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 again. Really. I feel bad, but I've been busy. Please forgive me and my horrible updates recently... I'm doing my best but I've got shit to deal with. Hope you enjoy this chapter anyway. :D

Chapter 11

-Self-Disgust is Self-Obsession-

They really shouldn't have a mirror in the bathroom here. You'd think they were encouraging our behavior, not trying to prevent it.

I stand in front of it almost every night, sneaking out of bed because I never swallow those sleeping pills (I save them, then take a bunch to knock me out for hours at a time during the day if I'm bored), and come here to stare. Sometimes I take off all of my clothes, sometimes just my shirt.

Tonight I lift my shirt over my head and stare hard. 120, they told me. Those seven pounds I've gained since I've been here help, but they don't hide the horror. I still look like a corpse, my bones stick out all over and if I lift my arms over my head, every detail of my ribcage can be seen.

I'm disgusting, but it's fascinating. I let my fingers trace over the bones, admiring the smooth ridges they create. It's sick. And I can't stop.

No. Think of Mark. Can't keep doing this because I have to get better for Mark. I can have visitors starting tomorrow and Mark promised to be here. I want to be able to tell him I'm better, that I can go home soon. I am better.

I look around the small bathroom. There isn't much in here, just a toilet and a sink really, the showers and whatever are somewhere else. My eyes land on the toilet paper holder. It's metal. The edges look sharp. They gleam at me suggestively. Fuck. I rub at my arms, I almost don't want to. I've come pretty far from this, but the familiar sting is pulling me to my knees in front it. I run a finger along the underside of one of the arms. It is rather sharp. But it would take a few tries. I run my finger along the other one, which feels the same until I feel a rip in the skin. I take the toilet paper off of the holder and examine the spot.

There's a little jagged area near the edge that I cut my finger on. It's good enough. I lift my arm up to the metal and press my skin against it, then pull my arm toward the sharp bit. It scratches, but doesn't cut. Fuck. I do it again, pressing my arm against it with more force, and this time the skin catches and a little blood wells up. Not enough. I do it again in the same spot until I've made a long line of blood across my arm, about halfway between elbow and wrist. It crosses over some other scars. I make another an inch or so away. I cut deeper than I mean to, the blood starts dripping down my arm. I move to the other side and do my other arm.

I'm starting to get the hang of it when someone hesitantly opens the door.

"Roger?" He asks quietly.

Fuck. I try to cover my arms, but there's blood on the floor anyway.

"Go away, Adam." I snap. The room is starting to blur around me. I feel slightly dizzy.

"Shit, man." He says, ignoring me and coming in the bathroom, closing the door behind him. "What'd you do?"

"I cut myself you stupid fuck. Get the hell away from me!"

"Shut up!" He whispers. "The nurse will hear you. She's down the hall right now, she saw me get out of bed. I told her I was going to the bathroom."

I gesture to the toilet. "Well hurry it up, I'm busy." My head feels heavy.

He kneels beside me. "Those look really deep."

"They are."

He rubs at his arms self-consciously. "I could never cut that deep." I look over at his thin little arms. I see the same old white little scratches that have always been there. He looks embarrassed.

"I'm not proud of it." I manage to say, the room and his face are blurring together. I start to feel sick, but then a strange calm sets in.

"I'm going to get the nurse." He says, starting to stand.

"Don't you dare." I say, then my head hits the floor and I pass out.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

When I wake up again, my arms are bandaged up to my elbows and I'm lying in bed. Adam is across the room, leaning against the wall, his feet hanging over the edge of his bed. I try to sit up, but using my arms for support makes them hurt so I lay helplessly on my back until Adam comes over.

"Here," He says. "No, c'mon man, let me help you."

I want to ignore him, I want to do it on my own, but I'd rather be sitting. So I let him help me up, and I lean against the wall like he had been doing.

"They wanted to put you on a more secure floor." He says.

"Why didn't they?"

"No room." He says. "And your therapist thinks you should be around other people more often."

"Bitch." I mutter, thinking of how she looked at Mark. Shit. Mark.

"What day is it?" I ask him, panicked.

"It's only like, 9 o'clock, man. Calm down. It was only last night." He looks both alarmed and amused.

"What time is the visitation thing?" I ask him.

"Visitors can come between 10 and 2." He tells me. "I don't know if they'll let you have anyone today, though." When he sees my face, his brow knits in concern. "You didn't have anyone coming, did you?"

"Yeah." I say quietly. "Yeah, Mark was..."

I look up at him suddenly, realizing I had forgotten who he was. It was that stupid kid I fought with my first day here. The one I've been trying to avoid the whole time. I glare at him and clam up.

"Why do you care, anyway?" I snap.

He sighs. "You're sort of fucked up, you know? I thought I could help."

"Sort of." I breathe, still glaring. "Well, you can't."

He rolls his eyes. "Whatever, man. I'm going out there to watch TV or something, I've had enough of babysitting you. Let me know if you ever want to actually talk."

"Not likely." I say harshly, but the moment he's gone the room feels very empty. I wrap my bandaged arms around myself and lay down on my side, intent upon sleeping some more.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

"Do you feel up to a visitor?" The nurse asks me gently. She's the old one, the only one I like.

Visitor? I try to clear my mind and think. Visitor, yes.

"Yes, it's Mark, right? Please, it's Mark?"

She smiles at me, but presses my back down onto the mattress. "Stay here, hon. I'll bring your lunch in here, maybe you two can eat together?"

I nod. Whatever, I think. I'd agree to anything at this point. She smiles and gets up, leaving the room for a moment. She comes back with a tray of food and lagging behind her looking shy is Mark. I ignore the rush of pain in my arms when I sit up and I hurry out of the bed and stagger quickly over to him. I hold him tightly and he laughs at me.

"It's alright, Rog. Hey, come on, sit down."

I let go of him enough to guide me back to my bed and he sits me down on the edge of the mattress and then sits beside me. He puts his arm around my shoulders and kisses my cheek. I pull him close again and kiss his lips, a desperation in the action that makes it rougher than I mean it to be. He rubs my back and smiles at me when I pull away.

"I missed you too, Rog." He says. "The loft is, well I suppose it's not any quieter than when you were there, but it's empty." He tells me. "It's missing the big blond gorilla that used to sulk around in it."

"Gorilla." I say quietly, pretending to be offended, but I'm really too happy to see him to care. I know I'm grinning stupidly.

"Well, I've missed my every move being documented by your stupid camera and being followed around all damn day." I tell him and he smiles.

"And I miss," I think for a moment. "I miss tomato soup. They don't have any."

"Poor baby." He laughs, but then turns serious. "They told me you're still not eating, Roger." He says. "Why aren't you eating?"

"I don't want to." I tell him. "I miss you too much. I miss the loft. God help me, I miss Maureen. I hate being here, Marky. I don't want to be here."

He looks sad, almost helpless. "Roger, I can't take you home until I know you're getting better. I don't think you are."

"Mark, please!" I beg him. "Don't leave me here, I can't take it!"

He looks horrified. His eyes flick over to the plate of food. "Will you eat something? Now that I'm here?"

I nod. "Yes. Yes, just don't leave me."

"I'll think about it, ok Rog? I just, I want to do what's best for you, even if you're unhappy." He shakes his head. "Shit, that sounds mean. I don't mean it like that, ok? I just..." He bites his lip. "Maybe that's what I'm doing. You're not happy, are you?"

I shake my head. "No. I hate it here."

He runs his hand through his hair. "I'll think about it, ok? Just, here," He picks up a piece of bread. "Eat this. Can you eat this?"

I take it from him and stare at it. I look back up at him. He gives me a questioning look. I break off a tiny piece and put it in my mouth. It almost feels good to have it there. I swallow it and when I take another piece it's a larger one. I manage this too, but then I cough and he hands me some water. Water I've been drinking. It's really the only healthy thing I've ever done, is drink a lot of water.

Mark kisses my forehead. "C'mon baby, you can do it."

I look at him in surprise and he smiles shyly. He wants that too, I think. He wants me to be better so we can do more than kiss and feel sorry for me. I take another piece of the bread.

I get through the whole slice and he even gets me to eat some of the mashed potatoes they put on my plate. Well, that's what they're supposed to be anyway. The nurse is in the room this whole time, but I hardly mind because I like her. Mark kisses me again, a long but sweet one on my lips. When he pulls away I wrap my arms around him and he holds me tightly.

"It's alright, Rog." He tells me. "You're going to be alright."

I sniff and blink a few times because I know he's going to leave and I think I'm going to start crying and I don't want to.

"I love you." He whispers and I freeze. I pull away and stare at him. He smiles hesitantly and I feel the first tear on my cheek and he reaches out and wipes it for me.

"I love you too." I tell him and he grins. I kiss him again.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

"What happened to your arms?" He asks me, seeing the bandages under my sleeves for the first time.

"Oh." I say, looking away. "It's nothing. I just..."

"Roger." He says.

"I cut myself." I admit, looking up.

He sighs heavily. "Roger, how? Why? How can you keep doing this? I thought you were past that!"

I cringe at his disappointment and shrug.

"I didn't mean to." I say stupidly.

"How could you not mean to? You had to have meant to!"

"I'm sorry." I say quietly.

He sighs again and wraps his arms around me. "It's alright. Well, it's not, but... I don't know." He pulls away and shakes his head.

"Mark, I'm sorry." I grow fearful. I think he's pissed.

He looks up and gives me a small smile. "I know. It's all right, Rog. It'll be all right."

I don't know which of us he's trying to reassure.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

"Don't leave me." I beg him.

"I have to go, Rog." He says, his voice heavy and thick. "I'll be back tomorrow morning for your therapy. We'll talk to your therapist, ok? You've only got another week or so left on the money Joanne gave us. We'll talk about it."

I nod, knowing he has to leave. It's after 2 o'clock already. The nice nurse thought he was doing me good, so she let him stay longer and took the blame, saying she lost track of the time. But now he has to go. I hold him against me, listening for the beating of his heart and I can feel his soft breath against my neck. He kisses me once more and then he's gone.

As soon as he's gone I go back into my room and lay on the bed, thankful I don't know where Adam is. I hate myself. I hate that I hurt Mark just as much as myself. I wish he didn't care so much. I don't want him to be disappointed in me or to be hurt when I cut myself. I hate that I feel the need to do it, which only makes me what to do it more, to punish myself for doing it in the first place. The more I think about it, the less sense it makes until all of my thoughts center on a shining blade and all I want is to feel it in my skin.

I turn over in the bed. Shit. I can't think about this anymore. I have to stop. Think of Mark. He wants me better. He wants us to be together. He wants me to live with him again, and to sleep next to him, we both want to be lovers. Shit. Stop it. I don't deserve any of that. Why hasn't he given up on me yet? Why is it that no matter what I do I can't make him stop loving me? Why does he still care? I'm not worth that. I fuck everything up. I fuck up anything I ever do. I'm scared I'll fuck him up too. And then I really couldn't live with myself. Maybe that's what it all comes down to. I'm scared of hurting Mark. I know I could do it. I'm good at it. I do it every day. I've already hurt him. Shit.

I close my eyes and try to sleep. When I can't I dig into my pocket for a couple of pills I know I stashed in there the other day. I shove them in my mouth and swallow them with spit and lay back down. Sleep comes, eventually.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .