Wow, I never ever believed I would be doing something like this. I've always been a huge fanfiction reader, but I never thought I would actually write something. Well, this should be a new experience. I hope you all enjoy it. I don't know how fast I'll be able to dish out new chapters, because when I wrote this I never had it with RENT in mind, but it felt so much like it I had to do it. So, a lot of things will have to be revised and changed in the story. However, I shall try my hardest to get them out, because I know how un-fun it is to wait for a new chapter. Well, here we go.
Title: Undecided at the moment.
Pairing: Mark/Maureen Roger/April
Rating: PG-13
Summary: This takes place before RENT and even before April dies. Mark is moving out, tired of Roger using. Mark comes back for his things and..well you'll just have to read what happens. There's a slight hint of slash and if I do have this turn into such it will be in a flashback or way in the future.
Chapter 1: Even if there's no love.
I can't stop. I don't know if it's because I'm so tired of trying, I've given up, or I'm just happier this way.
I slowly rest my head against the cool bathroom wall and slide down to sit on the hard tiled floor. I look up and stare at the continually blinking light above the cracked mirror. The lighting envelops the small room in a putrid yellow color. I think it's about to die out any minute. I reach behind me and push myself up off the decaying wall. The paint has been chipping and peeling for the past two years. You can't tell the original color anymore. I don't think I even remember. It's a dirty yellowish brown color now, similar to old newspaper. I think that in a past life it might have been blue or green. I stand up and shrug, then remember that there's no one here to see me do it. It feels foreign to have the loft so empty.
I lay my hands on top of the sink, slowly tracing around the edges with my fingertips. I begin to stare at myself in the mirror, but quickly look away. The face I see, I cannot recognize. Pale and cold. The eyes bloodshot.
I stare down at my hands, needing something to keep me away from looking at what I have become. I turn them around to look at my palms. I flip them again and start rubbing my left arm. A sharp pain in my side distracts me. It feels like weeks since I've had my last hit. I stare down at my old track marks. Some I've used so many times they haven't healed over yet. They're just empty holes in my flesh. Holes that remind me of what a failure I am. I begin to rub my arm self-consciously.
I gradually step out of the bathroom, once the light blows. As I head towards my room I notice a picture on the wall besides my door. I don't remember it being there. I suppose that's something to do with the drugs. My memory isn't as good as it used to be. The boy in the photograph stares back at me. His nearly toothless smile seems foreign, yet familiar at the same time. I slowly realize that it's me. Me. The old me. The me, when I was only six years old and everything in the world was perfect. My parents were still together. I still lived in fucking Ohio, where everyone was accepting of others, my pets were always running off to farms and my friends really did want to hangout, but couldn't because they were always grounded. I remember feeling happy then. Somehow. God, am I happy now?
I shake my head, answering my own question. I'm not happy. I'm starting to believe it may be impossible for a heroin addict to be happy.
I remember back to the first time I shot up in Ryan's apartment. His apartment that was filled with the stench of cigarette smoke and piss. The sick green light, which hung from the middle of the ceiling. His cigarette burned amber couch. The coffee table, to think he actually had a coffee table, that had so many nicks in it actually looked like some sort of a abstract carving. I remember that table. A table littered with syringes and empty little baggies, except for the one, almost unnoticeable. Filled with a strange substance.
The word heroin flashes into my mind. The reason why I have no real reason to survive. Fuck, heroin. God, fuck everything. I wish I could just forget. But I can't.
Staring at the picture of a younger me, I pull it off the wall. My fingertips run along the glass cover. A small sigh escapes my lips as I heave the picture to the floor. The glass cracks and shatters. A broken picture for a now broken life.
I stare down at the picture and kick it off to the side. I don't want to remember.
I reach for the doorknob to my room, but stop when I hear a knock at the front door. I'm not all to sure if I want to answer it. However I'm afraid that if I don't answer they'll keep knocking.
I slowly tread over to the door, but am greeted by it already being opened. I dart my head around trying to locate the intruder.
"Hey!" I shout. I attempt to sound fierce, but it's comes out rather pathetic.
"Hey, yourself."
I instantly recognize the voice. It's Mark. I turn around and spot him. He's bundled in the old coat we had once found on the street. It's got a large rip in the side, feathers sticking out. A white and blue scarf is wrapped around his neck and he has a small brown hat that barely covers his now shaggy blond hair. He's not carrying his camera, something that surprises me. I stare at him, waiting for him to explain why he's here. Why he has come back. I think he gets the idea.
I watch as he walks into his old room and grabs a cardboard box labeled 'shit'. He points at it.
"I'm just here to get the rest of my stuff."
"Oh." I say; trying to not sound disappointed. I walk over to our kitchen table. I mentally sigh when I realize it is no longer ours. Nothing is 'ours' anymore. I reluctantly climb on and swing my feet back and forth as I hear him start collecting his things. I watch them move back and forth almost mesmerized. I really need to shoot up, but I can't bring myself to do it in front of him. I suppose I lose track of time, because when I look up I see Mark staring down at me.
"Yeah...?" It comes out only above a whisper.
He takes off his hat and starts to fiddle with it. Then climbs up on the table and sits beside me. He turns his head slowly towards me, while pushing his glass up off his nose. I'm given a look I'm used to. I know what he wants, so I turn my head, hoping he'll get the idea and leave. I glare at the wall. Angry, that he had to come back.
"What happened to the picture?" The words barely escape his lips.
"Nothing." I refuse to look at him. I can't bring myself to do it. I'm afraid if I look at him I'll hit him.
He slowly puts his hand on my shoulder. I regretfully look over at him, and then at his hand. A strange emotion slowly comes to me. I look into his eyes, wanting nothing more than to hold him again, like before. To love him, but I remember that that couldn't ever happen. He can't love me. He loves her.
"Rog, I know you're tired of hearing me tell you this, but I really think you should get some help." He frowns.
"Just leave me..." I clench my fists.
"No, listen to me. Please." He runs a hand through his hair. A nervous gesture.
However, I really don't care how he feels at the moment. He wouldn't care how I would feel. He didn't care how I felt, when he decided to leave. When he told me he couldn't be with me. When he told me he was leaving.
I quickly jump off the table. I feel his eyes following me as I walk to my room, slamming the door behind me. I can hear him walking towards it. I rest my body against the door. I'm tired of my own hostility.
"I really don't know why April, or anyone for that matter, even fucking puts up with you."
I stare down at the ground, feeling ashamed.
I hear him let out a sigh and start to walk off. I crack open my door, just so I can see what he's doing. He is almost unable to pick up the box, filled with his things. I watch as he turns around and heads for the door. He stops in front of it.
"I guess I'll see you later." He says. The sound of defeat is apparent in his voice.
"Fuck you!" I yell loud enough for him to hear. At that moment I wish he would feel the same pain that is coursing through my veins. I wish everyone would. He slams the door as he leaves the apartment.
I sigh. I really need a hit, now. I've been waiting for too long. I walk over towards my old wooden dresser and open the sock drawer. I'm starting to wonder if everyone keeps their secrets in their sock drawers. As I'm grabbing my things I spot a picture of me and April. I'm starting to wonder where all of these pictures are coming from.
On the rare occasions that I leave the loft, I usually end up at her apartment. Half the time I'm so out of it, I can barely make an understandable sentence, but she'll just blow it off. Well, she used to. Now, she hardly speaks to me. She's stopped waiting up for me to come. I don't know if it's because she's just tired of me showing up at all hours of the night, or she's gone out herself. Where to? I have no idea. I guess I could say I've lost interest. Maybe it would be easier on both of us to just end it. No, I couldn't do that to her. Somehow she's still with me - flaws and all. I don't think that's something I should give up so easily. I like the security, even if there's no love. She's all I have left.
I place my needle on the bed and start to prepare myself. As much as I hate doing this, being unable to control these urges, the pleasure I'm know I'm going to receive makes it slightly worth the current disgust.
I'm abruptly halted from my actions when I hear the phone ringing in the other room. I, however, decide it's best to screen my calls. I'm not in the mood to converse with anyone. The answering machine comes on. The answering machine that's not mine. The answering machine that he forgot.
"Speak" Our voices colliding together.
"Roger? Roger, are you there? Are you screening your calls? Pick up, if you're there honey. Roger?"
It's my mother. I'm tempted to answer, but I don't know if I want to listen to her endless series of questions on how I'm doing. I hate lying to her. She doesn't know about the drugs. The fact that I've been using for over 2 years. I doubt if I told her now, she'd even believe it.
She's got me all wrapped up in this neat little package. Pretending I know no evil. I hate the thought of her having to think of me as anything else.
I can't believe it. I actually move, set my things down and walk out of the room.
I can't help it. I pick up.
"..fine Rog"
"Mom!" I attempt to act like I'm excited to talk to her.
"Oh! Roger! Where were you, sweetie?"
Her voice is extra chipper this morning. A little more than I think I can take.
"I was in the shower mom. Sorry, it took so long to pick up."
"It's OK, baby. I understand." I resent the fact that I know she would forgive me no matter what.
"Yeah...mom." We've only been talking for thirty seconds and I'm already uncomfortable.
"How have you been, honey? What's going on in your life? We haven't spoken in almost 2 months? How are things with April? Ready to put a ring on her finger?"
"Uh,"
I want to confess my sins to her. At that moment all I want to do is tell her that I'm an addict. That I need her help. I need anyone's help. That I'm just so lost. That I don't know what to do anymore. But I don't.
"Uh, well I've been good mom. I've been job hunting lately. You know, gotta pay the bills somehow. Mark moved out about a few days ago, so I'm sorta on my own."
She asks me why. It catches me off guard.
"Why?" I manage to squeak out.
I have to think fast. I can't let her know that he left because he was tired of my using. Tired of telling me that I was hurting not only myself, but also everyone around me. Tired of me coming home at four in the morning, stumbling over the old milk crates filled with useless papers and empty beer cans. Yelling at the top of my lungs about nothing in particular.
Mark just loved treating me like a baby and me, being a stubborn 22-year-old, couldn't stand it. So, I'd find more ways to just piss him off.
He had ambition though, something most people I know lacked. I think that's what drew me to him to talk to him in the first place. I remember him telling me he wanted to be a famous director on the first day we met, he had the ability, but I held him back. He wanted to help me get better. I loved him for it.
"Roger? Are you still there?" My thoughts are interrupted by my mother's voice.
"Uh, yeah mom. Mark left because he found a better place. He wanted to, you know, make something out of himself." I let out a nervous laugh.
"What about you and April?" This seems to be a favorite subject of hers lately.
"We've been good, mom." I roll my eyes.
"Write any new songs?"
I'm starting to regret answering the phone. I'm getting tired of her questions. And she wonders why I never call.
"Uh, mom, I uh, have to go now. Sorry. April will be here any minute and I'm taking her out to breakfast."
"OK, sweetie. Love you."
"Yeah, love you, too."
I'm tired of lying to everyone.
I hang up the phone and head for my room.
I need a hit.
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A/N: I hope you enjoyed the first chapter. Any reviews/suggestions are greatly appreciated!