All I own is an old pomegranate. Really. Lord, I hope that since it's no longer the end of the millennium I'm not what I own!!!
Chris, I blame you completely for the lateness of this chapter! You know it's your fault...;)
And this wouldn't happen without Chelsea. Nothing would happen without Chelsea. She's everything. For you, love.
To Fruit-box: I love you. Purely and simply. :sarcasm warning: Yeah, you totally over-reviewed. I hate it when people review my story. :end sarcasm: :giggles, because that's what she does when she's happy: Reviews make me happyful! I write more when I'm happyful! :stares at everyone else reading the story: That goes for all of you; you have the potential to make the chapters come faster!
And the story itself thanks you. Not many people call it God. :pets story: (and yes, I know slash is my friend. Heh.)
As a matter of interest, I was listening to "Look Around" when I wrote the last chapter, and "Civilian" when I wrote this one. I have no idea if that affected anything at all, but it should be mentioned. Maybe. Maybe not. (:quietly worships US Postal Service for prompt deliveries:)
I'd very much like to recommend the film "Man of the Century" to all of you...and not just because it has Anthony Rapp (in a very nice role)! If you're looking for a cute, funny indie film, definitely check it out. Gibson Frazier is awesome as a guy living in NYC in 1999 who thinks it's the 20s. Just...check it out.
"Don't say boinked. It makes it sound like he has a small penis." ---Chelsea
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Mark tiptoed around the apartment until well past noon the next morning, not wanting to wake Roger. Truth be told, he wasn't quite sure he was ready to face his friend just yet.
While Roger had been passed out cold from the moment he had hit the bed, Mark had tossed and turned, not getting any sleep. He longed to talk to someone, like Collins, but of course Collins hadn't come home. Not that Mark had expected him to, of course. There was no one else Mark would have felt comfortable talking to, or would have felt comfortable sharing what he knew about Roger with.
By about four am, Mark had given up any hope of sleep. He didn't dare leave, just in case Roger woke up and needed him. He constantly eased the door of their bedroom open just to make sure Roger's chest was still rising and falling, just to make sure he hadn't made a deadly mistake by not calling an ambulance. What if the stuff Roger had taken was worse than he had thought? What if he hadn't come home last night until much later, and Roger had done something stupid? If he hadn't left in the first place, would Roger have shot up at all? What if he had overdosed, and Mark had returned to a dead Roger instead of a sick one?
A million questions raced through his mind, a million scenarios that were closer to possible than he wanted to believe. If Roger continued on this path...who ever heard of a junkie that lived to old age? Were there any grandfathers still shooting up? Of course not. They all ended up dead in a ditch, as his mother liked to say. Unbidden, the image of Roger, eyes sunken, hair matted, shuddering in an alleyway with filthy clothes and a needle in his arm rose into Mark's mind. He stood up immediately, trying to distract himself. He couldn't turn on the T.V.--it might wake Roger. He grabbed the book he'd been trying to read for the last three months, but it was no use. He couldn't concentrate on the words on the page to save his life.
So he paced. He paced, both wondering what the hell he was going to do, and trying not to think about it. Every half hour or so he would check on Roger and contemplate waking him up to shake him until he explained himself better, and every half hour he would decide against it. He took a brief turn telling himself that it wasn't any of his business, that it wasn't a big deal (lots of people experimented, right?), but his efforts failed dismally. No matter what an idiot Roger could be, he was also smart, and funny, and caring, and full of life. He was Mark's best friend. Who am I kidding? He's my only friend. Without him...who the hell would even know I exist? Who would care?
It was nearly three in the afternoon when Roger stumbled out of his room, looking like hell itself. Hand over his eyes, he groped blindly at the wall, stumbled over to the couch, and collapsed onto his back. "Mark," he groaned, "I feel like I've got the world's worst fucking hangover. And..." he frowned in confusion, feeling the blanket underneath him, "did you sleep out here last night?"
Mark stood perfectly still, his back to Roger, teeth clenched tightly. He wouldn't scream at him, he had no right. He swallowed, trying valiantly to get a grip on his anger. "Yeah, I did."
"Why?"
Why indeed. That's really something I should be asking you, isn't it, Roger? But he wasn't going to handle this stupidly. He walked over to the couch, and sat down next to his friend, pushing Roger's legs out of the way. "Roger?" he asked.
Roger was staring at him, somewhat puzzled, more than somewhat pained from his headache. "What?"
"Do, uh, do you need help?" Mark stuttered uncertainly. What was he supposed to say? He knew from lectures at school and stuff that he was supposed to be strong, but not pushy, that Roger had to come to the decision to change on his own. At least, that's what he thought they said.
Roger just gave him a strange look and said, "Yeah, you can get me a glass of water."
"You know what I mean."
He saw a warning in his friend's eyes. They said, Drop it, Mark. I don't want to talk about this.
There was nothing he could say, he realized. What hadn't he said last night? Was there anything Roger didn't know? Was there anything Mark didn't know? Was there any reason to drag this out at all? Of course not. It was Roger's life, to do with as he pleased.
Mark didn't believe that for a second. "Roger, what the hell is your problem? I come home last night to find you all...all fucked up, you could have died, you've been hiding this shit from me, now you want to just let it go?"
"It's none of your fucking business!" Roger snapped.
"It is my business! I live with you! I care about you!"
Roger glared at him. "If you really cared, you'd let me do what I want, be who I am. God, you're just like your mother!" He imitated Mrs. Cohen's high-pitched voice. "I only want what's best for you!"
Mark shoved Roger's legs off the couch as he stood up. He faced his friend, staring down at him. "Roger, you're killing yourself! This shit is going to kill you! If I didn't care about that, what the fuck kind of friend would I be?"
Roger got up himself, not wanting to be at a disadvantage. "I don't know, one who minded his own fucking business?"
"And watched you kill yourself? You're a drug addict, Roger!"
"Fuck you, I can stop anytime."
Mark crossed his arms. "Then stop."
Roger shot him another glare. "I don't want to."
"Why not?"
Roger spun around, kicking the couch fiercely, unknowingly echoing Mark's actions from the previous night. "It makes me feel good! Is that such a terrible thing? Is it so bad to want to feel good for once in my fucking life?"
"Roger," Mark tried again, laying his hand on his friend's shoulder, but Roger shook him off. "Roger, what about the other things that make you feel good? What about your band? What about getting laid, or something? What about just hanging out with your friends? Isn't that good enough?"
Roger laughed bitterly. "Mark, you have no idea what this feels like if you can say that."
"No, I don't have an idea. Because I'm not fucking up my life with drugs! God, you can be such a moron!"
Roger turned on him. "What did you say?" His eyes were dangerous, and Mark backed up involuntarily. "I'm not a fucking moron, Mark. I'm not an idiot. I know exactly what I'm doing. Just because I didn't go to some preppy college doesn't make me stupid!"
"Roger," Mark asked desperately, "won't you look into rehab? Please? I'll help you through this, I swear."
Roger snorted. "I told you, I'm not stopping. I don't need to. I don't have to. You're not my fucking mother, Mark. And even if I did stop--which I'm not going to—I wouldn't go to one of those rehab places. They treat you like shit."
"How do you know?"
"Drop it." Roger's eyes were hard, but evasive. Fine. He wouldn't push this one.
"Roger, I'm just worried about you." Mark tried with all his might to make his friend listen, to make him care.
But Roger had shut down. He merely shrugged, then said, "I'm late for practice with the band. See ya."
With that, he shoved on his shoes and walked out the door.
Without his guitar.
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Author's Note: I know it was short! Don't worry, more soon! And by soon, I mean tonight! (or actually tomorrow, as it's 11:55...not that I should be doing the 6-8 page paper on Creation versus Recognition in the Media due tomorrow, or anything...)