Chapter 4 (Mark)

The door to Mimi's room is closed when I get back from work. Normally I wouldn't do anything to bother her, but after last night, I'm not sure I like the idea of her being alone in the loft all day. I go over to the door and knock softly on it, not sure whether or not I want her to know that I'm checking up on her.

There's no answer.

I knock again, barely loud enough to be heard even from my side of the door this time.

Nothing.

Very slowly, I turn the doorknob, waiting for an outburst. When I don't get one, I open the door a crack and stick my head in.

Mimi's sitting on the bed, her back to me, looking at something on her lap. I can't see from this angle, but I don't dare get any closer and she's obviously so caught up in whatever it is she's doing that she didn't hear me knock. I decide just to wait.

I stand there for what seems like hours, sure that my heart is beating so loudly it's going to give me away. Memories come flooding back from years ago. Waiting up until dawn for Roger to come home, getting back from work and finding him passed out in the bathroom. Too many fights for me to count.

Mimi holds something up to the light, looking at it as though it's some alien object. Then I see what it is. A needle.

I catch my breath and she turns, too quickly for me to get out of sight. The needle falls from her fingers as she stares at me in shock.

"Mark! What the hell are you doing?"

I swallow hard, my voice sticking in my throat. This can't be happening, I don't want this to be happening, I can't take another fight right now.

"I—I wanted to make sure…you were okay," I stammer. "Last night you seemed so…I don't know…I thought you might be thinking about…"

"Get the hell out!" she yells, and suddenly I'm angry.

"Well, obviously you aren't!" I shout back at her.

"What?"

"Aren't okay! You said you wanted to get clean. I let you stay here so you could do that. And now you go back on your word. Of course. I should've expected it by now."

Mimi looks as if she's just been slapped. I regret it the minute the words are out of my mouth, but somehow I can't bring myself to apologize. I'm just too angry. About Angel. About Roger. About this. It's just too much.

Mimi squares her shoulders, deliberately looks me in the eye. I can see that she's shaking under it all.

"Fine," she says, her voice completely flat. "If you don't want me here anymore, then I'll leave. If you recall, that was my plan in the first place. I guess it just took me an extra long time to pick up my baggage since there's so damn much of it."

She pulls the duffel back out of the back of her closet.

"Now if you'll excuse me, I just came to get my things."

I leave silently.

(Roger)

It's a perfect, beautiful day in the park. It's crisp and windy, but not so cold as to be uncomfortable. The wind makes whitecaps on the lake, churning the water as if it's soup being stirred by a giant somewhere too high up for me to see. And it's quiet, too. Quiet all except for the sounds of birds as they dive in and out of the cattails, looking for food.

There's nowhere like this in the city. Right now it feels like the most beautiful, lonely place I've ever seen.

I walk all the way out on the dock and put my guitar case down on the little bench there. I walk to the edge of the pier and look down at the swirling dark blue water. A part of me wants to just keep walking, let the water finish off the mess my life has turned into in the past three years.

But then would anyone know? Would the others find out? Would they even care?

Somehow I can't bear the thought of never going back, never knowing what they've been thinking these past few weeks. As much as I've tried to convince myself that I can't go back, I know I'll have to eventually. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, they say. I hope so. I don't see how anyone would want me back at this point.

I sit down on the bench and take out my guitar, play the familiar notes of Musetta's Waltz, remembering my mother taking me to the theatre all those years ago. When she still did things with me. When she still cared what happened to me. Before I became the big Davis Family Failure.

I try other notes, too, and other chords, but somehow they don't sound as true, as finished. Everything sounds dull. Reused. Maybe that's what's wrong with this world. We've run out of art. Everything's been done before and so no one really bothers with anything original. After all, why should they when they can just take some doped up version of another artist's piece, call it their own, and get good money for it?

The sound of footsteps makes me jump. I don't like the idea of other people invading my private space, even if it is a public park. I turn around and look. A young couple is making their way down the peer. They have their arms around each other and are gazing into each other's eyes like the rest of the world doesn't even exist.

My stomach churns dangerously. Quickly, I close up my guitar case and stand up. As the girl passes me, she gives me a look.

Brown eyes. Dark brown. Or am I seeing things? I claw at my eyes with one hand until they tear. It's haunting me. I can't take this much longer.

As I turn to make my way back to Sam's little house, I catch a glimpse of the couple sitting on the bench that was mine a few seconds ago. They're curled up in each other's arms.

Perfectly happy.

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