Still Life
Chapter One
Disclaimer: I don't own RENT, or any of the characters contained therein.
Mark walked down the street, camera in hand, filming as he walked. He weaved in and out of the bustling crowds occupying the sidewalks, and narrowly avoided being run over by cars that sped impatiently down the street. Mark didn't even stop filming when he entered the Life Café, because to do that he would have to take his eye away from the eyepiece, and doing that would mean he would have to look at his surroundings. Mark sighed. He didn't want to have to deal with what he saw. It was easier to process it through a camera, to cut out the footage he didn't like, to create a story, create reason behind what he saw. He could manipulate and edit what he filmed. He didn't have to include what he didn't like. Avoidance was a part of his life, he had accepted that. He knew what he was doing, that eventually he would have to come to terms with his life, but for now he was content in ignoring the obvious, and concentrating only on what made him happy.
Reluctantly, he set his camera down on the countertop and ordered a small coffee, more to have something to do with his hands rather than out of a thirst. He sipped it cautiously, wincing as the boiling liquid scalded his tongue. He cradled the cup in his hands, staring at something in the distance. He sat like that for a while, and when he finally lifted the cup to his lips again, all he tasted was bitter cold. He paid his bill and walked out of the restaurant, still holding his coffee. He stood in indecision for a moment, trying to figure out where to go next. Eventually, he gave in to the impulse to return to the loft, despite his thoughts that he had been spending too much time inside. He began walking briskly in the direction of the apartment building, beginning to film again. He filmed anything he could see, people, animals, even landscapes. He was so immersed in his activity that he almost walked past the entrance to the building. He bounded up the stairs to the loft, already editing footage in his head, eager to get to his equipment. He opened the door and called out,
"Roger? Mimi?"
He got no reply, and he smiled. It was easier to edit in an empty loft. The other inhabitants had little patience for the delicate and time-consuming process it took to perfect his work. As he was setting up his materials, he let his mind wander, as it had been prone to do lately. Mark glanced at the camera in front of him, and smiled. He knew his friends worried about him, about his tendency to just ignore anything that hurt him. He knew they thought he was lonely, and needed someone. But, Mark thought to himself, he wasn't really "lonely." Just awfully alone. "Aren't we feeling introspective today." He said to himself, amused. Mark flipped on the radio; he enjoyed listening to music as he worked, preferring the classical station. He groaned as he recognized the tune, Musetta's Waltz, and changed stations, settling for classic rock. He sat down in his chair, and began to assemble his footage into a film.
At some point during his work, he must have dozed off, for he awoke hours later. He yawned and stretched, feeling a crick in his neck. He glanced at the monitor, and saw a single frame repeating. A man was speaking into a mobile phone, and his words were on a continuous loop. "Who are you?" the man asked, speaking in a brisk, business tone, "What are you doing?" Mark straightened up slowly, and watched the scene again, transfixed by it. He felt drawn to the image, like a moth to a flame. He wondered if it was some sort of sign, or just a random act. He stared at it, willing it to tell him something, but all he could see was the same scene, over and over again. Mark felt a deep melancholy come over him, and he settled back in his chair, feeling the beginnings of apathy wash over him. He listened to the repeating words, feeling himself sink deeper and deeper into a brooding silence. He rose and sat down again, unable to tear himself away from the picture, observing minute details and trying to sort through his jumbled thoughts, and figure out why the picture was so captivating. He stayed like that, watching the screen, until a loud beep drew him out of his reverie. A red light was flashing on his camera, indicating low battery. He glanced at the screen again, and abruptly turned off the power. He sat still in his chair for a moment, then stood up and walked away. Lucky for him, his favorite philosopher was in town. He grabbed his coat and headed out to find the one and only Tom Collins, professor, anarchist, and the resident philosopher of Avenue B.
A/N: This is my first RENT fic, so any criticism at all is appreciated. I'm trying to go in a direction with Mark where he's not angsty, per se, but rather discontent and confused about his life and where he fits in. Any suggestions/criticism are accepted, and welcomed. Please review!