Disclaimer: I own nothing. Mark, Roger, Collins, Benny and April belong to the late grat Jon Larson, and possibly other people too, I have no idea.
Take Your AZTTake your AZT. I don't know how many times I've heard myself say that since April died. I guess I could figure it out. I know how many times a day he has to take it. I know how often he does it on his own (never). I know how long it's been since April killed herself.
Five months. Five unbelievable months. Who would have thought so much would change. We went from having Benny, Collins, April, and Maureen in the loft with us, to just Roger and I. Of course, Benny moved out last year, and Collins was about the same time, but still. It's so quiet here. No Maureen chattering away. No April singing in the shower. No Roger playing his guitar.
I wish he would. I wish he would still play the Fender. Instead it's been sitting in the corner, gathering a fine layer of dust. I even wish he would go back to that annoying habit of tuning in right when I'm on the phone, or constantly playing Musetta's Waltz. The only sound in the loft now is my talking. I talk a lot more now. To fill the silence. It used to be because I thought Roger needed to hear my voice. Or at least hear something. Then it was because it was so unnerving to not hear anything. And now, now it is just habit. And the important things that I was saying are all gone. Now I just say the same thing over and over. On loop. A broken record player. One thing over and over.
Take your AZT.