A/N: January 4, 4:00 PM, Central Standard Time. I actually got through today all right, considering I only got six hours of sleep. XD So, I feel like telling you guys about my life, even though you really just want me to get on with the fic, but HAHA! And if you skip to the start of the chapter, you might miss something important! Because God knows I often let little hints slip in the ANs. ANYWAYS...Sophomores are required to write a massive research paper, a process which takes up all of third quarter and ultimately counts for 60 of my History and English grades this quarter. So, everybody knows that third quarter is already the longest quarter of the school year (10 weeks), but on top of that, I have this research paper AND I'm in the chorus of the school musical...Oklahoma. –growls- If you've read my profile, you can guess that I'm very unhappy about this. ANYWAYS. On with the fic! (readers cheer silently)

P.S. OK, I had to re-write this chapter before posting it, which is why it's a day late. I would strongly appreciate the reviewer who said something about websites about heroin to e-mail me the sites. (Don't PM me, the URLS won't go through.) My e-mail is in my profile. I hope this is acurate enough...

.-.-.

This chapter rated PG-13 for mild language and some drug reference.

Figuring Out My Life – Chapter Five

Oh, my head...what happened to me? Damn, my head hurts. Somebody might as well be pounding my skull in with a sledgehammer, and it would probably hurt less. I'm used to migraines, I get them alot, but this one is almost worse, if at all possible. OK, you know the procedure, Mark, I tell myself. Just try and get to sleep, and don't open your eyes, because you know that light hurts. And hope that Roger doesn't start playing his guitar or something, because that hurts almost more...

Shit. I'm not in the loft.

I warily open my eyes and find myself in a dark (for which I am grateful) room, but I know immediately that it isn't my own. Where am I? My throbbing brain is trying to piece the puzzle together. OK, you're not in the loft...you have a migraine that's the worst you can ever remember them being...and...damn, my stomach hurts...almost as much as it did when...

Shit. I can swear that my headache gets worse as it dawns on me, all of my memories. Why do I have to keep doing this? It's so painful going through this period of blissful ignorance only to come crashing back down to the rock solid ground. Everything around me is glaring at me, accusing me, some even laughing. I can swear the shadows around me are making noises, echoing everything in my mind a million times over. It's so hard...I don't want to keep doing this...I need to get away...

Suddenly, I feel as if my eyes are on fire as the room is suddenly filled with light. I moan with pain, wanting to lunge out and attack whoever had just made the light, but my head only throbs harder as I try to sit up properly. I press my palms against my eyes, but the pain only gets worse. My teeth grind against each other as I hold back near screams of pain.

"Relax, Mr. Cohen." I pause, even though the pain is still very evident. The light is gone, and I'm left lying on the bed that is not mine in a once more dark room. I push myself up onto my elbows and look around, squinting through the darkness. I can see a figure standing by the doorway. "How are you feeling?"

"Like shit." My eyes are closed again, because the sound of the voice is amplified a million times thanks to the headache. I don't bother being soft with them because I can tell it's a girl. In fact, for some reason, the fact that it's a girl speaking to me almost makes it worse.

There is silence for a while, and I want it to go on forever; my head is throbbing less from the absence of noise. But nothing good can last forever, as Collins has told me countless times in his philosophical manner. "Would you like some medication? It can help ease the pain."

I'm about to say something, but the impact of what she has said hits me. Nothing can ease the pain. At least this headache is distracting me from the pain of thinking about... "No." My eyes are clenched shut, trying to shut out a bit of the pain. I can her footsteps as the girl begins to make for the door. A thought jumps into my head, and I blurt it out before I can stop myself. "Where am I?"

There is yet another pause. "You're in the rehabilitation center. We're going to help you until you're fully recovered from your addiction." My mind goes blank, and I hear the footsteps resume. I have to duck under the covers to block out the brief flash of light that burns through my eyelids worse than fire, and I hear the door click shut, echoing in my numb brain, unable to process the severity of what she has just told me.

.-.-.

I must have been able to fall asleep (which must have been the first good thing to happen to me ever since...ever since.) eventually, because I can suddenly hear a voice from somewhere undistinguishable. "Mark? Mark?"

My eyes flicker open, and I'm almost thrilled to find that my headache is almost completely gone. It doesn't even hurt to look at the light. I'm almost ready to celebrate this event, when I get a closer look at the face hovering a few feet above mine. My heart falls to somewhere in my stomach, and my suddenly dry throat is hardly able to croak out the word I want to say. "Roger."

Roger smirks at me, but I can tell that he's only trying to act happy since he knows I must feel like shit. (Which I do.) I can see hurt in his eyes, pain almost equal to mine. "You sure freaked me and Collins out, man. Collins thought you were dead."

I look away from him, but I can still feel him watching me closely. "I..." Whatever words I had been planning to say suddenly escape me, and I'm left with my mouth half-open, struggling not to look up at Roger.

I see Roger sit down on a chair next to the bed I'm in out of the corner of my eye. "Mark, I just..." He stops, his words obviously failing him as well. "I just...don't know what to do."

I sigh, closing my eyes. "Me neither."

There is a long, drawn out silence that, unlike the last time I was awake, I hate with a passion. I want to tell him, try and make him understand...but I can't. Finally, Roger speaks. "Kind of...ironic, isn't it?"

I can't handle opening my eyes and looking over at him. "What?"

He's staring intently at his hands which are folded in his lap. "It's like we...switched places."

I look away, unsure at first what to say in response. Unable to think of anything better, I softly say, "I know."

There is another drawn out pause between us, during which I frantically try to think of something to say. All of a sudden, a thought creeps into my head, and I say, very softly, "How...how are you?" I know how feeble I must sound, trying to make small talk at a time like this. Great job, Mark, an evil voice in my head tells me.

"Like shit." He's still staring at his hands, and without looking at his eyes I can't tell what he's thinking. "You?"

"Like shit." I look at Roger's hands, and I see that his knuckles are white. He must be clenching his hands into fists, holding something back. My weak mind tries to think up some way to make him feel better. "Roger, about that night..."

"What about it?" My heart jumps slightly as his sudden response. It's sharp, immediate, and...bitter. Almost angry.

I falter almost immediately, but I can't back out of what I was going to say. "About...about Mim-"

"Just forget it." He stands up suddenly, not even giving me a second look. "I'll be back later." Before I can say a single word, before I can even take back what I was going to say, he is rushing out of the room, throwing the door open and slamming it behind him. I stare at the door long after he leaves.

I must have done nothing but think for hours, staring at the ceiling. God, what have I done? I'm such an idiot. Why did I try that? I know I shouldn't be doing it, know that this urge I have in my gut to escape once again...is bad. It's all wrong. I shouldn't be thinking about how beautiful it was to be able to not worry about anything, even if for only a few hours. I'm addicted, dammit, and I've only done it twice. Addicted. I need that drug. I shouldn't need it, shouldn't even entertain the notion of doing it again...but I can't.

I thought I was breaking a chain before. But it's all the same. It's all the same cycle. Only now it's worse. Now I can't break it. As long as I need heroin...I'm trapped again. My glances at freedom through shooting up would only be momentary, only for an instant. Is this the life I'm doomed to live? A life of continual pain, an instant of bliss, and a painful fall back to reality once again. It's always going to be like this. And I can't do a thing about it. The look of pain and anger in Roger's eyes, Mimi being rushed through the hospital when she's already damaged beyond repair, Collins sobbing in front of a memorial and mourning his lost love, April committing suicide after a horrible discovery...it's all the same. It's all unavoidable pain that is meant to follow me to my grave.

My life is meant to be pain. The sooner I accept that, the better it'll be. Go with the cycle, enjoy your moments of bliss, and come crashing back to earth and start the whole thing over again.

Damn, that's a pessimistic view on life, I tell myself. But the horrible thing is that it's reality.

.-.-.

"Thank you for making it. My name is Richard, and while you're here, we're going to work together to make our lives happier."

I am squirming in my chair, glancing around nervously at those around me. Sitting in a circle has always made me feel very uncomfortable; it's as if they're trying to make us feel like friends when we hardly know each other. The whole façade of it makes me writhe.

"Now, we have someone new joining us today." The man looked at me with sincere brown eyes that perfectly matched his brown hair. "Would you like to introduce yourself?"

Now I'm very uncomfortable. If there's anything I hate most in the world, it's attention. That's why I started filmmaking in the first place: hand the focus over to somebody else, as long as it isn't me. Everybody turns to look at me, and even though there's only about seven of us total and they look genuinely kind (overall), I feel like they're a pack of wolves bearing down on me. "Umm...I'm Mark..."

Everyone says in scattered unison words along the lines of 'Hello, Mark' and 'Hey, Mark' or 'Nice to meet you.' Richard smiles at me. "Why don't we go around the circle so that Mark can learn our names?"

As they go around the circle, my eyes follow the order warily. Their names echo in my mind, and I notice things about each one of them. Omar's eyes are an extremely bright shade of blue. Melissa is twiddling her thumbs as she speaks. Grant looks straight ahead at nothing, as if none of us are even there. Each one of them seems odd in their own way. I wonder what sticks out about me, I wonder vaguely. Maybe my glasses, since all of them seem to either not need them or wear contacts. Maybe my hair. All of the other men have either black or brown hair, and my blonde hair stands out.

No...the rest of them seem calm. Well, besides Melissa. But overall, they seem calm, as if they understand what they are doing. Some of them who I assume have been here for a while even have a sort of glimmer of life in their eyes. I don't feel alive at all. I feel like I died ages ago, as if all the pain has numbed me from feeling anything. And I'm not calm. I don't understand what I'm doing. I don't know much of anything anymore. All I know is I feel like shit, and I can't stand being in this world anymore. As soon as I get another ticket out of here, I'm gone.

.-.-.

A/N: January 4th, 5:15 PM, Central Standard Time. That didn't take very long. –does a word count to make sure she had roughly 2k words- Well, the chapter itself, not counting the title, is 1,928 characters. Close enough, right? I know it looks like this is getting ready to end, and it quite possibly might. The possibility of a sequel after this is decreasing more and more in my mind. I'll just have to see what happens.