He stumbled back against the flat, smooth wall. Slowly he slid downwards, the cool surface rubbing gently against his back. The ground touched his body and he wrapped his arms around his knees, burying his face in the tops of his legs. Curling up in a ball, he rocked back and forth, the carpet rough and grainy beneath him. Strangled, unwilling sobs forced their way out of his raw throat, angry and painful.
Booze. He needed something, anything, to get rid of this agonizing feeling, this terrible ache. Staggering to his feet, Collins made his way over to a bottle that was resting on the bed. Their bed. The one where they had lain together at night, arms wrapped around each other, whispering and laughing softly at whatever they felt like. He couldn't stand it. The happiness, the love that had bloomed and spread and filled the empty part of him was gone, sucked away cruelly.
Collins clutched the bottle, discovering that it was open and half empty. He took a swig anyway, a fizzing sensation clouding his brain for a moment of infinitesimally small peace. Then the feeling went away and the pain returned, overwhelming him and forcing him to his knees. He gulped again, and the pain dulled once more before returning.
Dimly, he felt ridiculous, reduced to a limp, sobbing form by glancing at a picture. But that was what Angel could do to him: unleash something inside himself that had never existed before. The joyous part of that something was dead now: only the grief was left, scraping angrily at him whenever a small piece of Angel came into his consciousness. He might catch a whiff of her favorite perfume, or see a drummer sitting, lost in his beat, on the sidewalk. Or, like now, a simple photo might unhinge him completely.
Collins discovered that the bottle was empty. Throwing it down angrily, he stalked from the room, slightly unsteady from the pain and the alcohol. The bright colors on the walls, sad traces of Angel, leered at him, as though jeering at his loss. He pounded one, almost enjoying the ache in his fist. But it wasn't enough to drink and hit walls. He needed to go away from here. To try to forget (as if he could) a small part of this.
It was as though Angel had been his true drug, some kind of smack that he had tried once and gotten hooked on right at the beginning. He had to have her again and again, had to be with her, hear her laugh, kiss her, touch her, make love to her, just be with her, no matter what they did together. But this addiction hadn't hurt him. It had raised him up in one-never ending high, where everything but Angel seemed to blur into one long parade of life. She gave a little of that to everyone, but for him, it was like he was a dealer who had no clients, who was blessed enough to be loved by his drug as much as he loved it.
But then smack withdrawal, while horrible and torturous, was livable. It wasn't fatal, it didn't kill you. His Angel withdrawal, this sharp and unimaginable pain that stabbed at him every minute of every day, sometimes drowning in his friends but always there, wasn't livable. It was killing him, slowly and surely, lending a hand to the AIDS which already raged inside his body. And he couldn't give in, couldn't go back to Angel when the withdrawal got too strong. She was gone forever, and no dealer could ever sell him anything that would give him even a little bit of Angel.
Collins dimly registered another bottle, this one only slightly drained, sitting on the floor. Without thinking, he grabbed it and swigged. Life was becoming unreal to him. It didn't matter what he did now, or how stupid it seemed. Every day was a mirage, just one more bad dream until he finally woke up. And when he woke, he felt certain that Angel would be there.
This bottle too was fast becoming empty, but Collins, who handled alcohol aggressively and skillfully, only consumed it faster, the fizzing buzz wrapping around his brain. He took a quick break for air, and blinked. Suddenly, his eyes caught sight of a bundle of red cloth, tumbling out of a bag that stored some of Angel's things. Collins hated that her belongings, which she treasured so much, were stuffed away in bags like junk, gathering dust. But Joanne, always the sensible one in a crisis, told him that it was best, and he knew she was right. If glancing at a photograph could do this to him, then living in a house peppered with the items that were so much part of Angel would be like a never-ending hell of misery. And his life was already pretty much like hell.
Collins, feeling the effects of the alcohol beginning to work, stumbled over towards the red fabric, his heart pounding. Bending down unsteadily, he pulled gently at it. The cloth unfolded and fell to the floor, revealing fluffy white trim and a zebra-print belt. Angel's Santa coat from Christmas Eve.
Oh god. Oh god, no. He couldn't deal. Not with this. Not with this slap in the face of a memory. Collins fell to his knees, one hand entangled in the fabric of the coat. It smelled of Angel, of cold nights turned warm by her very presence, of streets and dancing and kissing and passion. The strangely smooth fabric reminded him of her skin, sleek and beautiful and caressing. He nearly retched as he thought of her touch, so firm and lively and energetic. And how her lips and tongue and teeth tasted after she had just laughed, how her body felt when it was literally tingling with the euphoria of pure life. Collins shuddered violently, memories drifting like teasing mists behind his closed eyelids.
The contents of the bottle was spreading through his body now, and Collins felt a desire so strong that he drew blood by digging his fingernails into his own palm. He stood suddenly, almost falling over. Righting himself, he tore blindly through the rooms of the house, not caring what he knocked into or what he broke. He burst into the bedroom, and he felt like he was drowning. Drowning in her, in what she was and what she left behind.
Collins looked around wildly and registered the small, mostly empty closet that neither of them had ever really used for anything. At least, they never used it for storage. No, don't think of that, don't think of anything, only get away, get away from all this. Collins stumbled to the closet and tore it open, collapsing into the small rectangular space. He sat up and huddled there, his arms around his knees again, the sobs coming back, the pain and grief and hurt all bombarding him like gunfire. Collins slowly felt himself spiraling down into some horrible pit, where all that he could see was Angel's pale, bony, waxy face right before his eyes emptied out and he went limp in Collins's arms.
"Fuck, where is he?" Maureen swore, pacing. Roger and Mimi watched her, their own stomachs clenching and writhing. Maureen stopped pacing and whirled around to glare at them, her eyes full of angry worry.
"What the hell is he doing, just ditching us like this? I swear, if he fell asleep and forgot, I'll…" Maureen trailed off, biting her lower lip. Roger bit his pinky nail. If they knew anything, it was that Collins was never late when the chance to be with his friends was offered. The one time they could remember him showing up late was one particular Christmas Eve, and he had showed up later with someone who had changed their lives.
"That's it, I'm calling him," Mimi said suddenly, standing and almost running to the phone. Roger said softly, "But what if he's just…you know…what if he needs us to just leave him alone?"
"Fuck that, Roger, he's been worse than depressed since Angel…well, you know, since all that, and I don't think he's gonna be okay anytime soon. Go on and call, Mimi." This was unnecessary, since Mimi was already listening to the ringing of the phone. It seemed empty and listless, like the tolling of death bells. Finally, a gravelly company message picked up, and Mimi slammed the phone down. She thought for a minute, then started to dial again.
"Phone," shouted Mark into the stage microphone. He and Joanne were working on Maureen's next protest scenery and technical stuff. Joanne was using a staple gun on a cardboard cutout of Wile E. Coyote and Mark was messing around with a voice changer. Once again, Maureen had them both slaving away for her while—guess what!—she didn't happen to be there.
"Fuck!" Joanne jumped about a foot and glared across the space at Mark. "Think before yelling into the mike, huh?"
"Sorry," Mark said, rolling his eyes. Joanne laid down the staple gun and crossed over to the still ringing pay phone. Looking disgustedly at the filthy receiver, she gingerly placed it to her ear.
"Joanne Jefferson…oh hey Mimi, what's up?...wait, slow down, I can't— hasn't showed up? What do you mean?...Oh my god, are you saying—Mimi, shut up and let me think…ok, Mark and I will go check the apartment. Just stay calm and don't leave the loft…yeah, we'll call about what we find. Tell Maureen and Roger what's going on…ok, and Mimi?...it's going to be okay, girl. Like I said, calm down…yeah, bye." Joanne hung up, her face visibly paler.
"What's up with Mimi?" Mark asked into the mike, still vaguely twiddling with some wires. When there was no answer, he looked up and saw how scared Joanne looked. Putting down the wires, Mark hurried over to her, something twisting in his stomach.
"Joanne, what's wrong? Is Mimi okay?" Joanne seemed to shake herself. She suddenly grabbed his arm and headed for the door, hurriedly saying, "Collins is two hours late and they can't reach him on the phone. Mimi's worried about him." Mark, hearing these words, broke free from Joanne's grip and started running, followed by the lawyer. His heart was pounding, and images of Collins raced through his head.
They reached the apartment building in record time, actually almost knocking a person down as they ran. Mark, desperately searching his pockets, muttered various profanities when the key Collins had given him proved to be AWOL. Joanne, her hands shaking slightly, reached into her wallet and pulled out a credit card. As Mark's eyes widened, she fitted it into the lock and did something, some little slide or twist. The door swung open, revealing a dark, ominous space beyond.
Joanne went in first, her eyes darting back and forth in trepidation. Mark took several deep breaths and followed, a dark fear suffocating him. They both knew what they might find, and Mark also knew that if he was forced to see another friend, another person in a state of death they themselves inflicted, he might not be able to stand it. Collins wouldn't, he told himself, staring into the dark apartment. He knows what it was like after April, he wouldn't do that to himself and to us. But as Mark tentatively followed Joanne into the apartment, he remembered how Collins felt, that he and Angel would be together when he joined in death and in Heaven. And that thought made every hair on Mark's body stand up in fright.
They searched the kitchen first. It was strewn with empty bottles and cans, mostly beer and other alcohol. Some old food sat on the table, and a pile of dishes rose in the sink. The lights in the apartment were off, and when Joanne tried the switch nothing happened. The darkness crowded them, masking their surroundings in shadow.
"Collins? Hey, Collins, where are you? Collins, man? It's Mark and Joanne. Collins?" Mark's voice sounded small and choked in the dank kitchen. He turned away, followed by a shivering Joanne.
The living room was empty as well, although there were also bottles here. Some streetlight streamed in through the window, chasing away some but not all of the darkness. Mark, noticing a faint glow of red in a patch of light, went over and discovered Angel's Santa coat, lying like a dead animal on the ground.
"Oh my god," Mark said, staring numbly at the coat. If Collins ha taken this out, who knows what it might make him do? Joanne crouched beside him, gently picking up the coat.
"Mark, look," she whispered, pointing to several small brownish stains on the coat. They looked like…dried drops of blood. Mark felt his stomach heaving, and he looked alarmingly at Joanne. She didn't see him; instead, she looked at ground and gasped, her finger resting next to a few other brown stains. They were clustered close together, as though they had dripped from a certain thing.
"Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. Collins!" Mark almost screamed, fear strangling his throat and making his cry into a near-croak. He got up and dashed through the door. Joanne moved after him, getting paler by the minute. The clues were looking worse and worse.
Finally, Mark reached the bedroom. It was empty, with a cracked bottle on the floor and something papery lying on the bed. Mark reached down and picked up the thing on the bed. It was picture of Angel, without makeup or his wig. A headshot of a strong, serene, effeminate young man, who looked mystically out of the photo. Mark felt pain and tasted blood as he realized that he was biting his tongue as hard as he could. Joanne hurried into the room, looking around despairingly. She noticed the picture in his hands and stared at it, knowing what the coat and picture might mean.
"I'm going to check the bathroom. Just stay here," Mark said, his voice wavering. Joanne nodded and sat on the bed, gazing at the photo. Mark stood and made his way to the bathroom, every step harder than the last. Oh god, please don't let him have done it, please…
"They haven't called yet. Maybe it's okay." Maureen reasoned, her fingers drifting aimlessly through her hair. Roger, his head in his hands, only sighed. Mimi was the one pacing now, yet she was silent.
"I'm going to go out and check the streets," Maureen declared, standing and moving towards the door.
"Maureen, we don't even know if anything's wrong yet. And beside, if they called we couldn't reach you," Mimi wearily told her, still pacing. Maureen gritted her teeth and sat back down, her movements stiff.
"I hate this," she muttered. Roger sighed again, and Mimi only nodded.
Mark took a deep breath and threw open the door to the bathroom. Relief flooded through him as he saw that it was empty of any bloodstained corpses or blank, staring eyes. He put sat on the lid of the closed toilet and put his face in his hands, clearing his head for only moment. Please let Collins be okay, he silently begged, please, let him be—
"MARK!" Joanne's scream jolted Mark out of his rest and made him jump a foot in the air. "Get in here!" She sounded bad. Really bad. Mark got up and ran, racing towards the bedroom. Let it be okay, he pleaded once before turning into the room.
Joanne was crouched by the foot of the closet, the door opened. Her eyes were wide and frightened. Mark, coming up behind her, saw something that chilled his blood and caused relief to flood through him at the same time. Collins was sitting on the floor, rocking back and forth, moaning.
"Collins, man, it's me, Mark, and Joanne," Mark said soothingly, dropping to his knees beside Joanne. Collins looked up blindly at him, his face wet and pale.
"This isn't real, no, I can't do it anymore, just fucking leave me alone," he sobbed, coming apart. Mark, horrified at what his strong, loving, cheerful friend had become, reached out and put his hands on Collins's shoulders. Collins shivered at the touch, but didn't pull away. Joanne was paralyzed by this Collins; it wasn't the one she knew, the one who listened (sometimes) when she talked about work, the one who joked and laughed and included her in conversations where she somehow felt like a total outsider, the one who looked out for them all. This wasn't him.
"Listen, Collins, it's Mark, one of your best friends, and I'm real, and I'm not going to leave you alone. We love you, Collins, me and Roger and everyone else. We're gonna help you, man. It's going to be okay." Collin stared at mark, then leaned forward and embraced him, still crying. Mark held his friend and let him cry, feeling the shuddering sobs leave Collins one by one. Finally, the tall black man pulled away, seeming calmer. Joanne hugged him too, and he took comfort in this act of love as well as Mark's. He clung to her for a moment, then pulled away and leaned against the wall of the closet, breathing hard.
"C'mon, let's get you up," Mark said, slipping under on of Collins's arms. He hoisted his friend to his feet, aided by Joanne. Together, they got Collins over to the bed and laid him down, first clearing away the bottle and photo. Collins closed his eyes and began to sleep almost immediately, his chest rising and falling peacefully. Mark and Joanne watched him for a moment, taking a minute to rest after what had just happened.
"I can't believe that this could really have happened to him, "Joanne remarked, shuddering again. Mark nodded, unable to speak. "I mean, he's so strong for the rest of us, but when Angel…died, he fell apart. I think he needs us more than we realized." Mark nodded again, seeing the truth in Joanne's words. Suddenly, the two turned to each other and embraced, just for a second. Then they broke apart and stood awkwardly, staring at the ground.
"Um, I'll go call Mimi and tell her everything's okay," Joanne muttered, heading towards the kitchen. Mark watched her go, a strange feeling slitting around his head.
When two people rescue one of their best friends in the world from utter despair, a special bond is created. Even if these two people share a girlfriend and ex-girlfriend.
Mimi, Roger, and Maureen hurried into the apartment, blowing on their cold fingers. Maureen rushed into Joanne's arms, and Roger gave Mark a quick hug. Mimi squeezed Mark's hand and said, "How is he?"
"Okay. Better than before. He's asleep, but knowing Collins, I'm betting that if you want to go in and see him, it won't wake him up. C'mon, let's all go." The group of friends tramped into the bedroom, trying to be quiet. Maureen and Mimi seemed shaken, as though some huge noise had just exploded behind them. Roger was quiet, withdrawn and thoughtful. Joanne and Mark were calmer than the others, having been able to make sure that Collins was okay.
Maureen ran over to the bed and sat down beside her friend. He looked peaceful, as though the horrors that he had just gone through were slowly being erased from his memory. He was lying on his back, arms spread out unevenly. Maureen gently took his hand, and was a little surprised when his large, worn brown fingers curled around hers, although he was still asleep. She looked up at the rest of them with tears in her eyes and whispered, "What the fuck happened?"
"We're not completely sure, but we found a photo of Angel on his bed and a lot of empty Stoli bottles. And Angel's old Christmas coat was out. I think he just got overwhelmed or something." Mark leaned against the back wall, his hands in his pockets. Mimi went over and sat on the other side of the bed and put her hand on Collins's shoulder. He stirred a little, but didn't wake. Roger slid down the wall and sat cross-legged on the ground. Joanne stood beside Maureen, one hand on her back.
"I can't picture Collins getting like that," said Mimi quietly. "I mean, Angel being gone is horrible, but that it makes him get so…helpless is just heartbreaking."
I know what it's like," Roger said softly. Everyone turned to look at him. He shook his head and sighed, crossing his arms. "I know what it's like to have someone who you…you…someone close to you die without being able to do anything." Mark swallowed, and Maureen blinked hard. Mimi looked away from Roger, and Joanne bowed her head.
"It's like hell, because no matter what, you can't have just one more chance, you can't go back, you can't change anything. And all you want to do is die, so that you can get rid of this guilt, this baggage, and just get the hell out of your own head." Roger had tears in his voice now, but his gaze as he stared at Collins's sleeping form was steady, and his eyes were dry.
"But we can't let him go yet," Maureen said, squeezing Collins's hand. "He'll get to Angel eventually, but we have to tell him that we're here for him now, and focusing on before is just going to do this to him again." The others nodded and then were quiet. There was nothing else to say.
Collins was floating. Somewhere in some place, he didn't care where. But he was drifting, wheeling through things that didn't make any sense to him. And then suddenly, he was surfacing, rising and ballooning upwards. As he rose, he could swear a face, one that haunted his dreams every night, appeared in front of him, laughing and shining. It was Angel. He reached out to touch her, but she was intangible, just for now. Her laughter was a promise, he knew, that she was waiting, and that they were going to be together forever soon. But then for now, his friends' faces, worried and loving at the same time, replaced Angel's, and he understood that right now, right here, he had a life to live. And Angel would help him as she could, and she still loved him and knew he still loved her. But she also wanted him to love the life he had left. And as Collins rose from his sleep and blinked at his friends'—no, his family's faces, he knew that Angel was lifting him up again, his buoy, his guardian. His Angel.
Sorry for the mushy ending, but I wanted a little Angelness! This is my sad part of me being writingful, so embrace it cuz im so cheery! Yay!