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: sorry it took so long guys, I couldn't decide what to do next here, and had completely incredible inspiration for a couple original stories which are shaping up nicely. So sorry, but here's two new chappies, they sort of go together. ;)
Chapter 8
-I Wish That Someone Would Hold Me...-
My fingers ache from clutching the sides of the toilet, the tips and knuckles sore and white. I have never found myself begging for another human presence more in my life. My stomach feels like it's ripping itself in two. I use one shaking hand to wipe the sweat away from my brow. I reach to wipe at my mouth, but instead lean over the toilet again and throw up the rest of my insides. The water is red, bubbling with the fire and pain it took to throw it up, and swimming with chunks of what could be lunch. My whole body is shaking.
All I can do when I finally empty myself is lay on my side, curled up against the wall. I can't stop the tears and they're hot and salty, blurring my vision and burning my skin and eyes. I don't fucking deserve to cry.
I wrap my arms around myself and shake. My hair falls into my eyes and I close them and wait. Mark and Maureen will get here eventually. They'll be here eventually and they'll help me. I'll have someone here. I hold myself tighter. Not that they should.
They should just leave me the fuck alone. I didn't start throwing up like this until they made me start eating. I was never this sick until they made me start eating. My skin is blistering in pain from the lack of air my blood is receiving. I haven't cut myself in two weeks. I can't, I have nothing to cut with. Mark hid everything sharp and he thew away my knives. I have nothing.
No. Mark made me throw away my knives. Instead of fucking letting me deal with it, he fucking took over. I cough and even though it's weak, my throat burns and I'm left sore. I should be hating him for all of this, it's all his fault.
But I can't. I can't hate him because I know he's trying to help me. I know he doesn't want me to die. And I know I will if I stop eating again. But this can't fucking be healthy. Throwing up chunks of your guts on a Saturday morning after eating some fucking crackers? I fucked myself up. I've fucked up again. It's all I'm good at, I guess. It's all I've ever done.
The door clicks and I whimper in anticipation. I hear Mark call my name and I can hear Maureen's softer footsteps enter the loft. Maureen pushes on the bathroom door and I hear her gasp when she sees me.
"Marky! Marky come here!"
She drops down beside me on the floor and I feel her soft little hands pressing on my shoulder. She runs her fingers through my hair and pushes it out of my eyes.
"You ok, sweetie?" She asks, her lower lip sticking out in a pout. Melodrama Maureen.
"Don't fuck around, Maureen." I croak at her, swatting her hand away with my remaining strength. Mark comes over and gently pushes her aside. He reaches for my hand, strokes my hair.
"Are you ok?" He asks me. "What happened?"
"Threw up." I tell him. "Threw up lots."
"Oh." He pulls me up to a sitting position, leaning me against the wall. I manage to hold myself up with Maureen's support. He picks up some toilet paper and wipes my mouth, then the sweat from my face. He touches my face gently and leans forward and kisses my forehead.
"You'll be alright." He says. "You're alright now."
I sniff and look away from him. Sometimes I can't face him when shit like this happens. Knowing Mark doesn't fuck things up like I do, and wondering what he's thinking of me when I do can be overwhelming. It's hard to be attached to somebody so flawless. April saw me at my worst, but fuck, she looked the same way. I was always sober around Mimi, and if I hadn't been she'd been there before. Sometimes it's even easier to look Maureen in the eye. At least I know she makes mistakes. At least I know she's not fucking perfect. I cast a bitter glance at Mark that he misses because he's looking at Maureen. It's easier when someone knows how you feel.
Maureen smiles at me and for possibly the first time, breaks her act in front of Mark.
"Why don't you come lay down somewhere other than the bathroom floor?" She helps me stand up as she says this and I lean my weight against her. It's not hard for her to manage, I probably weigh less than she does. Or at least close to her own weight.
She lays me down on the mattress in my room and runs her fingers through my hair. She wrinkles her nose.
"Your shirt is all sweaty. You want me to get you another one?"
Without thinking, I nod. She picks up another sweater and brings it over to me. Without thinking, I sit up and pull my wet shirt over my head. I catch her eye as I'm unfurling the new shirt.
"What?" I ask to her horrified stare. Immediately I cover myself with the shirt, not even bothering to put it on. "Don't look at me. Go away."
"Roger, you're really thin." She says stupidly. "I thought you've been eating."
"Yeah and throwing it all up." I say bitterly.
"That's not healthy." She says, looking away, at the floor.
"I fucking know that. I'm not doing it on purpose, Maureen."
Mark comes in a moment later, catching me as I try to put the shirt on.
"Jesus, Roger." He whispers, looking at me. I pull the shirt down over my bones. So much for Mark can't know. Mark knows, Mark knows. I shiver.
"I'm sorry." I find myself saying.
They exchange a look. Maureen keeps her eyes on the floor when she talks.
"Roger, I think you might need more help than..."
"I've already heard it from Mark. I don't need to hear it from you."
"Roger you need help!" She says loudly, locking her eyes with mine.
"I thought you would help me." I look at them desperately. "You said you would help me!"
"There's only so much we can do, Rog." Mark tells me gently. "I can't take care of you. You're getting sicker." He closes his eyes and lets his chin fall to his chest. "I don't want to see you die. I want you to get better."
"You don't want me here." I tell them bitterly, standing up. "You don't! You want me to die there. You're sending me away to die! You don't fucking care!"
Maureen tries to grab my arms but I move away from her.
"You don't care, you don't care." I fall into my niche, pulling my knees up to my chest and rocking myself back and forth. My shoulders shake with silent tears that don't fall and I shiver from the cold that's not there. Cold that I've created.
"Roger you're going to die!" Mark yells. "You're going to die if you don't get help." He kneels beside me and tries to take my hand. I push him away.
"Fuck off, Mark. You promised me, you promised."
"Roger you're going to go whether you want to or not. But I don't want to force you."
"Then don't fucking do it, Mark. Don't send me there." I look up to him, hoping he understands the desperation, the fear. How they ignore that you're a person, how they like to pretend you're a statistic, you're a disease, you can be cured but can't be talked to. You're incurable so you're filth. Hurt by healing, heal through hurt, it all feels the fucking same and I fucking hate all of it.
"Don't, don't please." I whimper, knowing I'm not convincing him. Knowing I'm failing.
He looks like he's about to cry, Maureen already is. She looks away so the curly blonde curtain hides her face, but I know she is.
"I don't want to, Roger. I wouldn't, I promise I wouldn't, but I can't lose you yet. I'm not ready to lose you yet."
"What if I'm ready to be lost?" I hadn't meant to say it out loud, and I regret it when I realize I do because Mark looks struck.
He just shakes his head. "Joanne's letting us borrow her car tomorrow. We're going to take you there, ok?"
I just stare at the floor. I have nothing else to say to him.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Notes Continued: mean old Marky. Lol. Oh well. There's still one more new one!
Notes: sorry it took so long guys, I couldn't decide what to do next here, and had completely incredible inspiration for a couple original stories which are shaping up nicely. So sorry, but here's two new chappies, they sort of go together. ;)
Chapter 8
-I Wish That Someone Would Hold Me...-
My fingers ache from clutching the sides of the toilet, the tips and knuckles sore and white. I have never found myself begging for another human presence more in my life. My stomach feels like it's ripping itself in two. I use one shaking hand to wipe the sweat away from my brow. I reach to wipe at my mouth, but instead lean over the toilet again and throw up the rest of my insides. The water is red, bubbling with the fire and pain it took to throw it up, and swimming with chunks of what could be lunch. My whole body is shaking.
All I can do when I finally empty myself is lay on my side, curled up against the wall. I can't stop the tears and they're hot and salty, blurring my vision and burning my skin and eyes. I don't fucking deserve to cry.
I wrap my arms around myself and shake. My hair falls into my eyes and I close them and wait. Mark and Maureen will get here eventually. They'll be here eventually and they'll help me. I'll have someone here. I hold myself tighter. Not that they should.
They should just leave me the fuck alone. I didn't start throwing up like this until they made me start eating. I was never this sick until they made me start eating. My skin is blistering in pain from the lack of air my blood is receiving. I haven't cut myself in two weeks. I can't, I have nothing to cut with. Mark hid everything sharp and he thew away my knives. I have nothing.
No. Mark made me throw away my knives. Instead of fucking letting me deal with it, he fucking took over. I cough and even though it's weak, my throat burns and I'm left sore. I should be hating him for all of this, it's all his fault.
But I can't. I can't hate him because I know he's trying to help me. I know he doesn't want me to die. And I know I will if I stop eating again. But this can't fucking be healthy. Throwing up chunks of your guts on a Saturday morning after eating some fucking crackers? I fucked myself up. I've fucked up again. It's all I'm good at, I guess. It's all I've ever done.
The door clicks and I whimper in anticipation. I hear Mark call my name and I can hear Maureen's softer footsteps enter the loft. Maureen pushes on the bathroom door and I hear her gasp when she sees me.
"Marky! Marky come here!"
She drops down beside me on the floor and I feel her soft little hands pressing on my shoulder. She runs her fingers through my hair and pushes it out of my eyes.
"You ok, sweetie?" She asks, her lower lip sticking out in a pout. Melodrama Maureen.
"Don't fuck around, Maureen." I croak at her, swatting her hand away with my remaining strength. Mark comes over and gently pushes her aside. He reaches for my hand, strokes my hair.
"Are you ok?" He asks me. "What happened?"
"Threw up." I tell him. "Threw up lots."
"Oh." He pulls me up to a sitting position, leaning me against the wall. I manage to hold myself up with Maureen's support. He picks up some toilet paper and wipes my mouth, then the sweat from my face. He touches my face gently and leans forward and kisses my forehead.
"You'll be alright." He says. "You're alright now."
I sniff and look away from him. Sometimes I can't face him when shit like this happens. Knowing Mark doesn't fuck things up like I do, and wondering what he's thinking of me when I do can be overwhelming. It's hard to be attached to somebody so flawless. April saw me at my worst, but fuck, she looked the same way. I was always sober around Mimi, and if I hadn't been she'd been there before. Sometimes it's even easier to look Maureen in the eye. At least I know she makes mistakes. At least I know she's not fucking perfect. I cast a bitter glance at Mark that he misses because he's looking at Maureen. It's easier when someone knows how you feel.
Maureen smiles at me and for possibly the first time, breaks her act in front of Mark.
"Why don't you come lay down somewhere other than the bathroom floor?" She helps me stand up as she says this and I lean my weight against her. It's not hard for her to manage, I probably weigh less than she does. Or at least close to her own weight.
She lays me down on the mattress in my room and runs her fingers through my hair. She wrinkles her nose.
"Your shirt is all sweaty. You want me to get you another one?"
Without thinking, I nod. She picks up another sweater and brings it over to me. Without thinking, I sit up and pull my wet shirt over my head. I catch her eye as I'm unfurling the new shirt.
"What?" I ask to her horrified stare. Immediately I cover myself with the shirt, not even bothering to put it on. "Don't look at me. Go away."
"Roger, you're really thin." She says stupidly. "I thought you've been eating."
"Yeah and throwing it all up." I say bitterly.
"That's not healthy." She says, looking away, at the floor.
"I fucking know that. I'm not doing it on purpose, Maureen."
Mark comes in a moment later, catching me as I try to put the shirt on.
"Jesus, Roger." He whispers, looking at me. I pull the shirt down over my bones. So much for Mark can't know. Mark knows, Mark knows. I shiver.
"I'm sorry." I find myself saying.
They exchange a look. Maureen keeps her eyes on the floor when she talks.
"Roger, I think you might need more help than..."
"I've already heard it from Mark. I don't need to hear it from you."
"Roger you need help!" She says loudly, locking her eyes with mine.
"I thought you would help me." I look at them desperately. "You said you would help me!"
"There's only so much we can do, Rog." Mark tells me gently. "I can't take care of you. You're getting sicker." He closes his eyes and lets his chin fall to his chest. "I don't want to see you die. I want you to get better."
"You don't want me here." I tell them bitterly, standing up. "You don't! You want me to die there. You're sending me away to die! You don't fucking care!"
Maureen tries to grab my arms but I move away from her.
"You don't care, you don't care." I fall into my niche, pulling my knees up to my chest and rocking myself back and forth. My shoulders shake with silent tears that don't fall and I shiver from the cold that's not there. Cold that I've created.
"Roger you're going to die!" Mark yells. "You're going to die if you don't get help." He kneels beside me and tries to take my hand. I push him away.
"Fuck off, Mark. You promised me, you promised."
"Roger you're going to go whether you want to or not. But I don't want to force you."
"Then don't fucking do it, Mark. Don't send me there." I look up to him, hoping he understands the desperation, the fear. How they ignore that you're a person, how they like to pretend you're a statistic, you're a disease, you can be cured but can't be talked to. You're incurable so you're filth. Hurt by healing, heal through hurt, it all feels the fucking same and I fucking hate all of it.
"Don't, don't please." I whimper, knowing I'm not convincing him. Knowing I'm failing.
He looks like he's about to cry, Maureen already is. She looks away so the curly blonde curtain hides her face, but I know she is.
"I don't want to, Roger. I wouldn't, I promise I wouldn't, but I can't lose you yet. I'm not ready to lose you yet."
"What if I'm ready to be lost?" I hadn't meant to say it out loud, and I regret it when I realize I do because Mark looks struck.
He just shakes his head. "Joanne's letting us borrow her car tomorrow. We're going to take you there, ok?"
I just stare at the floor. I have nothing else to say to him.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Notes Continued: mean old Marky. Lol. Oh well. There's still one more new one!