To Death

By: Subarashi Kage(Who needs a new name.)

... Hello again and to people I've never met before. My present 'writings'(if the shit that they are could be called that) have been forgotten, and I have moved on. At least, I've attempted to. My obsessions have again shifted, and for the first time in my short little life I am going to -attempt- a RENT fanfiction. Don't expect miracles. I'm certainly not. This idea is -beyond- overdone, but it hasn't left my head, and my muses are picking at my brain. I fear for its safety, and am thus writing.. this.

Warnings: Language, character death, shortness, inexperience, probable one-shot, possible format issues. I'm writing this with notepad, people.

Disclaimer: I do not own RENT. I still do -not- own the paperclip dude. Nor do I have his help in writing this story.

... this is ridiculous.

Summary: They were the one nobody expected to leave.

x-x-x-x-x

The graveyard was unnaturally silent. It was a given, seeing as everyone 'living' there was no longer doing such, but even so. There was no breeze, no rustle of leaves, no whisper of shoes on grass. If the sound of tears falling from one's eyes onto the cold ground could make a sound, the place would be a complete cacophony. No. That word was too violent for the sound that tears would make. It would be a symphony of pain, loss, regret, redemption, and love. A symphony of so many lives tangling together, touching each other, grating together to create more music until finally the overwhelming ensemble drove him completely and utterly insane.

It was poetically fitting that he should think of death as music.

The suit he wore, rented, was covered in grass stains already. He had seated himself in this exact spot, situated just to the left of the headstone, after the funeral, and had not moved since. The sky had alerted him that it was now approaching dusk, and with it would come the biting, murderous cold that accompanied New York winters, which he was most definitely not dressed for.. but he still did not move. What point was there in moving? Anyone who would have told him otherwise had long since moved on. ... perhaps not all of them long-since.

Angel had been the first, years ago. How many had it been? He... had lost track of time. What -was- time anyway, but a death sentence for each and every human being, creature, -organism-, that inhabited planet earth? Why concern himself over the continuous march forward when he knew exactly what it would bring; exactly what it would mean?
Fingers, shaking, trembling fingers, plucked at the blades of grass surrounding him. A plot of brown earth to his right, newly settled, and a patch of green grass to his left. A small circle in the green was becoming the same brown as the man-sized rectangular one on his other, but he seemed not to notice the similarities between the two of them. Life was filled with things similar to that as well; things he missed. Things he passed over. Things he could have seen and chose not to.

Fresh tears began spilling forth, rolling down pale cheeks to land on his already ruined suit. They didn't have the money to pay for... wait. -He-. -He- didn't have the money to pay for it. Privileged people spoke of how hard it was to keep up with the consistently presented to them. Those people had no idea what it was like to live in below freezing weather with nothing but a roof and friends. Those same people spoke of how at least there was a roof, but when that roof leaked, trapped cold in the winter and trapped heat in the summer, they had no idea what they were talking about. Even companionship was something intermittent. You could be sure of having -someone- by your side, though. At least one person tried to stick by you at all times, through the good and the bad.

Mimi had been next. HIV had become AIDS in a way that horrified the entire group. A month previous to her death she had still been working at the Cat Scratch Club, despite everyone's disapproval. It had been a steady income, and with it the burden of RENT had decreased. Her own apartment had been abandoned, and she had ascended a few more flights of stairs every night when she got home to crawl into bed with Roger. It had been from him that she contracted the common cold, which only caused a downward spiral. Her death had shocked everyone, and the musician had picked up his guitar and played. Played and played and played for weeks on end for her.

A hiccuped sob, accompanied by tears, which he hurriedly wiped away with green tipped fingers. It gave a whole new meaning to the adjective 'green thumb', though he was not aiding their growth at all. Rather, he ripped the innocent, helpless, harmless blades of grass from the ground with a subtle fury visible in his shielded, downcast eyes. The grave was the source of their interest, though, not the growing grass massacre. The grave, situated beside six others,all in a perfect row. He knew where he was sitting. Under the ground, six feet beneath the green bloodshed, would be his eternal bed. The thought made him shiver.

Collins had followed, mere months after Angel, giving testament to how fast Mimi had just given up the ghost and left them. That fucking philosopher had left them laughing. Five crowded around his hospital bed as he told his last joke, leaving them with a bit of wisdom. Ten eyes watched, wet from both tears of sadness and laughter, as Thomas Collins faded from their lives with a smile on his face, even as the lethal cough continued to course through his veins, riding on his already infected bloodstream. His had perhaps been the most painful for the remaining bohemians and their two higher-up 'friends'.

Maureen and Joanne were the next to go, and they went together. They were on the wrong end of a high speed car chase on a country highway. The pursued side-swiped the car, causing the vehicle to spin, catching the suspect's car in the process. You don't usually hear of car chases on mountain roads, as they usually don't occur.. but when they do, the results are disastrous. Both cars burst through the guard rails and ended up at the bottom of the hill. Whoever labelled this particular area as a 'hill' had been out of their minds. A forest below caught both cars in its not so loving arms. The funerals had been closed coffin, and the two had been buried beside one another on the same day. It seemed that Maureen finally learned to commit in death.

Too many similarities between those deaths and this one. The remaining three had lived for years, troubled only by guilty consciences, the rent, absent success, and shadows of their past. Benjamin Coffin III remained in Westport for three years after the death of Mimi, and those three years had been hell for them all, because in those three years they had lost five people. Mark's horrid premonition of being alone seemed to be coming true.

Hadn't they all celebrated life? To dance, to film, to music, to la vie boheme! The irony of it was thrown in his face. A harsh, choked laugh escaped him.

To death!

Eventually, Benny moved, taking his wife and unborn child with him. Massachusetts. Anywhere but New Fucking York. It held too many bad memories for him, or so he had said. Allison had gone along willingly, memories of Mimi still fresh in her mind.. though she too had mourned the girl's loss, to the surprise of most. Apparently, forgiveness was abundant all over. Bridges between Benny, Roger, and Mark had been mended, and things.. things were looking up.

Until four days ago.

So unexpected. So sudden. So.. so -wrong-. Fate seemed to be laughing at him.

Cars, closed coffin.. their numbers were deteriorating.

They had been merely walking. The two of them, side by side, an easy silence between them. Then the screeching of metal on metal, a crash, and a scream that was inhuman. None of it should have ever been, and neither of them saw it coming. -That- night had been a cacophony. There was nothing remotely beautiful about it.

To death.

One now remained. One of the two out of the original eight remained. The driver was inebriated, they said. Well what the fuck did that mean to him? He was alone now, with nobody but Benny, who he had not seen for months until this day, the day of his funeral.

Fingers pulled at the blades with a new ferocity, and through tear-filled eyes he looked up at the headstone beside him. Brand new, and not showing the slightly weathered signs of Angel's just yet. Angel's was on one end of the line.

Mark Cohen's was opposite it.

To death.

The name stood out against the grey with a blaring finality. Mark was gone, and nothing would be bringing him back. The scene of the accident, the state the body was in.. All of that was more than enough to assure Roger that he would not be coming back. Mark, who was -supposed- to outlast all of them. Who was -supposed- to be the one seated beside everyone's death bed, an anchor in the tumultous sea of life. Someone they could depend on to always be there.

/perhaps it's because I'm the one of us to survive/

Roger knew that the blonde had resigned himself to his fate long ago. He knew that Mark had accepted it, and that was why he remained in dirty, gritty, horrible New York City, rather than return home to Scarsdale to live out his days in peace. Mark had known that they needed him here, and without the glue that he was, the family would fall apart completely.

There was no longer a family to hold together.

There was no longer la vie boheme.

There was no longer a reason to look forward to Christmas.

There was no longer a reason to look forward to Halloween.

There was no longer a reason to look forward to a Happy New Year.

There was only death.

There was only Roger Davis, and he was, ironically, alone.

-et fin-

x-x-x-x-x

... so?