Roger stood in the loft. He stared blankly across the open floorplan, allowing his eyes to wander slowly from wall to wall.
It all looked the same as it had early that afternoon, as he had lounged lazily in the old armchair. The television still blared, its flashing screen the sole source of light in the dim apartment.
He remembered the shrill shriek of the telephone. It had startled him. Sent a shudder down his spine.
He remembered the heavy plastic of the cordless clattering to the floor like a dead weight, and the words that prompted the racket.
Mark Cohen. Robbed at gunpoint.. Shot. Critical.
He remembered the dull drone of the subway, the whoosh of the sliding doors.
He remembered the sterile white of hospital corridors.
He remembered the click of the lock to the private room into which the doctor had led them, the surgeon's stoic face and solemn shake of his head, the apologies and sympathies for their loss.
He remembered the anguished cry of Mrs. Cohen, and Maureen's devastated face, pale against Joanne's sagging shoulders. He remembered Cindy bolting from the room in horror, and Mr. Cohen's figure going slack as he collapsed heavily into a chair, head buried in his hands.
And when the piercing blare of his beeper jolted him from his dull musings and back to the loft, Roger remembered what it meant. As if by reflex, he switched it off and crossed the kitchen, removing a small prescription bottle from the dusty shelf above the sink. He popped it open with his thumb, staring into it vacantly for several seconds before realizing that it was empty.
He remembered taking the last of his AZT that morning.
He remembered making a mental note to stop by the clinic for a refill. Correction: he remembered Mark, rushing around in preparation for work, reminding him to stop by the clinic for a refill.
Mark.
April had been first. Then Angel, then Mimi. Collins had been next. Now…Mark?
It couldn't be. Mark struggled with emotion, was unlucky in love and irritated by his parents. But he was young and gifted. And healthy. I'm the doomed one, he thought. Not Mark.
Roger's eyes wandered to the window and the vibrant, pink-orange sunset beyond. If he ran, he could probably make it before the clinic closed for the night.
He remembered that he'd done it before, for Angel and Mimi and Collins.
He could make it.
He could.
But he wouldn't. Not now, not ever. Not anymore.
Slowly, deliberately, Roger replaced the cap on the empty bottle. He turned it in his fingers, studying the print on the label. After a brief moment, he tossed the plastic cylinder into the garbage can. Turning on his heel, he retreated across the loft and into his bedroom.
He remembered today. He wouldn't make that mistake tomorrow.