around me.
"I'm proud of you." He tells me, with a generous smile. I feel his fingers in my hair and he gently kisses my forehead.
"I'm so fucked up."
He lets out a choked sort of laugh. "No, no you're not. Well, you are, but that doesn't mean anything."
"What does that mean?" I ask him.
He shakes his head, laughing. "I have no idea. I just, well you make me nervous sometimes."
"Why? 'Cause I'm fucked up?"
"No." He says quietly. "Because of... well, what's been happening."
"Oh."
Neither one of us says anything for a long time. Mark lies down beside me over the blankets.
"What is happening?" He asks, in an almost shy voice.
I shrug, not looking at him. "I don't know."
"You kissed me first." He says.
"You kissed back."
Silence.
"Well," He says. "I know that I liked it. I liked kissing you, I want to kiss you more." I hear his voice shake slightly at the end, knowing he's nervous as he always is while emotionally vulnerable. For once it's me that could break him in an instant, with a few words, but I won't.
"Yeah." I tell him. "Yeah, me too."
He sighs loudly, and I laugh at him under my breath. My stomach chooses this moment to make a very inconvenient rumble of hunger. The realization of what is happening to me returns and our relief and pleasure is overcome with a sick sense of reality.
"Want me to get you something?" He asks a moment later. I nod slightly, hoping he saw the subtle motion. He gets up and when he returns he's holding a bowl of soap. I stare at it nervously and he smiles at me.
"It's only half full, it's not too hot." He says gently, seeing my discomfort.
He sits beside me on the bed and I sit up and lean against the wall. I look down into the bowl full of red liquid.
"We had tomato soup?" I ask him, unbelieving.
"I bought it earlier." He says with a smirk. Bastard. He knows I love tomato soup.
Mark holds a small spoonful up to me and after giving him an indignant look for feeding me, I take it. I feel the warm liquid slid down my throat and it feels good, better than it's been in long time. I still don't eat very much of it, not even half of what's in the bowl, but Mark still kisses my temple and grins at me. He puts the rest of the soup back in the kitchen and comes back to me.
"Feel any better?" He asks.
My stomach is knotting itself tightly against digesting the soup, but I try to ignore the sick feeling that is growing and I nod at him. He smiles again and slips under the covers beside me, moving close and resting his head against my shoulder. I feel my lips curve slightly upwards and I close my eyes.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Notes continued: I love tomato soup, so Roger does too. ;) hope you all liked! Thanks again for the reviews!