August 6th

I'm emotionally exhausted.

The problems I've been having with actually caring about Mark and getting all upset when I hurt him are draining me. I'm not usually known for crying that isn't on command or faked to get what I want, and lately I have been. I've been burying my face in my pillow and crying real, genuine feelings.

It makes me even more upset to know that I care.

So I decided to go back to working a lot more. As much as I was able to enjoy my free time, I now feel like Mark has me under his control. I hate it. But I know that whenever I leave the house and I'm not really at work that Mark is going to wonder what I'm doing. My work schedule is posted on our small, only occasionally working refrigerator in the loft, so he knows when work is an okay excuse for me to use. I was a little late one night; I got home about an hour after I was done, because I was covering for another waitress who left with a bad case of the stomach flu. I apologized to Mark for not calling and promised him that I was at work. He filmed the whole thing, then turned the camera off and went in to Roger's room.

He films me all the time now, when I'm home and he's talking to me. He won't say a word to me unless he's talking to me from behind the camera. Even on those rare nights that we share a bed (I can't even call it "sleeping together" anymore, we sleep on opposite sides of the bed…he sleeps closer to Roger now than me.), I'll wake up and kiss him and say, "Good morning," and he just rolls away from me, picks up the camera from its spot on the milk crate-nightstand next to him, turns it on, and then says good morning to me. "Eight thirty A.M.," he said to me this morning, "Maureen awakes from a seemingly peaceful slumber." He lowers the camera and looks into my eyes for a minute before bringing the camera back to its original spot, plastered on to his face like some unfortunate birthmark. "How was your night, Maureen? Any dreams you care to share or reflect on?"

"Fuck you," I said, pushing the camera away and rolling over.

"Ooh, we have a cranky one!" Mark retorted, sounding a bit too ecstatic that I was in a shitty mood. "Well why don't we go look behind door number two, shall we?" which is Mark speak for, "Why don't we shove the camera in Maureen's face one more time, see that she is sufficiently pissed off, smile triumphantly, then go and annoy Roger?"

I heard him enter the kitchen and put on water for tea, then enter Roger's room to annoy him, which wouldn't be pretty. I got out of bed, went into the kitchen, took the kettle off of the hot plate, and dumped the hot water out the window, leaving the empty kettle on the hot plate. He deserved it.

I worked all day. The only reason I'm home now is because my boss didn't think it was legal for anyone to work this much, even if they wanted to. He asked me if I wanted to talk; I declined. Usually talking, especially to men, ends up with me grabbing my clothes and running out of their apartments in horror the next morning. It's actually kind of a wonder I never ran from Mark.

I think it was the camera that kept me around. It was such a turn-on to have something that was constantly focused on me. Now there's nothing I want more than to throw the camera out the window and smile at the sound of the shattering metal hitting the pavement.

I'd be afraid, though. I crave his approval too much. Not to mention if I hit a homeless person, I'd be in deep shit.

I'm digressing.

So naturally, on top of all of the exhaustion I have from working and trying to please Mark, something that is proving completely impossible, I'm also growing more worried about Rog. He's progressed to eating something at least once a day, which has become a big deal here; an advancement from the fact that he was previously eating like, once every four days. The food in him doesn't seem to be doing much good, though. I can't really bear to look at him when I am home because he has the most sorrowful look in his eyes.

Sometimes, I wish Roger liked me enough and was in a state enough to remind Mark how lucky he is that I'm still here. I realize this when I peek in Roger's room and I look at him, sitting on his bed, letting tears cascade down his face while he stares at his two favorite things: his Fender and an old, faded picture of him and April. Roger doesn't know I watch him.

Lately, I've been crying just watching him. And I've had to fight the urge to go in and do whatever I could to take all of his pain away.

Death changes things. People don't realize how much it really changes you until you are directly affected by it. I never liked Roger because he was always an asshole not only to me, but also to April and Mark, two people that he supposedly genuinely cared about. But now, when I look at Roger…I can't help but feel like a bad person for ever hating him. It's so difficult for me to see him so unhappy. No one would ever believe that if I told them, but it's hard. He lost the love of his life and he can't have her back. And he has to live with the fact that she killed herself out of guilt for putting a death sentence on him.

Roger lost the love of his life. Maybe that's why I feel like I can sympathize. I seem to be losing mine.