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Chapter Five A/N: This chapter came out first person, Mark -- different than I had intended. Because of that, I had a bunch of trouble with it, but parts of it I liked too much to give up on. A revelation I had in the shower kept it going. And sorry for the delay. High school and hurricanes have kept me pretty busy. Also, while editing, I realized that I started repeating myself. I realized that I started repeating myself. I (heart) edits and betas.

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Chapter Five: Soul of a Young Man

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It's . . . wow. The light is fucking bright. God.

I try to lift my hand, cover my eyes, but that hurts. I blink, squint, try to see with the glare and no glasses. It's . . . a needle? a sticker? a really big bug?

Ah. An IV and an Ace bandage. I experimentally bend my hand, then my arm -- ouch. Okay, Cohen, keep the hand and arm straight. But using a perfectly straight arm to block the light makes me look like Hitler, so I give up.

Okay. So where am I?

My left arm is unencumbered, so I reach around to see if I can locate my glasses. Bed -- armrest? no, bars -- table -- lamp -- success! Glasses.

Now considerably less blind, I take a look at the room.

Hospital. No doubt. Beeping machines, glaring white lights, an IV for fuck's sake . . . I must be on some drugs. My mind's not all here.

Close on Mark, stupidly trying to figure out he's in a hospital bed.

And there's . . . a window, I think. Maybe a TV? It's not the outside, it's Collins and Roger and a policeman. Window to a hallway.

If I try really hard, I can hear what they're saying.

" . . . aware, does he have a history of suicide attempts?" That's the policeman.

"Not that I can remember." Collins sounds tired. He should get some sleep. Those kids he teaches don't ever give him a break.

"Scars on his arms?" Police again.

"None from cutting." Roger. He sounds . . . weird. Higher-pitched? I'm looking at him, and there's something strange, not quite right. Can't quite place it though. . . . sparkles?

"And do you have any idea where this might have happened?"

Collins looks to Roger, who looks uncomfortable. "He got a new job a while ago. Some bar -- I don't know the name. I could check through his papers, see if there's a paycheck he hasn't cashed yet."

The policeman: "We'll be getting back in touch when he wakes up."

They nod, and the policeman moves off. Everything's muzzy, hazy still. I have the feeling that I know what they've been talking about, if I could just focus.

"God," That's Roger talking. Quieter, now. My eyes are closed -- I'm trying to focus. What's going on here? "That was my razor. Fuck, Collins, I probably killed him."

Razor. Razor. Roger's razor. I remember Roger's razor. What about Roger's razor?

I'm in the shower. I don't feel good, have been throwing up all morning. Knock Roger's razor on the floor -- fuck. Lean over to pick it up -- God, it hurts! Stand up, wincing, shouldn't have bent over . . . but I stand up too quick. Start to black out, feel myself falling, feel the razor slide along my leg as I drop it again . . .

I'm throwing up again, turned on my side. But there's a bedpan there, someone's rubbing my back, saying "It's okay, it's okay."

"It's not okay!" I want to scream. Fuck it all, I remember, I wish I didn't! "It's not okay! How can it be okay?"

"Mark?" It's Roger. He sounds worried. Fuck, I don't want him here. Can't face him. "Mark!"

My stomache's emtpy. The male nurse holding the bedpan frowns over my head and asks me something as he takes the pan away. I can't hear him, try to ask "What?" but it comes out as a whisper. He frowns and repeats the question. I still can't understand. He sighs, exasperated.

"Your sister's trying to get in here." What's Cindy doing here? The nurse keeps talking. "Or brother, I guess. The drag queen."

Roger's weird outfit makes a bit more sense. Only family in the ER.

"Don't want to see him." I manage to get out. The nurse nods, and I don't roll back over. Staying this way, I can't see out that little window to the hallway. Can't face him.

"I'm sorry, but he doesn't want any visitors right now." I hear the nurse tell Roger and pull a curtain over the window. He leaves the room and I can't hear what else he says, but I hear Roger's outraged replies.

"Like FUCK he doesn't want visitors! Mark! Dammit, Mark, you can't shut us out like this! Go ahead and call security, you little fuck, but I'm going in there -- Mark! Don't do this, Mark, we need to be here for you!"

His voice is fading. I think security came and dragged him off. I can tell I'm crying, take my glasses off and put them back on the table.

Every time I move, something hurts, and I wonder how I could have forgotten. I want to forget again.

In what feels like the next moment, I'm waking up. No dreams -- I rarely ever dream, and never when I'm stressed or exhausted. I feel better than earlier, physically at least. More collected. Less groggy.

I haven't forgotten, but I'm not hysterical. I'm dealing with this how I normally would, how I deal with life.

I shut it off. I detach. I think this might be a time where we can all agree that detachment is just fine.

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"Mr. Cohen?" It's a female nurse. One I haven't seen before. Nametag says 'Kathy.' "Mr. Cohen, your mother called. Do you feel up to talking to her?"

"Sure."

She nods and hands me the receiver from a phone I hadn't noticed on the bedtable, then leaves.

"Mom?"

"Mark? Are you okay? What happened?" She sounds rough.

"I'm . . . "

"I'm sorry, Markie, obviously you're not okay. Oh, God, Mark." She's crying. "I couldn't get in touch with anyone! I've been calling every hospital . . . Roger left a message, but the cell number he gave me -- no one called back . . . I don't even know what happened . . . "

"It's okay, Mom. It's nothing life-threatening. I'm being discharged this afternoon."

"Do you have someone to pick you up?"

"I was thinking of calling Cindy, asking her to get me." I don't want Mom to see me in a hospital bed. Brings back too many memories.

"She's over here, I can send her with the car."

"Thanks. I love you."

"Markie," she hesitates. "What happened?"

I pause. I should tell her.

"I'll see you later. I'm coming home tonight."

"We can talk then?"

Sure, Mom. "Goodbye."

"I love you, baby."

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I've been in this damn hospital too long. One day, one night unconscious -- broken by hysterics and Roger being thrown out. One day spent in tests and interviews with policemen, doctors, and a psychiatrist. I've been taken off the IV and ordered to attend at least one group therapy at the hospital and five individual sessions with a psychiatrist or psychologist of my choice.

Fine. I can deal with that, if I must.

I can't deal with much else, yet. I called Cindy's cell, and she told me not to worry about sending her into the city. I know she hates the city. She's picking me up in two hours. The real Cindy, not Roger in some Salvation Army prom dress. It occurs to me that he might get in legal trouble when the hospital realizes he bullshitted his way in here in the first place. It doesn't occur to me to do anything about it.

She'll take me by the loft. With any luck, no one will be there. No one should be there. Mimi's still here, dealing with her own medical crisis. Roger's visiting Mimi. Collins, the same. Maureen and Joanne have no reason to be at the loft. Benny --

Benny I actually wouldn't mind running into. Benny never expected me to be anything more than what I am. But Benny's in California. Fun in the sun and the sand and the surf.

I'm going to Scarsdale. I'll stay there as long as I can stand it, then I'm using my stash and I'm getting the hell out of here.

Two hours until I leave. Unfortunately, one hour of group therapy comes first.

"My name is Mark . . . "

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