"I hate the fall," Roger murmured bitterly as he stared out the window. The expression on his face was blank, emotionless, as it almost always was anymore. He didn't turn his head as he heard the front door open and close, knowing it was his father, even though it was far too early for him to be out of work.
"Roger, go get the mail!" he yelled, sitting down on the old couch and opening a beer.
Roger stood slowly and walked to the door, his head down. A year and a half ago I would have yelled at him for not getting it on his way up, he thought melancholily. The steps downstairs seemed to take forever, but he didn't care. His head felt heavy, and it hung forward, his eyes not gazing off his feet. Reaching the mailbox, he grabbed the few envelopes that sat there, and returned up to his apartment.
He slammed the door behind him and dropped the mail on the table in front of his father as he walked back to his bedroom. His poorly mended guitar leaned against the corner of the wall, and for a moment he contemplated attempting to play it. But then all he could see were her eyes. The way they looked as she lingered at the door, and he yelled again for her to leave. They were almost all he'd thought about in the year and two months since she disappeared, and it was as if they were haunting him - he saw them in his dreams at night, whenever he looked at a pretty girl, whenever he saw his father get angry. He tore his eyes away from it and instead turned back to the dirty glass of the small window.
"Roger! Get the fuck out here!" he heard his father yell, and obliged, his eyes not leaving the floor. He was barely out the door when he felt the hard fist of his father collide with his cheekbone. Not expecting it, Roger stumbled, but if he felt any pain he didn't show it. "Read this. Just fucking read this!" Roger's father threw an official looking piece of paper in his son's face. Roger, uninterested, pretended to read it, his eyes skimming blankly over the text. "Do you know what this fucking means?" his father shouted, but didn't give Roger a chance to answer. "It means they're kicking you out of school. You're fucking failing out of a goddamn public school. You fucking moron!"
Roger's father shoved him hard, but he tried to ignore the sharp pain in his back as he collided with the corner of a table and fell to the floor, squeezing his eyes shut as if it would make his father disappear. "Stand up, dammit!" his father said, kicking him in the ribs. As hard as he tried, Roger couldn't help but wince. He tried to get his feet to move under him, but he felt totally numb. Grabbing him by the wrist, his father yanked him off the ground and twisted his arm painfully behind him. Roger couldn't hide it any more. He cried out in pain, to the amusement of his father. But he didn't care enough to fight back. His father hit him several times in the face, holding one of Roger's shoulders tightly against the wall so he couldn't get away. Roger didn't struggle to get free of his father's grasp, an unusual occurence. It was evident to his father, which only gave him a reason to hit harder. And against his better judgement, Roger let him. He didn't care anymore. He had no idea how long had passed until his father let go, and he slumped to the floor, bruised and bloody. A drunk and bitter look on his face, Roger's father kicked him hard enough to get him across the doorway to his bedroom. "There's a reason these doors have locks," he sneered, taking a larger, old-fashioned looking key from his keychain as he closed the door. Sprawled across the hard wooden floor, Roger heard the metal click and knew he was locked in. He didn't know why, but feeling half-dead on the ground, his eyes filled with hot tears. Feeling his eyes flicker closed, he let himself lie there in pain, and slowly drifted out of conciousness.
When he awoke, his door was open a crack. Yet he knew he had nothing left and nothing left to do. In desperation, he crawled to the corner, his head still spinning from the beating. Knowing nothing else to do, he picked up his guitar and put it in it's black case, decorated with a few stickers. He clung to the bookshelf, trying to pull himself to his feet. Standing the guitar up, he used it for support to get his balance before attempting to walk.
"I'm leaving," Roger choked out.
"What? The fuck you are!" his father retorted, bursting into laughter.
"I said I'm leaving," Roger said, only slightly louder, stumbling towards the door. He didn't look back to see his father laughing too hard to believe what his son said, just opened the door and slammed it shut.
Roger walked down the street, pressing his hand to his head to get rid of the splitting headache that was slowly creeping up on him. The guitar case in his hand seemed to be getting heavier by the minute, and he shifted it to his other hand, blinking to try and keep everything in focus. His vision was blurring. He found himself walking smack into the side of a building at one point. He didn't know where he was going or what he would do when he got there, but oddly enough, he wasn't frightened. He was away from his father, and that was all that mattered at the moment. In fact, he would have been perfectly calm, if the pain shooting through him hadn't been an issue. He had clenched his teeth during the walk so far, and continued to do so. Dealing with pain wasn't exceptionally hard, but this was agony. He wondered if his father had permanently injured him.
Even if his vision hadn't been blurred, he still probably wouldn't have seen the man coming up to him, so intent was he on walking, putting one foot in front of the other. He only saw the guy when they were only about an inch apart from each other.
"Hey, man, you look pretty bad," said the man, an almost evil tone to his voice, and Roger mumbled an apology before walking around him and continuing on his way, beginning to count the cracks in the pavement to keep his mind focused and his vision clear. He heard a slight sound and turned around. The man was holding a small plastic bag, filled with white powder.
Roger knew instantly what it was, though he'd never used it before. "No thanks."
"Come on," said the man, almost seductively. "It'll make you feel better."
Roger shook his head. Continuing on his way, it was only after several seconds that he realized he had purchased the powder and the needle and the matches with the few crumpled dollars in his pocket and was walking down the street with a much more determined step than he had before, though he felt considerably sicker. As much as he was against this, he wanted it. "It'll make you feel better," the man had said, and that's what he wanted. To forget the pain he was in, to forget April. At the first dark alley he got to, he sat down slowly, leaning against the wall for support. He'd seen enough kids getting high at school to know how to use what he'd been given. His hands were shaking as he imitated what they did, eventually hesitating with the needle above his arm. "April, forgive me," he murmured, moving the sharp point into the vein in his arm and wincing in pain. His head fell backwards against the brick, and he closed his eyes.