The days that followed seemed too much a blur for me to catch much. The majority of the time, Roger was locked in his room. He seldom came out of his own will, once or twice to get a piece of toast and then retreat back into his cave again. Collins dragged him out a few days before the funeral to take him to the free clinic. I don't know what happened when they went to the clinic, but it must have ended badly—upon their re-entrance to the loft Collins sported several bruises on his already dark skin and Roger went back to his room immediately and didn't come out.

"He's Positive." Collins said heavily as he applied ice to the darkening bruise on his arm. "But they put him on an AZT prescription."

Good, I thought. Now the trouble was just getting him to come out of his room and take the pills every day.

About four days after the whole incident began, I realized that I hadn't gone out to film in days. My messenger bag still sat lonely in the same place that I had dropped it after Roger and I had returned from April's apartment. On a whim I threw on my coat, grabbed my bag and dragged my bike down the stairs. I was out all day. And it felt good—better. Better than sitting dormant up in the loft waiting for Roger to come out of his room only to be treated with a scowl and a nasty attitude whenever he did come out. Better than having nothing to do and being too depressed to even discuss things with Collins. Better than having to talk to my mother on the phone.

Better than having nothing else to do but wait for the funeral.

A week and a day after Roger and I had discovered April in her apartment, I found myself standing before the cracked mirror in the bathroom, adjusting my blue and grey tie. Collins and Maureen had gone ahead to the funeral home to see that everything was in place, leaving me with Roger. It was a prospect I was somewhat unsure about.

As I roved back into the main room I noted that Roger's door was still closed, and the clock on the kitchen counter declared 11:50. We had roughly 40 minutes to get to the funeral home. Plenty of time, even walking.

"Come on, Roger, we're going to be late." I shouted.

No reply.

I gave him a few more minutes, running some water on a small stain on my shirt to rub it out, wiping the smear off my glasses, putting on my coat.

11:55.

I sighed. "Roger…" I said loudly.

When he didn't reply again, I went to his door, knocked twice, and then opened the door.

Both of us spoke at the same time—I said, "We're going to be—" and then stopped, and he shouted, "Shit!" obviously caught off guard.

I stopped mid-sentence because he had a syringe filled with heroin in his hand. The fact that he had never, ever brought smack into the loft before wasn't what bothered me—though the thought occurred to me later—it was that he was evidently planning on attending his girlfriend's funeral doped up on heroin.

"Get out of here!" he said angrily, clutching the syringe in his hand. I felt rooted to the floor.

"What are you doing?" I said. "You're going to April's funeral stoned?"

"Get the fuck out of here! I can do whatever I like." Roger snarled. He started to advance on me.

"No! No, you can't! You're not going to the funeral stoned!" I shouted back. I couldn't believe it. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

Apparently I didn't have the mind of a recreational user like Roger. If I knew that I had contracted AIDS from shooting up—though in all actuality it was probably April who got it first and then passed it to him—I sure wouldn't be doing it anytime in the near future. But addictions are addictions, and I didn't have one. Roger did.

"Fuck you, Mark."

The words stung and I stared at him blankly, angrily. I opened my mouth to say something, but nothing came out. My mind was a blur.

But what happened next was even worse.

Roger stepped towards me, grabbed me by the collar of my shirt, and pushed me backwards into the door frame.

"I said, get the fuck out of here." He said again.

Roger had never raised a hand toward me. We were best friends. It just didn't happen. He had hit Collins before, which I knew. But Collins was a big guy. He could take it. Roger was bigger than me, and he knew it.

I really wasn't the kind of person to say what I said next—but I couldn't help myself. "Fine then. Come and see everyone, doped up. See if I give a shit."

Then I turned and stalked away, leaving the apartment.

If I had stayed, I would have seen Roger put down the needle ruefully.

Maureen was standing outside of the funeral home with Collins having a cigarette when I arrived, alone. I had cooled off some, thanks to the long walk that the trip from the loft provided. Somehow, I had held it together. I was hurt by Roger's harsh words and even more by the fact that he had pushed me, but I didn't cry.

"Where's Roger?" Maureen asked first. "And…what's wrong with your shirt?" She approached me and started fixing my collar and my tie, which had come loose when Roger had grabbed me.

"I think Roger's on his way." I said quietly.

"You think?" Collins said.

I wasn't sure if it was my place to tell them that I had walked in on Roger shooting up right before the funeral.

"We…we had a bit of a scuffle is all. But I…I think he's coming."

"You had a fight?" Maureen said, fixing my tie with wide eyes.

"Well, no…no, he just pushed me." I said.

"Why? What happened?" Maureen asked. I shook my head.

"It was nothing. We were just…messing around. He was a little upset. It's fine." I explained. Collins looked dubious.

"Should we wait for him? Or go inside?" Maureen asked.

Collins checked his watch. "Ten minutes. We should go and at least sit down. He knows how to get here."

If he's coming, I thought bitterly. After what had happened at the apartment, I honestly didn't expect him to come. Not even to his girlfriend's funeral.

But that didn't seem like something Roger would do, I knew that. He wasn't that stubborn, not even these days.

…Was he?