Disclaimer: I don't own anything, all important characters (since I might eventually make up some smaller characters who are relatively unimportant and just plot devices to put the story where I want it) are property of Jonathan Larson, my inspiration.

Please review if you're reading, it means a lot to me to have some comments on how I'm doing. I don't think reviews are so much to ask, and I really do appreciate them.

June 21st

I need something to occupy myself right now. I'm sitting here, on the disgustingly shabby old couch in the loft, with Mark asleep next to me, which is weird, since usually I'm the one sleeping and Mark's the one talking about the deeper meaning of life and its events to his camera. But I couldn't work Mark's camera for the life of me, not to mention it's kind of an extension of him, so I'm doing this little journal thingy instead. I don't seem to have a creative outlet, which is pretty upsetting at times. I mean, everyone here kinda has their own way of expressing themselves when they're upset or mad or lonely or need to think, except for me. Collins usually goes and reads, Benny just finds some girl to fuck, Roger gets out the guitar, and Mark has his camera.

And up until yesterday, April was our resident writer. The one who was always seen with one of those black and white covered composition notebooks. Of course, it was never black and white, maybe black and whatever color highlighter April had used to color the white in with, but she never left it white. White was too plain, too boring, too normal, she always told me. And April was certainly far from normal.

I still can't believe that I'm allowing myself to process this so early. She's dead. As horrifying as that is to write, I'm not going to be a Roger Davis about this. I'm not going to sit in fucking denial until it's convenient for me to allow myself to have feelings. Then again, I'm also not going to be completely insensitive to the topic, and though I have a feeling that Roger will at some point sooner or later be accusing me of such behavior, I'm not.

I'm not, I'm not, I'm not, I'm not, I'm NOT.

He's upset because he wasn't here. I know that he is. I haven't seen him since last night; he went to his room right before the paramedics left with her body and hasn't come out yet. I haven't even gone to check on him, because I know he'll just flip out. And I understand that he wants to be left alone. Even Mark, sweet, kind, compassionate, caring Mark, got pushed away last night when he went to make sure Roger was okay. That wasn't so shocking to me, since I watch Roger treat Mark like shit pretty much all the time, but Mark was trying so hard. He always is. I admire him for that…he's a good friend.

I'm wondering if I should go check on Roger; see if he fell asleep, if he's awake, if he needs something to eat, if he did anything stupid to try to be with April. But that's just not me. I don't want to go intrude on whatever Roger's doing to grieve. I'm trying my best to grieve my way here and it's still not enough.

I've been up all night, thinking about it. The paramedics came around nine last night, and Roger got in around nine-thirty. The whole climax of this ordeal was over by ten. Once Roger had decided on how he was going to go about handling this, Mark and I sat down on the couch and cried. We cried and cried and cried and held each other. Eventually, Mark fell asleep with his head in my lap. I don't know how he slept, or how he's even still sleeping. He saw what I saw. And I can't get it out of my mind.

We had just come home from dinner at the Life, just the two of us. It was probably around eight that we came in, Mark had picked me up at a rinky-dink café that I had been practicing my performance pieces in at around six, and we went right to the Life from there. We walked upstairs and everything was fine, normal, the usual…Roger was sitting on the kitchen table (if you could call it a kitchen), lightly playing Musetta's Waltz over and over, and April was sitting in a chair by the table, leaning her head on the table and listening to Roger, eyes closed. Roger put down the guitar and informed us that he was on his way out to get booze and cigarettes. Knowing he could only possibly have enough money for cigarettes, I assumed the booze excuse meant that he was visiting a certain person to get his heroin fix. He might have been able to hide his problematic addiction from Mark, but Mark, despite his incessant camera use, isn't as observant as I am. April knew where he was going, too, and nodded before heading into their bedroom.

I heard the door of the loft shut and Mark went to put some water on for tea. I don't know how he's drinking tea, it's the middle of June and already unseasonably hot, especially for the early evening hours. The humidity is making everything sticky and disgusting and I'm kind of thinking cold shower before April pops her head out of the bedroom.

"Mark? Maureen?" she asked with her head peered around the door, looking into Mark and I in the kitchen.

"What's up, April?" I asked.

"Nothing," she said to me, "I think I'm just gonna go take a cold shower or bath or something. It is so fucking hot."

"Ugh," I replied, "Completely agree."

Mark, standing over the boiling water in a sweater, of all things, said, "It's not that hot, you guys. And if you think this is bad, imagine how we're going to live through the whole summer!"

April and I laughed a bit, but she sounded uneasy. "Anyways, I just wanted to let you guys know. I'll see you later, okay?"

"Okay, April," I said, kind of weirded out that she said that she'd see us later, I mean, she was only going into the bathroom for a little while. Whatever. I had just brushed it off as nothing and sat down at the table with Mark and his tea. I heard the water in the shower go on and for a minute, I was pretty jealous of her to be getting a cold shower in the heat.

At eight forty-five I was pretty much past jealous and kind of annoyed. I mean, she had probably been in there around forty minutes by now, and it wasn't that hot. Besides, I thought to myself, once Roger gets back she has a night of drugs and sex awaiting her. The least I can get is a shower!

Not being able to deal with the heat any longer, I pushed Mark off of me, disrupting his mouth's assault on my neck and said, "Sorry honey, but I really need a shower." He looked sad, like a little puppy dog, so I ruffled his hair and kissed his forehead. "Meet me in bed in twenty minutes?" I asked in a coquettish tone. He smiled again. I went into our bedroom, grabbed a towel off of the floor, and knocked on the bathroom door.

"April? Hey babe, you've been in there for a while now, you think I could have a turn?" I said, giggling so she wouldn't think I was angry at her or anything. "I hate to be a pain in the ass, but I am dying out here!"

No answer. Odd, usually she'd at least yell, "Fuck you! I'll get out when I'm ready!" but I didn't even get that. I knocked again.

"Please, April? I'm asking you really nicely…" I trailed off. I was starting to get worried that something had happened. Like maybe she slipped and fell in the bathtub and was unconscious? It wouldn't be the first time…she had done that a few months before but luckily, Roger had realized something was up when she had promised him a mindblowing fuck and then not left the shower. She was fine, a little bump on the head, but she had been out for a good ten minutes when he had found her. Remembering this, I was concerned, and called to Mark from the kitchen to help me.

"Pookie?" I said, trying to keep the nervousness out of my voice, "I think April might have slipped again in the shower. Can you help me get the door open?"

"Again? God, April, what a klutz!" Mark said before coming to join me at the bathroom door.

"Don't go in, Mark, once we have the door open, because if she's just kidding, she's gonna be pretty pissed that you came in while she was naked," I reminded him. We slammed ourselves into the door and with the combined weight, it swung open. "Okay, stay out here. I'll call you if I need help waking her up or anything."

I hadn't walked in three steps before I saw something wrong. The shower curtain was pulled back like April was in there, but her right foot was hanging haphazardly out of the side of the tub. I could see murky water in the bathtub and feel it under my feet…something serious must've happened. I didn't even bother looking down at the water, I needed to check on April first. I pulled back the shower curtain back and looked in horror.

I left the bathroom only to grab Mark, who was still standing outside the door, and pull him in to see what I did.

April was lying in the bathtub, filled with murky water, dead. Her right arm was hanging out of the side of the tub and had been hidden by the shower curtain, but without its cover exposed a cut from wrist to elbow. The razorblade on the floor showed us exactly what she had used, it looked like it had fallen out of her hand in death. Looking down at the floor that I had previously ignored, I saw the blood mixing with the water overflowing out of the tub. Her eyes were closed, but purple all around, as though someone had given her two black eyes.

It wasn't until I found a note on the sink, on a page obviously ripped from a composition notebook, written in pink highlighter:

Roger-

We've got AIDS. I love you. I'm so sorry.

-April

that I knew how to react.

The paramedics were there within ten minutes of Mark and I coming upon April in the bathtub. We didn't have to talk much, luckily, as the note pretty much explained her motives. We knew that the harder part would come when Roger finally got home.

I heard the door of the loft fly open; I knew Roger was worried because he had seen the ambulance.

He walked in to find Mark and I in the kitchen. I whispered, "I'm sorry," before he ran into the bathroom to find the paramedics zipping April up into a body bag.

It was rare of Roger to be calm during situations like this; however, it was so unreal for him that he seemed to be unfeeling. He calmly questioned the paramedics until they handed over the note.

I saw him leave the bathroom and come into the kitchen, his whole body trembling.

Mark got up from his chair to comfort him, hug him, just do something for him, and Roger turned around, walked into his bedroom, and shut the door. I waited for a sound, but I heard nothing. Not a sob, not a yell, not even a strum on his guitar.

The paramedics left shortly after with her body.

It was the single most harrowing experience of my life.