A/N: And this would be the last chapter—we're done! And if you've made it through this, then you've earned my appreciation and gratitude. So thank you to those of you who've read and reviewed, because I really do appreciate it.

Chapter Thirty-Four: Music Box Melody
Granted a second life, you must find more meaning in it than you could ever determine in your first.—Mirror Mirror, Gregory Maguire

The funeral was on April 1st. April Fool's Day. No one noticed that little detail until after they'd scheduled it. It was quiet, small. Mrs. Cornwell and Chris had flown out for the funeral. Both of them refused to speak to Roger, which was just as well, because Roger wasn't about to speak to them or anyone else. He'd hardly even spoken to Mark since the day April killed herself.

Roger didn't say a word through the funeral, just sat there, staring straight ahead. He couldn't cry, not knowing that he'd fall apart if he did, and so he just listened, dry-eyed and aching inside, in uncomfortable clothes and longing for a hit, even now. Mark sat beside him, giving him nervous, worried looks every now and then, and Maureen on Mark's other side, leaning against his shoulder and crying, but quietly. Benny sat a few rows back—Roger didn't turn to look, but he thought Benny might have been crying too. Collins hadn't been able to make it, and Roger couldn't feel enough to care.

After the service, April's mother and Chris started to leave quietly, and Mark stood up as if about to follow them, but then seemed to remember Roger and glanced to him as if he would feel guilty leaving him alone. "I'm gonna go talk to the Cornwells, before they leave. Will you be alright?"

Ordinarily, Roger would have responded with a biting comment, but he couldn't summon the energy for it now. "I'll be fine," he said quietly. "Go ahead."

Mark hesitated a moment longer, looking as if he wanted to say something more, but then simply sighed and walked to the back of the church, Maureen at his side.

Roger sat there for a moment or two before he got to his feet and went to the coffin at the front of the church. Closed, which Roger was thankful for. He wouldn't have been able to look at her now, if it had been open. It wouldn't be his April, alive, warm, real… Just a shadow. Besides, he doubted they'd have been able to completely hide the gashes on her arms, too deep, too permanent.

He brushed his fingers over the smooth wood of the coffin, unaware that the church had fallen silent as the others watched him standing there, Mrs. Cornwell and April's brother resentfully, Mark, Maureen and Benny with what might be concern. Roger didn't notice, simply stood there, one hand on the coffin. He didn't know what he'd been thinking, coming up here. Maybe to say something where the others wouldn't hear him, to apologize to her, but… not a single word came to mind now. Anyway, she wouldn't hear. Too late for apologies now.

He could only stand there for a moment more before turning away, walking back to the pews and sitting down heavily. He wanted to leave. He wanted to go home, because even if home had a million memories of April, at least there was something of her there. This place, this wasn't her. She wasn't here. But… something about the empty feeling in his chest and the ache in his throat told him he'd lost her a long time ago.

"Mark."

Roger's voice cracked a little as he called Mark into his room—his own voice sounded foreign to his ears. Small wonder, when he hadn't spoken more than two words in the past week, but it still caught him off guard. He fought down his surprise as Mark opened the bedroom door and stuck his head into the room almost cautiously. "Huh?"

Roger reached under his bed and pulled out a bag of smack, a couple needles, and tossed them so that they landed at the foot of the bed. He didn't want to touch them any more than necessary at the moment. It almost scared him, what he might do if he did have to touch them. He nodded to them, meeting Mark's eyes. "Take them. I don't care where you put it, whether you throw it out or whatever, but just take it."

Mark walked across the room to the bed and picked up the smack and needles hesitantly, eyeing them as if they might bite him. He winced and looked up at Roger again. "Are you sure you want me to—"

"Just take them, damn it! Get them out of here!" Roger turned away from him, no longer able to meet his eyes, and muttered under his breath, not quite to Mark, "Before I change my mind."

Mark stood there a moment longer, faltering, then nodded and walked out of the room. Roger sighed in relief, and for a while just sat there, staring at nothing. It's good that it's gone, he told himself silently. It is. You won't be tempted to… He paused, thoughtfully, and admitted to himself, To find a way to forget about her.

That was what he was afraid of, wasn't it? Aside from the fact that he was dying, at least. That he might try to lose himself in the drugs and just forget her face. It might be easier. It might not hurt as much. But he didn't want to lose her.

Her. He didn't even want to think her name anymore.

"April," he murmured under his breath. He wasn't going to allow himself to lose the memory of her, the sound of her name… "My April." Except that she'd left, and this time he could drive as far as he wanted, he'd never get her back.

He growled under his breath and climbed off the bed, walking across the room to where his guitar case rested, untouched for… longer than he cared to think about. Months, even before April had… before everything had gone to hell. He opened the guitar case slowly, and as he did, a small piece of paper slipped out. Thick, creamy white lined paper, torn out of a notebook. Just like the note April had left on the sink. Roger winced and picked it up, against his better judgment.

The words seemed to blur in front of his eyes, but somehow he managed to read it.

…don't hate me, baby? Love, Your Angel.

For a minute, two, he just sat there and stared at it, his hand shaking a little. He had to close his eyes, remember to breathe… Five minutes earlier. Maybe just three, or two… If he'd just got home a little earlier, he could have… done something. He'd be holding her, not sitting here on the floor of his bedroom, holding nothing but a letter. Too many mistakes, and how had he not seen them coming?

He sighed and pulled his guitar out of his case, carefully tucking the letter back into the case where April had put it. Better to leave it there, where he'd know where to find it if he wanted, and otherwise… it was at least out of sight. He walked to the bed with his guitar and sat down cross-legged, just staring at the strings for a moment. He'd had a purpose when he first went to get the guitar, but now he couldn't quite remember it. He struck a chord, and winced at the dissonant sound that emerged. Right. The damn guitar hated to tune. He sighed and spent a couple minutes adjusting it until it sounded close to right—he couldn't summon the energy to make sure it was perfect.

The first thing that came to his mind were older songs, things he had written for April, or with April in mind.

"The stars are beacons of heaven and maybe one day you'll go up for a ride…"

The song he'd given her on the tape that first Christmas. Before she'd really been his, before he'd tainted his angel… And another song followed that, the one he'd played for her just before they kissed, only a month after Christmas…

"Angel wandered too far from grace but saved the sinners in song…"

Saved him from himself, from the goddamn drugs he'd lost himself in, but she couldn't save herself, could she? Too far from grace indeed. She'd been perfect when they first met, flawless, innocent… He'd broken her, tarnished her, his now-fallen angel. He couldn't let himself think about that, not now, not when the memories of putting her in the ground stood out so much in his mind. That, and the too vivid image of bright blood in the bathtub, on the floor, everywhere. He still couldn't go in there without seeing the blood on everything, couldn't bring himself to believe that it was really clean. He turned his mind away from that as forcefully as he could.

The guitar strings had fallen silent, and he stared at them again. All of the old songs had some association with her, some tie—his own songs, someone else's, it didn't matter. Too many ties to her. He needed to think of something else, anything new, something he'd never played before, at least around her.

He needed a song to make all of this worthwhile, before the virus killed him, before he followed his angel… willingly or not. Something to leave behind.

He tried to play something, anything, conjure some melody from the air. It sounded wrong, oddly familiar, painful… Can't make something out of nothing, he told himself grimly. He knew he should shove the thought away. Maybe it hadn't been true before, but now… It sounded as true as anything. He attempted another tune, once or twice more, then set the guitar aside on the bed with a disgusted sigh.

The only thing that would come out was a broken, faltering version of Musetta's Waltz.