"Your wrath has swept over me; your terrors have destroyed me."
-Psalm 88:16
Chapter 2: Iris
In the living room, Mark could hear Roger playing his guitar. 1, 2, 3… 4 From the sounds of it, he was fiddling over some melody or another that he'd been working on all day. It was much slower now than Mark remembered.
Sleep would be a good idea… Mark hadn't been able to sleep in days. A few hours here and there, but nothing substantial. It was all because he refused to close his eyes, he was too afraid of what he'd see.
After Collins died, he went to bed the night of his funeral and saw him dying the moment he let his eyes fall shut. He woke shaking and overcome with the grief that the image produced, but that night no matter what he did he saw Collins every time he shut his eyes. The next night it was Mimi, the night after that it was Angel, and then April.
It was hard knowing that Roger, Maureen, Joanne, and him were the only ones left alive. Not that he saw much of the girls these days.
It hurt too much to be in a family that was missing four members. They lost touch.
Part of the reason…No… The only reason he was able to come to grips with what he saw in the dark was Roger. Mark thought about what happened that night often, whenever he felt himself drifting to images of his friends dying instead of them laughing he thought about that night.
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"Collins! No! I'm sorry… I'm so sorry! Please! I have to help him! Someone has to help him!" Mark tossed and turned between the thin covers, screaming and clawing at the air helplessly.
"Mark! Mark wake up! Wake up, man, it's just a dream!"
The filmmaker opened tired blue eyes to meet a pair of concerned dark green ones. Roger's hands were on his shoulders, probably from trying to shake him awake.
"Wha-? What?"
"You were having a nightmare or something… I heard screaming and came in to see what was wrong…"
"Oh, well…thanks." Mark said, as he moved to sit on the edge of the bed.
Roger sat next to him, their legs barely touching. This…is…awkward. Mark stared at the floor, and Roger shifted next to him.
"…do you want to talk about it?"
Mark shook his head, and Roger answered the shake with a hard sigh, one hand going to his head. Good job! What if Roger needs to talk? Maybe be a little receptive to someone else's needs here!
Mark echoed the sigh, "Are… you okay?"
"Fuck…Mark!" Roger wheeled up from his hand so fast Mark almost fell off the bed.
"What? What did I do?"
"You just had a fucking nightmare! And I know it's not the first one, I know there've been others I'm right next door, I can hear you! You haven't been sleeping and you're asking me if I'm okay?"
"No!" Mark protested, then bit his lip, "Well…yes, but…"
"But I'm HIV positive so it matters more whether I'm okay or not?"
"Yes! It does!"
"Mark you idiot. No it doesn't! I'll fucking decide how much I matter or don't matter okay? Now shut up about me and my HIV positive shit and tell me what the hell you've been going through!"
"I…" Mark sighed…no escaping this one. "I can't sleep because… because every time I close my eyes I see…them. I see…I see Collins and Angel and Mimi and… April. Every night since… since Collins' funeral."
Those dark green eyes watched him carefully, not daring to look away because they knew Mark didn't open up like this easily. Stupid eyes…
Drawing in a shaky breath, he continued, "They're always dying…. They're always in pain…and I can't help, I can't do anything. I feel so fucking helpless and I'm watching these people that I love die…and I know that it's going to tear... it's going to tear another piece of me apart and leave me empty and I can't do anything…"
Mark was shaking, his hand went to his forehead and he couldn't help but feel all together ashamed at his release of emotion in front of Roger. Best friend or not it made him feel vulnerable and weak…damn it. His lack of sleep nearly deteriorated all his defenses. Roger's relatively strong hand met his thin shoulder, gripping it tightly.
"I can't…I can't detach from this. I tried, but I can't…" Mark hated the defeat, the sorrow in his own voice.
"Don't." Roger said "I run, you detach…and it never works out. We end up wasting months over stupid shit that never really mattered to begin with. Face it. Face what you're seeing."
Mark looked at him desperately, wonderful idea if he had one fucking clue… "How?"
"The dying memories aren't the only ones you have of them. When you close your eyes…try to think of the good times y'know. We had a lot of those too…"
With that, the rocker pulled him into a quick embrace, ruffled the short blond hair and walked to the door where he stopped mid-step turning around to look at Mark.
"Right… after Mimi died I saw her every night dying in my dreams… I couldn't sleep….it hurt too much… One night when all I could see every time I closed my eyes was her last breath, I thought about the night we met… her smile, the moonlight in her hair, that candle she kept blowing out…" He laughed a little, but he was obviously struggling to hold back his grief, "I've dreamt of that meeting every night since..."
Mark let go of the breath he'd been holding, "Thank you."
Shrugging, Roger smiled and walked away. Mark fell back in his bed, and for the first time in weeks he welcomed the darkness without fear.
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The slam of Roger's door startled Mark out of his memories. He knew Roger was not mad…it was just his way of shutting doors. Mark silently thanked him again for helping him find sleep, well… but then that all changed a few days ago when upon closing his eyes he'd seen… Roger… dying… He'd bolted around in his bed and thrown his head under the pillows to suppress the terrified noise that escaped his throat.
Coughing erupted from next door, harsh, wheezing coughs. And Mark's chest tightened with worry and dread. It felt like his ribs would rear back and crush his heart…and for a moment Mark didn't think he would mind. As the coughing quieted down to nothing, Mark stood silently, hands shaking.
Mark got a glass of water from the kitchen…
It took him three attempts.
His hand shook so badly, the water kept spilling over the edge and all over the floor. More coughing erupted, and Mark froze unable to move for fear he'd some how ruin something. As the coughing slowed, he approached the door, knocked twice, and opened.
"Do you…do you want some water?"
There was such a pause of silence then that Mark had to suppress the urge to run in and make sure his best friend was alive and breathing.
"Yea." Roger's voice finally rasped out.
Shit…oh shit… oh shit…he's sick…he's sick….he…
"Mark?"
Water! Mark rushed the glass over to Roger who took it and drank in short sips. The filmmaker watched, worried, images of Roger dying flooding his head till he couldn't think or breath or... Roger looked up from his water.
"What?"
Mark bit his lip. Focus on breathing and on formulating words. Not on Roger sweating in a bed from a temperature too high, struggling for every breath…
"Mark…" Roger set the cup on the floor, "You're startin to scare the shit out of me."
"Sorry…" He winced. "Are you… okay?"
"I'm fine." Roger said in a voice that said clearly to Mark he wanted the subject to be dropped.
Mark didn't like dropping subjects. "No you're not."
"Fine, I'm fucking dying is that what you wanted to hear?"
The terror within him would eat him alive.
"Roger, don't say that! Just don't…say that!"
"Why not Mark? Why shouldn't I say it?" Roger shot back, "It's the truth! I'm going to die soon and there's nothing anyone can do about it! You need to accept it!"
This was not happening… Roger Davis was not telling him to accept this… This was not happening.
I have to go…
Mark's whole body shook, but he managed to convince his legs to run and his arms to slam the door behind him. And then the water all over the floor managed to convince his feet that he shouldn't be running, and the filmmaker fell with a heavy thud.
Moments later, Roger's door opened and the worried, but raspy voice of the rocker called out to him, "Mark? Mark, are you okay? Mark…what the hell are you doing on the floor?"
I like the floor…the floor isn't going to die on me… it's always been there, always will be…
Two shaky hands and arms, much weaker than they were only months ago, pulled Mark up and into a chair. If Mark hadn't lost so much weight recently, they wouldn't have been able to do shit…
"Are you okay? How many fingers am I holding up?"
Mark opened his eyes and looked at Roger hovering over him with three fingers in the air.
"I'm fine…fine…" He mumbled, gripping his head which suddenly felt very dizzy.
"Are you sure? You still haven't answered the fingers question."
"Shuddup about the fingers!"
"Is it because you can't do it? Huh? Is that why you want me to shut up about them?"
"Three! You have three fingers up! Okay!" Mark said at last, and he heard Roger sit on the couch with a loud squeak.
"Look…" The raspy voice began and Mark knew it'd be trouble. "I'm sorry…about y'know, being angry with you."
But not sorry for what you said, no, because you meant what you said… You meant that you're going to die soon and that I need to accept it.
Roger sighed, "But I meant what I said. And I just…"
"Please…" Mark felt his eyes sting…burn almost with tears that threatened to ruin him… stupid eyes, "Please don't do this now. I can't…I can't handle this tonight."
Silence. Thank all things good in the world for silence… Roger shifted in his seat, and suddenly pulled out his guitar. Maybe he'd had it with him the whole time and Mark didn't even notice… The rocker started to play that same melody from before…
"You look like you haven't been sleeping…again."
Mark nodded.
"More nightmares?"
He nodded again.
Roger played slower, weak hands holding the guitar, caressing its strings…
1, 2, 3
1, 2, 3