Still Life

Chapter Seven

Disclaimer: I don't own RENT, nor any of the characters contained therein.

Mark stumbled blindly down the street, shivering heavily and folding his arms into his chest. He collapsed against a brick wall, breathing heavily. He looked around, realized he didn't know where he was, and slid down to sit with his back pressed against the wall, gasping for breath. He closed his eyes briefly, trying to clear his head. He still felt oddly detached from the events back in the apartment, even the destruction of his treasured camera failed to produce a reaction in him. The chill in the air was becoming more pronounced, he staggered to his feet, and set off walking back to what he thought was the direction of the loft.

He strode down the street, rubbing his hands together, trying futilely to combat the raw, bitter cold attacking them. A roar of laughter caught his attention, and he looked curiously to his right. Three men had stumbled out the door of bar Mark vaguely recognized. They staggered off down the street, slapping each other on the back and laughing. Mark watched them go, and then walked over to the bar. He looked up at the sign above him, and then mentally kicked himself. It was the Cat Scratch Club, the club where Mimi worked. Mark knew he shouldn't risk getting caught by Mimi, or worse Roger, whom he knew sometimes went with Mimi to the club to protect her from especially grabby or drunk patrons. Still…it was very cold outside, and Mark could see the inviting warmth inside. Mark was seized by a sudden burst of bravado, and threw open the door, recklessly walking inside. Once Mark was inside, he was hit by the full atmosphere of the club, and began to feel a little sick. Leering men were cheering drunkenly, and the stench of alcohol was everywhere. Mark shook his head to clear it, and headed over to a small table in the back. He sat down and drummed his fingers on the table, wishing he had his camera. Thinking about his camera brought back unpleasant memories of what happened earlier, Mark took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, feeling very tired. He slumped down in his chair, trying to block out the dull roar all around him.

"Pookie! Pookie!" Mark's head snapped up. He groaned, not her, not her, please, not her…Maureen waltzed up behind him, and plunked herself down in the chair opposite him, sliding him a beer and grinning flirtatiously.

"Marky! What are you doing here?" Mark sighed, and shook his head.

"Nothing…what are you doing here? I thought Joanne didn't like you hanging around in bars." He asked wearily, preparing himself for the rant he knew was coming.

"She's not the boss of me!" Maureen said, indignantly. "She just doesn't understand me!" Mark took a long drink, and settled in for what he knew was going to be a very long rant. "I mean, can you believe she actually got mad at me because that girl in Central Park was flirting with me?" Maureen huffed, outraged. "Like it's my fault I'm so attractive!" Mark rolled his eyes. "That woman doesn't know how lucky she is!" She paused, and looked at Mark. "Jeez, what's wrong with you tonight?"

"Nothing." He snapped, irritably. She made a face at him.

"Whatever. Where's your camera? I think this is the first time I've seen you without it in years." She remarked, curiosity piqued. Mark balled his hands into fists.

"It broke." He said, shortly. Maureen gasped, eyes wide.

"It broke? You never let it out of your sight, you'd never let it break!" She exclaimed, incredulously. Suddenly, her eyes took on a knowing gleam, and she leaned over the table to whisper to him. "Unless someone broke it!" Mark glared at her, and clutched his bottle angrily.

"Just drop it, okay?" He said, bitterly. But Maureen was aglow with the thought of potential gossip, and she began asking questions, gleefully.

"Who broke it? Was it Mimi? She's kind of a klutz." Mark rolled his eyes.

"Mimi didn't break my camera, Maureen, and she's not that much of a klutz." Mark retorted, annoyed.

"Ooooh." Maureen said, thinking. "It probably wasn't Collins, and it definitely wasn't Joanne…was it Benny?" Mark sighed, growing very impatient with the conversation.

"I haven't seen Benny in weeks, you know that." He said pointedly, making it clear he wished to end the conversation. Maureen's face contorted in thought.

"But that only leaves…Roger?" She took Mark's stony silence for assent. "Roger broke your camera?" She practically yelled. All of a sudden, the events of the night hit him full force, and he leapt up from his seat. Maureen was startled. "Mark, where are you going?" He didn't answer, and continued walking hurriedly to the door. "Mark? Mark!" She yelled, as he threw open the door, and left.

He began walking quickly down the street, overcome with thoughts and emotions. He unconsciously quickened his pace to the point where he was sprinting. He flew down familiar streets and avenues, his feet automatically carrying him back to the loft, while his head spun with the heavy weight of realization. He pushed open the door to his building roughly, and ran up the stairs to the loft, shouldering the door open, and sprinting determinedly past a worried Mimi to his room. He slammed the door shut, locked it, and surveyed the damage. His possessions were lying all over the floor, amongst shards of glass and shattered plastic. He picked his way delicately around the ruins of his life to the spot where his camera lay, crushed beyond recognition. He picked it up, gently, and cradled it. He looked down and the twisted, bent frame and carefully extracted the damaged film from the wrecked interior. He placed the crinkled black mass gingerly on his bedside table, and slowly made his way over to his bed. He sat on the unmade bedspread, and continued to stare down at the unrecognizable remains of his camera. Idly, he turned it over in his hands, feeling the foreign shape of it, and wishing for it to magically restore itself to its former glory. He knew he was being juvenile, but he closed his eyes and concentrated on wishing for his old camera back. When he opened them, and saw only the sad shadow of his former obsession, he began to cry unabashedly. His shoulders heaved with sobs, and he cast away his glasses, not bothering to wipe away the tears flowing down his cheeks. He lay down slowly, and clasped his knees to his chest, drawing deep, shuddery breaths. His crying increased in volume, as he wailed plaintively, wishing for his old life. He could hear Mimi pounding on the door and calling his name frantically, but he shut his eyes and blocked her out, concentrating solely on his abject misery. He stayed huddled in the fetal position for hours, his body unwilling to relinquish his mind to sleep. He heard Roger come in, early in the morning, and heard him scream at Mimi, who began crying, and heard him slam the door to his adjacent room, and begin angrily plucking out the notes of Musetta's Waltz, drowning out Mimi's sniffles. Mark lay awake, staring unblinkingly at the ceiling, berating himself for every single mistake he had made. He rolled over, and winced as his back hit something hard. He sat up, and examined his mattress. He saw a needle, glinting in the moonlight. Roger had missed one, he thought to himself. He made to throw it in the trashcan, but stopped, thoughtfully, and placed it in his bedside drawer…just in case. After lying awake for a few more hours, it was daylight, and he got himself up to make some breakfast. He scrounged around the various cupboards in the kitchen, looking for food but finding none.

"Fade in on Mark," he began irritably. "Who foolishly expects to find food in his kitchen cabinets." He sighed, frustrated, and turned around to return to his room. He stopped short when he saw Mimi. The look in her eyes told him everything—Roger had told her. He scowled and went to move past her when she grabbed his arm.

"Mark…how could you?" She said, accusingly. He stared at her, amazed. "How could you do that to Roger?" His scowl deepened, and he shook her off, roughly.

"How could I do that to him?" He asked, incredulously. "How could good old responsible Mark do something to hurt Roger?" He smiled, bitterly. "Don't you dare make this about Roger," She stepped back, shaken by the venom in his voice. "It is not about Roger. This is about me. But I can understand why you don't really 'get' that, because it's never really about me, is it? Mark's never in the spotlight, he's only filming it." His voice increased in volume. "It's not important what Mark wants, who cares what Mark thinks, Mark doesn't understand!" He paused, and took controlling breaths. "But this time, it was about me. I've been through a lot with Roger, April, rehab, and everything after, but the one time I needed him, he let me down." Mark knew he was being irrational, but he was past the point of caring, and he stormed away to his room, leaving Mimi standing alone in the middle of the loft. Mark walked angrily back to his bed, where he flopped down, brooding. He pressed a pillow over his face, willing himself to forget. When he removed the pillow, his eyes caught the glint of the needle once more. Slowly, carefully, he lifted it out off the drawer, and held it aloft. He smiled, grimly.

"How did I get here?" He breathed, and plunged the needle into his arm.

A/N: Yo, mad shoutouts and props to the awesomeSparkilyDragnStikers, Harper's Pixie, the-fraulein, MandiMooShoe, and Ashley. Yep, that's right, review my story and you totally get mentioned by name in the Author's Note. Anyways, this chapter was a little over-due, and I have some stuff to point out.

Mark's Camera: I just got back from seeing RENT on Broadway, and realized something. I unconsciously picture Mark's camera as the kind of artistic photographer's camera I have, one that would be relatively easy to break, especially if you stepped on it. However, Mark's camera in actuality is a fairly indestructible looking metal contraption, and therefore would be unlikely to even dent under the heel of Roger's boot. So…I'm just going to have to ask you guys to sort of gloss over that mistake, because apart from maybe throwing it out a window and having it run over by a taxi (which is not quite as dramatic as Roger stepping on it) there's no other way to have it break. Sorry!

Originality: Thanks, SparkilyDragnStikers for complimenting the way Mark was "buying the drugs, not using them." I hope the ending of this chapter isn't the plot equivalent of "selling out." I try to keep my material, let me know if it gets too cliche

Maureen: You may have noticed Maureen might have been spectacularly out of character in this chapter. I apologize, having no excuse other than it's hard to capture Maureen's personality, since it's so outrageous. I have more trouble with the main characters (Mimi, Roger, Maureen) than I do with the oft-overlooked supporting cast. Any feedback is welcome.

Next Chapter: Fade in on Mark, who's still in the dark, 'cause he's on heroin, and completely passed out.

Heh. Review, please, and I promise a shoutout!