Okay. After getting at least two songfics taken down, let's try again.
It's not depressing, I promise. It's slightly sad. I do like this one a lot, though. Please enjoy. (If kicks this off for some ungodly reason, I'm going to be so mad.)
Disclaimer: All characters of RENT are Jonathan Larson's. The song isn't mine, but Anna Nalick's, called Breathe (2AM). All the lyrics are in italics, o' course.
"You okay, little girl?"
Mimi looked up at the man. She raised an eyebrow, and pulled her huge jacket tightly around her. "Yeah, I'm fine, and I'm not a little girl." The man smiled. A guy in a clean suit, crisp and fresh for the office. She wondered what he was doing around here.
"Just making sure." Pause. He looked around, and Mimi could see what was coming next. "Would you like to come with me? Have some dinner?" Ugh.
"No, I wouldn't," she snapped. The man looked like he had been slapped.
"I just asked you to dinner," he muttered, giving her a strange look. Mimi laughed.
"Please," she replied. "I saw the way you were looking at me before. You ask me to dinner, but really you wanna know if I'll have sex with you." She shuffled in her coat. "Like I said, no." And she could read on his face what she said was right on the money. Then he scoffed.
"Fine. Like I need a whore's company." Mimi's anger flamed.
"You were the one who asked for it, didn't you?" she spat. She didn't bother correcting him, sorry, no, I'm not a hooker, thank you very much. Instead, Mimi walked away from the three-piece suit before she clawed his eyes out. One part she hated about her job. People thought since she worked at a strip club, she was a hooker as well. No, sorry, I don't operate that way, babe. Sure, I like to have fun, but I don't sell myself out. She wrapped her coat around her, shuffling towards her apartment in the snow. It was a harsh winter, and her place was cold, but Mimi was glad she at least had a place to call her own.
The message machine blinked. Mimi sighed, slipping her coat off. Benny. She knew it was him, but she pressed the button anyway. Beeeep. "Hey, baby, it's me." Of course. "Look, I have to cancel our dinner plans for tonight. Some people want to see this new house, I've got contracts to sign. Anyway. I'll call later, maybe we can work something out. Love you." Mimi rolled her eyes. Another cancellation, fourth one this month. She was used to it by now, no longer angry. Mimi sat down in a chair, took some hot chocolate mix out of the cabinet. Sure, it wasn't coffee, but Mimi loved chocolate. Brought back memories of winter in her house, her mother murmuring soft Spanish words as she listened, watching the snow fall on the ground. As she heated the water on the stove, Mimi heard voices. Angry voices. Two guys. They always seemed to fight these days...or at least one of them was always yelling. She'd hear a door slam, nothing special.
2 AM and she calls me 'cause I'm still awake,
"Can you help me unravel my latest mistake?
I don't love him. Winter just wasn't my season..."
Mimi poured the water into the cup, then the mix, then insert spoon and stir. She was so cold these days, so damn cold. As she sipped the hot chocolate, her eyes strayed to her coat. In the left pocket was her stash, freshly bought and ready to be devoured by her hungry veins. But she wasn't ready for the high right now. Chocolate would do in the meantime. Sweet chocolate, full of old memories that existed in the spaces between people. Mimi looked into the mug. She remembered those days. A 15 year old wild child. Rebellion was her thing. She was just getting out of puberty, ready to explore her sexuality. Her mother didn't want her doing that kind of thing, Mimi-chica, why do you do that, you make your mama so angry when you do that. She curled her hair so it bounced off her shoulders, she wore tight clothing. She couldn't wait until she went to the big city, where she could escape all the weights that held her down in this small Spanish ghetto.
Before the drugs, before the stripping. She used ta be a good girl, you know. Long time ago, lost in her mother's eyes.
She hated when her mother called. "Mimi-chica, when are you coming home? Come back home, Mimi. We miss you. We forgive you." Yeah. Forgive you. Forgive you for being the whore of the family. Forgive you for being the black sheep, forgive you for making us feel so fucking disgraced we just want to curl up and die. Yeah. Sure. She'd push the 'Erase' button every time. Sorry, Mama, I'm not coming home tonight.
She went home once. And that one time was all she needed. Her mother looked at her as if she was an animal, eyeing her the whole time as if she might steal something or kill someone. Her father wouldn't even meet her eyes. It was horrible. Mimi took a long bath that night, taking time to cry, let the water soak up her sorrow, let it drain out of her and into the warm liquid that surrounded her. Please, just let me be. Oh god, I don't want to hurt anymore, I just want you to leave me alone.
Yeah, we walk through the doors, so accusing their eyes
Like they have any right at all to criticize,
Hypocrites. You're all here for the very same reason...
The next night, Mimi tried drugs for the first time. 17 years old and shootin' up in the back room.
'Cause you can't jump the track, we're like cars on a cable
And life's like an hourglass, glued to the table
No one can find the rewind button, girl.
The previous week, Mimi found her co-worker, her friend, overdosed. Her eyes were glazed, foam sprinkled around her mouth. You'd think she would have quit shooting up, that she might have quit. But Mimi just shoved the needle in, and let sweet heroin do the rest. Oh, baby, just make me forget. Hide it all underneath your skin, put it all out of your mind, little kitten. Be careful, don't OD, you'll be fine.
Mimi didn't know where she got HIV. She supposed it was from a needle; hell, the strippers were always sharing their drugs. But who knows? It could have been from a random fuck here or there. She didn't know, probably would never know. Mimi let out a jagged laugh in the silence. Yeah, I'm HIV positive, but damn if I know where I got it. She kept laughing. She's so fucked up, that girl, 18 and sliding down a pole for a livin'. Mimi laughed so hard she started to cry. 18 years old, hooked on crack and heroin, and stripping for a living.
What a life.
Mimi started to sob.
What a life.
She sat there crying, cradling her head in her arms. Her hot chocolate sat steaming beside her, ever so slowly growing colder.
So cradle your head in your hands,
And breathe... just breathe,
Oh breathe, just breathe
And Mimi heard the boys fighting again.
Angel beat on his pickle tub, a smooth beat. A couple people left change, some even left dollars. He just smiled at them, kept on playing. He wished he had drums, he could make some good music with a good set of drums, but Angel was fine with his pickle tub. Plus, he spent the money on other things. Rent, clothes, make-up. He looked up and saw a girl smiling at him. "Hello," she said brightly.
"Hello," he replied back, giving her a smile that shined. She leaned down slightly.
"I was wondering, would you like to go somewhere?" Angel blinked at her, managing to keep a steady beat going.
"Wha?" The girl laughed. She was a little bit snotty, he noticed. Angel could tell things about people sometimes, and this girl...he could tell this girl didn't care about him. She might have noticed his good looks—Angel worked hard to look beautiful—and came over to pick him up. How could he resist, she must think, because, after all, she's helping him off the street. Angel knew better.
"You know, go somewhere to eat. I normally don't do this, but you just...caught my attention." Angel just smiled softly at her.
"Sorry, honey." His tone was gentle to let her down easy, but she reacted as if he'd slapped her.
"What? What do you mean?" Her voice was strained. Angel felt bad, but he didn't want to lead the poor thing on.
"I'm gay," he said simply, keeping the beat on the pickle tub. The girl started to laugh, but when she saw Angel was serious, she gave him a hard look.
"Sorry I even bothered," the girl said in a cold tone, "you crazy fag." Angel just smiled and kept the beat. He felt like crying. He hated that word, 'fag'. Yes, he could deal with 'queer', 'gayboy', 'homo', but 'fag' he always had a problem with. Angel just started to drum. Drum all his worries away, the little drummer boy here to lead the way.
His father said that to Angel as he left forever. "You stupid little faggot," his father snarled at him, Angel beautifully done up in a simple shirt and skirt, opaque black stockings covering his legs, platforms on his feet. Angel had even put a wig on, and his sister cried as Angel faced her, not as her brother, but as a girl. "Go to your fucking city of lights," his father had said in a ice-cold voice. "I never want to see you in this house again, you fucking fag." Angel's mother cried out in protest, no sweetie, please, come back whenever you want, we love you, please remember we love you, and then his father had shut the door as Angel strutted out on his platforms.
No, her platforms.
Angel smiled and nodded at a couple who dropped a couple of dollars beside him. He had cried so much that night, alone in his drag at the bus stop. He could never go back home, not really. Angel had always been different. He had hid the fact he was gay for so long, almost sixteen years. His sister was the one who helped him hide cross-dressing for a while. But after a while, being a guy became so hard to do. Angel was really a girl. She hadn't been born in the wrong body, just the wrong gender. Angel was an effeminate boy as it was, anyway. His mother had cried with joy when he had told her. But his father...his father ran him out of the house with a hundred dollars, payment for never coming back. Angel missed his family so much, but he loved the city. It took him in when he had nothing. His sister sent him money (how she found him, Angel would never know) that their father earned when he sold Angel's drum set. His drums, sold to the highest bidder. But Angel had food to eat that night, and some nights after that. It was hard, but it was life.
May, he turn 21 on the base at Fort Bliss
"Just a day", he said down to the flask in his fist,
Ain't been sober, since maybe October of last year.
Lately, Angel had seen a blond boy sulking around, drunk. He had seen this boy around before; they would walk around, smiling, him and his red-haired girlfriend. And they were so happy. That boy could smile; Angel thought it was beautiful, such a beautiful smile. But now here he was. No, not drunk. Drugged. Angel had been drunk before, he lived amongst old alcoholics. Angel knew what drunk looked like on a person. No, this boy was on withdrawl. Hadn't his girlfriend been taken out in an ambulance about a month ago? Angel wished he could wrap the boy up in a hug, the poor thing, and tell him everything would be okay. He looked like he needed a hug.
Here in town you can tell he's been down for a while,
But, my God, it's so beautiful when the boy smiles,
Wanna hold him. Maybe I'll just sing about it.
The next person that passed by stopped for a few seconds, then kicked the pickle tub, making a huge dent in it. They laughed. "Stupid fag!" Angel just bent down and flipped the tub over to try and fix the dent as the guy walked off, laughing.
So hard, but that's life. Even though he told himself that it was a stupid thing, it meant nothing, Angel started to cry. Not sobs, just small tears that plinked into the tub as he tried to fix it.
Cause you can't jump the track, we're like cars on a cable,
And life's like an hourglass, glued to the table.
No one can find the rewind button, boys.
Angel was getting weaker from the HIV surging through his body. He had sex with this one boy, and wouldn't cha know, wham, bam, thank ya ma'am, HIV positive a few months later. It had been about a year or so, give or take a few months. Angel didn't think he was going to live longer than a year, but he did. Unfortunately, his body wasn't strong, it was starting to give out. Angel started to cry harder. Living in the ghetto, HIV positive, and all he wanted was a decent relationship with a guy who he could be himself around. Herself around.
So cradle your head in your hands,
And breathe... just breathe,
Oh breathe, just breathe
Angel wiped away his tears, and started another beat. He heard a door slam in the distance, in one of the buildings close by. A little old woman dropped some change beside the tub, and Angel flashed her his best smile. It's hard, but it's life.
Roger cried bitterly in the darkness of his room. He and Mark had been yelling, and Mark had left, saying he was going to spend the night at Maureen's. He'd be back soon enough, coming back when he thought Roger was asleep, to afraid for his friend to leave him all alone.
Oh, April. It was one month ago, but the pain was like new.
There's a light at each end of this tunnel,
You shout 'cause you're just as far in as you'll ever be out
Roger didn't even bother hiding his sobs. Mark couldn't hear them, so he could let out his emotions freely. God, he needed a fix. Roger looked at the needle beside his bed, sharp and deadly in the plastic bag, hidden behind the sheets of music so Mark wouldn't see. But Mark knew. Some way or another, Mark had found out. And he started yelling at Roger, quit that stuff, it's killing you, you know it is, please don't do this, April wouldn't have wanted you to. Roger started to yell when Mark brought up April's name. That wasn't fair. It wasn't fucking fair.
Oh, god, April, I miss you so much.
And these mistakes you've made, you'll just make them again
If you only try turning around.
Roger was writing a song for her before she killed herself. Every time he was high, he wrote something down. Something about April, something about love, something about their relationship. And April would sit by him, high off her ass, smiling sweetly at him, telling him she loved him so much, she couldn't wait to hear this song he was writing for her. It would be so great it would top the charts, she would say. My sweet April flower. When he would shoot up, the first thing he'd smell was April's perfume. It was daisies. Even after she was gone, Roger would plunge the drug into his vein and faintly smell daisies, a ghost of memories that would haunt him in his sleep. Roger looked at the papers scattered on the floor, all with writing on them, all about April, all about his happy memories, even before the drugs, before the HIV, the disease, the death sentence of a century.
Roger grabbed a pencil and a scrap piece of paper. And he started to write. And what he wrote wasn't important, but he knew he just had to get this all out, get it down on paper before it killed him.
2 AM and I'm still awake, writing a song
If I get it all down on paper, it's no longer inside of me,
Threatening the life it belongs to
Mark was actually in the stairwell, his knees up to his chest, his head in his arms. Roger needed help. So much help, help Mark couldn't give him alone. He wanted to call Maureen, wanted to call Collins, hell, even Benny would be of some use. But, jesus, he couldn't do it alone. He tried, and he couldn't.
Mark had found the needle behind Roger's music this afternoon as the rocker was sleeping. Emotions flooded through Mark suddenly and forcefully. Roger had told him he was done, didn't he? Mark didn't expect to see syringes in plastic bags when he was cleaning up empty water glasses from Roger's room. Mark approached him, threatened to flush the drug down the toilet when Roger kept saying he wasn't high, no, he wasn't doing drugs again, what the fuck is wrong with you, of course I'm not on that shit. But as soon as Mark threatened to destroy the substance, Roger changed. Panicked eyes, then cold hard anger. "You wouldn't," he snarled.
In fact, Mark had before. Once, while Roger was sleeping, he went into the bathroom and closed the door. Almost in a frenzy, Mark ripped open the tiny package and let the contents fall into the toilet, collecting on the surface of the water. He threw the plastic bag into the toilet, then flushed, washing his hands afterward.
When Roger came out of his room, still drowsy from sleep, Mark just smiled and offered him some tea, even though he knew Roger would say he wanted coffee.
Roger laughed, bitterly and mockingly, when Mark suggested that he should go into a clinic. "Fuck you," he spat, his face ugly and twisted. Mark couldn't help but bite back; he was trying to help, but Roger didn't want any help.
"Fine. You kill yourself."
"I'm not fucking killing myself!" And Mark lost it, yelling and ranting, with Roger close to follow. Soon, they just started to yell at each other, whose voice was higher, words lost in the noise. Mark had to leave, mostly because he didn't know what else to do. He said he was going over Maureen's, but he couldn't leave Roger. Not like this. He was scared.
And I feel like I'm naked in front of the crowd
Cause these words are my diary, screaming out loud
And I know that you'll use them, however you want to
Mark took his glasses off, and placed them on the floor. Things meshed together. The world became a blur.
But you can't jump the track, we're like cars on a cable,
And life's like an hourglass, glued to the table
Roger scribbled down meaningless words on a scrap of paper, needing to write one more song.
No one can find the rewind button now
Sing it if you understand.
Mimi drank her hot chocolate, and got ready to go out stripping again.
And breathe, just breathe...
Whoa, breathe, just breathe,
Angel started a catchy beat on his pickle tub, and smiled as people stood to watch.
Oh breathe,
And Mark...
Just breathe,
Mark sat on that abandoned staircase, beaten from wear, and started to cry.
Oh, breathe, just breathe.
-fin.
Reviews are always welcome.
EDIT: Note, that I say reviews, not flames. I try my hardest not to be a bitch on the Internet, because I believe it looks bad. But when people review my story, I expect them to say something related to the story, not just focusing on what I say above it. So please, don't do this. I put this story up so that people can enjoy it, and they review because they liked it and/or they'd like to give me some pointers. The reason I even bothered to put this song-fic up is because has other songfics up on its site, and they've stayed there. I thought by giving credit to the song and obviously showing the lyrics and that that aren't mine, they might cut me some slack.Please don'treview my story to ask me why I put this up if I'm just going to throw a hissy fit when it gets taken down. If you do this, I will erase your review, like I have in this instance.
...I'm sorry about this random outburst (and thank you for reading it, if you bothered), but when people pull that kind of stuff, it really gets me angry. I don't usually bother with these things, but that got me in a fury. And I seriously doubt any of you reading this apply to the above. So, I'm sorry.
Ahem. Anyway! Reviews are always welcome. Seriously. I love them. And I love you guys for reviewing!