Character(s)/Pairing(s): Mark/Maureen, Roger/April
Challenge: Endings
Notes: Pre-Rent. Sequel to "Cambridge Would Do" and "Sell Out" Takes place the same evening as "Sell Out." Deals with such unpleasant topics as suicide, sickness, and drug abuse. Heavy on the "F-Word."
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters. I intend no copyright infringement. This is a work of love, resulting in no profit to myself, except for feedback. I am a feedback whore. Feedback me.
The loft was dark and quiet when they got back from the movie. It had been an independent film—written, produced, directed, and shot by a local artist. Mark loved it. Maureen was a little less enthusiastic, citing a lack of depth. They were still arguing the film's merits as they entered the apartment.
"It was subtle Maureen. Not shallow."
She rolled her eyes, tossing her jacket onto the couch. "Then it was so subtle, that it lost all sense of meaning. Face it, Mark. The film was facile and naïve. Just because it's local and independent, doesn't mean it has to be good."
Mark shook his head in disbelief. "But it was good."
"Says you. I'm going to the bathroom. I've had to piss since halfway through that godawful movie." She made her way through the dark towards the bathroom, muttering under her breath about filmmakers who were too blind to recognize garbage in their own trade. She threw open the door just as Mark switched the light on behind her in the main room of the loft. She immediately slammed it shut again.
"Oh. Fuck. Sorry, April." The girl in the bathtub on the other side of the door didn't answer. "Look, would you mind hurrying it up—I've really got to take a leak." Still no response—not even the splashing Maureen would have expected to hear as April moved around in the tub. "Seriously April—if you don't get out soon, there's going to be a massive puddle on the floor, and I'm going to make you clean it up… Look, will you just answer me? Are you asleep or something?"
Sighing in frustration, Maureen pushed the door open again and flipped on the light. "Sorry to barge in on you. April, but you fell asleep, and I really have to… Oh my God." She felt her knees buckle as she toppled to the floor. She couldn't tear her eyes from the scene in front of her. Dimly, she heard Mark calling to her, asking if she was all right. She couldn't answer. She wasn't all right. Without warning, her stomach rebelled and emptied itself violently down the front of her clothing and onto the bathroom floor.
Shaking, Maureen didn't even move out of the doorway as she heard Mark's hurried footsteps behind her.
He stopped short in the doorway. With the light on, he couldn't help but see April's wide, blank brown eyes and the pool of red water she lay in. "Oh, God," he whispered. He swallowed the lump in his throat and sat down beside Maureen, gathering her into his arms. He rocked her gently, stroking her hair and murmuring soothingly into her ear.
"Shh… It's ok. Relax, baby. It'll be ok. Shh… I know, baby. I know. It'll be ok." Slowly, Maureen came back to herself and stopped shaking. Tears poured silently down her cheeks, and she looked up at Mark.
"I don't understand… Why…" she shook her head, trying to clear away the tears. "What do we do now?"
Mark sighed, gathering her closer. "We do what we're supposed to do when we find a dead girl in our apartment. We need to call 911."
"But…" Maureen chewed on her lower lip before continuing. "Shouldn't we… I mean, don't you think Roger should be here before we call the cops?"
Mark shook his head. "No. We don't know where he is, or when he'll get back… and…" He swallowed hard, glancing at the ancient claw-footed bathtub and its occupant. "He shouldn't have to see her like this," he finished quietly.
Maureen nodded, pressing herself closer to Mark. She could hear his heart beating and the rush of air into and out of his lungs as he breathed. She closed her eyes, listening.
"You want to come with me when I make the call?" She could hear his voice through his chest.
She shook her head, pulling back a little. "No. You go ahead."
He shot her a quizzical look. "You sure?"
Maureen nodded, trying—failing—to force a smile. "Yeah." She tilted her chin toward the bathtub. "I… She shouldn't have to be alone."
Mark pulled her tightly against him once more before releasing her. "I'll be back as soon as I can," he promised, standing. "You shouldn't have to be alone either."
She tried another smile, which felt more like a grimace. "Hurry back." She turned her attention back to April. It felt like she was holding vigil over the dead girl. Maureen stood, stretching her legs as she did. She tried to avoid looking at April as she lay—so still—in the red water. She could hear Mark's voice in the other room, explaining the situation to the 911 operator as she glanced around the bathroom. Walls, floor, toilet… Maureen realized dimly that she hadn't used the toilet yet. Somehow it seemed less urgent now. She certainly couldn't go with April… Her eyes passed quickly over the bathtub, skipping to the bathroom sink and the handwritten note on the mirror.
Maureen frowned. She stepped closer to the sink to get a better look at the note. It was scrawled on a sheet of paper torn from the pad they kept in the loft to leave messages for each other or make grocery lists. April's normally tidy script had been turned into chicken scratch by what Maureen assumed were shaking hands, but it was still recognizable. Still legible.
Roger-
We've got AIDS. I'm sorry.
-April
Maureen took a step back from the sink in disbelief. No… Could she be misreading…? But there was precious little to misread. So that was why April had… And now Roger… She took another step back, closing her eyes against a new wave of nausea.
How would they tell him?
She stood alone in the middle of the bathroom, eyes closed, listening uncomprehendingly while Mark concluded the call to 911. She was aware that she was crying again, but seemed unable to stop. Her shoulders shook with silent sobs. She didn't even notice that Mark had returned until he wrapped his arms around her.
"Shh… Mo, it's ok. The police and the EMTs will be here soon. Everything's…" His voice trailed off and Maureen felt him stiffen against her. "Oh, God, no…" His voice sounded choked.
Maureen opened her eyes to see the stricken look on Mark's face. He'd seen the note. Swallowing her tears, she reached up and pulled Mark's head down to rest against her shoulder, running her fingers gently through his hair. "Oh, Marky…" she murmured soothingly, wrapping her other arm around his waist and pulling him closer. She could feel his body shaking against hers. It was his turn to cry. She continued to comfort him with her voice and her fingers in his hair, ignoring the tears that continued to run down her own cheeks as they cried together for their friends.
They were still standing together in the middle of the bathroom when Roger came home. Maureen heard the metal jingle as he dropped his keys on the industrial counter that served them as a table. He rustled around the main room of the loft for a few minutes. Maureen held her breath. Perhaps if she was very still, he wouldn't know they were there. He wouldn't have to see April in the red bathwater and the note taped to the mirror.
But the bathroom light was still on.
"No sex in the bathroom!" Roger called cheerfully. "Not with the door opened!" Neither Mark nor Maureen moved. Something was slightly wrong with Roger's voice. Maureen was unable to keep from rolling her eyes. He was high again. Now. Tonight. Of all nights.
"I brought Fritos," Roger's voice moved closer to the bathroom door. Maureen wished she could shut the door and keep him out. She couldn't move. "Have either of you seen Apr-" his voice cut off abruptly. He stood frozen in the doorway for a moment. The bag of chips fell to the floor, forgotten.
"Fuck!" Roger sprinted to the bathtub and started wrestling April out of the water. "What the fuck is wrong with you two! She needs help! Why are you just standing there!"
Maureen pulled away from Mark, peering into his face as she did so. He was staring straight ahead over her shoulder, gaze fixed on the bathroom mirror. He was completely oblivious to Roger's tantrum.
She turned her attention to Roger. He'd succeeded in pulling April out of the bathtub, and was attempting to give her mouth-to-mouth. The two of them, the tub, and the floor were covered in water and blood. She leaned down to put a hand on Roger's shoulder. He paused in his resuscitation attempts to glance up at her.
"Roger, honey," Maureen began gently. "She's gone. There's nothing any of us could do…"
He snarled wordlessly and threw her arm off before turning back to April. Maureen sighed inwardly, wondering why she could sometimes be so patient with Mark, while Roger always managed to provoke her temper. Well, Mark was Mark, after all, and Roger was… Roger.
She crouched beside him and began tugging at his arm. "Roger, you have to let her go. You can't help her anymore. The cops and the EMT's are on their way…"
"Get OFF!" Roger shoved her away with one arm, still clinging to April with the other. Maureen fell, landing on the floor in a puddle of the red water from the tub.
"Roger, CHILL!" She snapped, pushing herself back into her crouched position beside him. "This isn't going to bring her back!"
He glared at her. "I'm not going to 'chill,' damn it! I'm fine! And stop saying that, she hasn't GONE anywhere."
Maureen exhaled sharply in frustration. "Well, she sure as Hell isn't here—or hadn't you noticed that she's not breathing?"
Roger's eyes flashed dangerously, and he stood. "Shut up."
She stood also, facing off against him. "You shut up. Maybe if you'd tried talking to her when she was alive instead of stuffing her with drugs, she wouldn't be like this now!"
"Don't talk about what you don't fucking understand!" He shoved her backwards, causing her to stumble on the slippery tile.
Maureen's face flushed with rage. "I don't fucking know!" She pushed him backwards and continued to advance on him, yelling, and punctuating each sentence with another shove. "Where the fuck were you! Where the fuck were you when she got her fucking test results! You should have fucking been there for her! You don't fucking know shit, Davis!"
Until this point, Roger had been shouting over Maureen, telling her to shut up, to go away, and to mind her own business, because—what did she know anyway? He fell silent for a moment, breathing heavily from the force of his shouting. Suddenly, he took a swing at her, fist curling toward her face in a wide arc. Maureen ducked in, dodging, and then Mark was there, finally roused from his standing coma by the promise of violence between his girlfriend and his best friend.
"Roger!" he shouted, grabbing the other man's arms and holding them behind his back. "What the fuck!"
Maureen sneered. "He can't handle me, Mark. Let him go—I'll show him what happens when you try to fucking hit me."
"No," Mark began to wrestle Roger towards the main area of the apartment. "No fighting. Let's all just go out here and wait for the cops. I don't want to have to try to explain a couple of murders, too."
"I wouldn't kill her."
"I meant me." He shoved Roger to a seat on the couch.
They didn't have long to wait. A knock on the door heralded the arrival of the police and the EMT's. Mark started for the door, fixing Maureen with a glare that told her in no uncertain terms not to continue her fight with Roger. She glanced at the man on the couch. He was staring blankly forward—fighting spirit completely gone. He wouldn't be much sport anyway. She boosted herself onto the steel-topped table, absently kicking her feet in the air as she watched the scene unfold.
Mark opened the door on a tall black man in a suit and a team of four other men in dark blue jackets. The blue-jacketed men carried between them a collapsed stretcher with a long, flat black bag on it. A body bag. As the man in the suit introduced himself to Mark, the other four took their burden to the bathroom. Mr. Suit glanced after them and excused himself to follow, asking Mark to please be sure that none of them left the loft before he had the chance to speak with them.
It wasn't until the April was gone, wheeled out of the loft in that long black bag that the man in the suit turned his attention back to Mark, Roger, and Maureen. The three had been silent in the meantime, each staring forward, lost in his or her own mind. Mr. Suit introduced himself as Detective Ed Green and expressed his condolences for their loss, before beginning to ask the obligatory questions. They each responded as they were addressed. Yes, Mark had made the 911 call. No, Maureen was the one to find her. No, it was Maureen's vomit on the floor, not April's. No, April had been in the tub when they got home. Roger had moved her to the floor to try to resuscitate her. Yes, that was her note. No, none of them had touched it. Yes, Detective Green could take it with him if he needed to.
Finally, it was over. The detective handed Mark his card, saying he'd be in touch if he had any further questions or if anything else came up that would require their attention. Mark nodded numbly and showed the man to the door.
When he turned back around, Roger was standing, grabbing his jacket. He shot Mark a helpless look. "I'm sorry. I just can't… I've gotta go." He shrugged into the jacket, face set in a blank mask, before shouldering past Mark and out the door. It slid shut behind him, leaving Mark and Maureen alone in the silent loft.
From her seat on the counter, Maureen watched Mark swallow a few times, clenching and unclenching his fists. Finally, he nodded to himself as though coming to a decision and began walking towards the bathroom. "I'm going to start cleaning up in there." He gestured ahead of him.
Maureen nodded silently at him as she passed her, then frowned. There was something… Why didn't she want Mark to clean the bathroom? It was a mess, gross. Maureen's puke was still on the floor, and April's blood was everywhere, mixed with the water from the tub and splashed onto the floor and the walls when Roger had dragged her out to try to bring her back to life. April's blood. April had AIDS. Mark was going to clean up April's blood. Mark. Mark who was so sweet, who Maureen loved. With April's blood.
Shit.
"Mark!" She vaulted herself off the counter, trying to catch up with him before he went into the bathroom. She met him at the door, grabbing him by the arm and turning him to face her. "Don't." She shook her head. "Don't go in there." She was shaking.
He tried to wrench his arm from her grasp. "Letgo, Maureen," he ground out irritably. "I'm just going to clean the bathroom."
"No," she insisted, dragging him away from the door and back towards the living area. "Not yet. You can't clean it yet."
He yanked at his arm again. "Why the Hell not? Maureen, let go."
"No!" She gripped him by both arms and shook him roughly. "You can't go in there! That's where April was!"
Mark shoved Maureen away from him, glaring. "I know that! Do you think I'm stupid? I don't want to go in there any more than you do, but we can't leave it like... like that!"
"Yes," Maureen snapped. "I do think you're being stupid. I know we can't leave it! It's awful in there! But you don't have any gloves! We don't have any bleach! You can't clean up in there! I won't let you." There was an edge in her voice that bordered on hysteria, but she didn't care. As long as Mark stayed out of that damned bathroom.
Mark stared at her for a moment, blinking dumbly a few times before finally speaking. "What are you talking about? What do gloves have to do with anything?"
"April had AIDS, you bleeding idiot!" She had started to cry again, but was too angry to care. "And now you want to go in there and clean up her blood! Without protection? Are you insane? I swear to God, Mark, if you go in there without gloves, I'll kill you myself right now and save you the fucking hospital bills! God!" She shoved him backwards, away from the bathroom, and stormed out of the loft, slamming the door closed behind her.
Wiping her streaming eyes, Maureen tore down the stairs, out the door, and onto the sidewalk. She turned left and began walking swiftly towards the small store on the end of the block that had so often taken care of their needs. She had never been more thankful for the bright green and orange sign advertising that the little store was "Open 24 Hours!"
She threw the door open and strode inside, storming through the cramped aisles to the section that held cleaning supplies. She quickly grabbed two gallons of bleach and two pairs of the yellow rubber gloves her parents had always used when washing dishes.
She brought her purchases to the counter and paid for them with leftover money from the movies. The clerk behind the counter wrinkled his nose as she passed the money to him, subtly reminding Maureen of the vomit on the front of her shirt. She frowned and asked the man to hold her purchases while she used the bathroom. After making use of the facilities, she cleaned herself up as best she could, knowing that she would be burning her clothing as soon as she was able to peel it off.
Returning to the main part of the store, she smiled at the clerk, thanking him for holding the bag of cleaning supplies for her. She was sure that he thought she was some poor soul who had drunk herself sick and now had to clean up. Whatever.
Taking her supplies, she returned to the loft, hoping that Mark had listened to her—that he wasn't in the bathroom. She opened the door to find him sitting on the couch, staring blankly. He seemed to snap back to reality with her entrance—eyes turning to meet hers. She set the bag on the floor, biting her lip. Maybe she shouldn't have yelled at him like she had…
She opened her mouth to apologize, but he beat her to it.
"I'm sorry." He patted the cushion beside him, and she collapsed into the seat, curling into his side and allowing him to put his arm around her. "I wasn't thinking. I didn't mean to scare you."
Maureen nodded mutely.
"I really am sorry."
She nodded again. "Me too. I shouldn't have yelled. I was… Scared. We just lost April. I don't want to lose you, too."
"I know, baby. It's okay. You're not going to lose me."
"Promise?"
"I promise. I'll always be here for you." They stayed like that for a while, huddled together on the sofa and taking comfort in each other's presence. Hours or minutes, Maureen couldn't tell, and didn't care.
Finally, Mark shifted. "I hate to get up, but I really should try to clean up in there before Roger comes home. I'm not sure how well he'd take seeing all of that again."
"Right," Maureen sneered. "Wouldn't want to upset Roger."
Mark shot her a withering look. "He's had a bit of a shock, Maureen. Are you telling me you wouldn't be the same if that had been me in there?"
"I wouldn't have gone out to shoot up."
"But you wouldn't have wanted to clean up my blood either."
She shrugged, refusing to answer either way.
"That's what I thought. I'll be back out when I'm done. Don't worry—I'll be careful."
Sighing, Maureen stood. "I'll help."
Fin.