Murderer
Roger's inner voice
April's dead.
You were the reason. It was you and only you. You fucking killed her. With your sex and your drugs. There was none of that before. If you hadn't come along, she would have blood running through her veins, wouldn't she? She's lifeless, soulless because of you. Only you.
Don't give me that pleading look. Don't say you didn't mean to. Don't pray for her to come back, to live with you and fulfill your joy. You should be wishing you were the dead one. It's sick, you running to your little friend for comfort. What makes you think you deserve that warmth?
It's all your fault she made that decision. She stared at the mirror, the doctor's words resounding in her mind, "You have AIDS." And she didn't want to live. Not that kind of life. The way you now have to live. It should be worse for you. The pain and the voice in the back of your head reminding you of the drugs and her touch.
You shouldn't be able to sing, not ever again. In fact, you shouldn't be allowed to breathe. Because the "pretty boy front man" label you once had, it's now "murderer". Isn't it?
You were so selfish, Roger.