Italic songs are from the show
A red haired young man sat on the metal deck of where the fire escape was. His light green eyes looked up at the round, glowing full moon through his glasses. The light that filtered down, shown in his emerald eyes making them shine like two little Christmas light bulbs especially because there was unshed tears in his eyes. His silver and navy scarf, a gift from Angel, was wrapped securely around his thin neck and his camel colored coat was drawn tightly around him because he was holding his abdomen to shield himself from the wind that blew occasionally. His knees were drawn up to his chest and he leaned his head on his knees.
"I can't believe it
You are gone
how could it be?
Life is not the same
without you in our life
I can't believe you are gone
Your death has ca-caused so much change
Everyone is leaving
I can't believe it
Oh why?
Why can't you come back?
Oh why?"
, Mark sang solemnly.
The red haired man stood and went to the side of the rail and looked down.
Maureen was tramping away from Joanne's apartment loaded down with trunks, bags and suitcases and Joanne stood at the edge of the block watching her leave. Mark blinked again and Maureen and Joanne was gone and in replace there was Benny and Mimi walking into the flat. Mimi was slumped and Benny had his arms around her – both of them were talking in hushed voices. As tears began to fall and splat on the sidewalk below him Mark saw in the distance Collins walking through Central Park – a favorite spot of his and Angels. "Oh why," Mark whispered as he finished singing his shaky song.
With a heavy sigh Mark turned. He went to his part of the shabby apartment and grabbed his camera. Winding it, the man began to film. "12 AM October 31st-November 1st, Pan left on…A forlorn guitar player."
"Turn it off," Roger growled, "I'm in no mood for you to be filming your 'documentary' right now." The blond went over to his side of the room. Getting on his hands and knees, the man, dressed in a plaid shirt, blue sweatshirt and dirty jeans dug under his bed, pulled out a large suitcase, and threw it open.
"I can't believe this is good-bye," Mark sang as he slowly lowered his camera. Slowly, he wandered over to Roger who was feverishly packing. Mark watched helplessly as his best friend was packing to leave. "I hear there are great restaurants out west."
Roger turned and looked at Mark, but then went back to work. "Some of the best, how could she?" Roger shook his head and continued to pack.
Anger flared in Mark's heart. Roger was being so stubborn! Carefully, the red haired cinematographer stepped around and stood in the large, open suitcase so Roger would stop, even for a minute. "How could you let her go?" Mark asked in a voice a little sharper than he meant for it to sound.
Roger's eyes darkened and he shoved Mark out of his suitcase – the bed caught his fall. "You just don't know…how could we loose Angel?" Roger replied in an incredulous sounding voice.
Mark pushed himself up and off the disheveled bed. For a moment, the man watched Roger as he continued to pack. "Maybe you'll see why when you stop escaping your pain at least now if you try Angel's death won't be in vain." Mark sang as he planted his hands on his hips.
Roger stopped packing and just crouched there. He glanced up at Mark. "His death is in vain," He said his voice a deep tenor.
Roger's hands went up in the air. "Are you insane? There's so much to care about there's me there's Mimi –"
Mark could not finish singing what he wanted to say because Roger cut him off, "Mimi's got her baggage too." Roger shook his head and stood. He was getting tired of what Mark had to say, but the next words made his annoyance boil into anger.
"So do you," Mark pointed out. When he saw the anger, he moved. When Roger got mad, Mark did not want to be in his way, but the man had to let him know all that was on his mind.
Roger turned sharply so that he was facing Mark. "Who are you to tell me what I know. What to do…" the rock star asked with raised eyebrows. He began to advance towards Mark. There was a funny glint in his eye.
"A friend," Mark said softly as he paused in fear. Roger had in three strides gotten close to Mark. The man knew he should move, but he could not.
"But who Mark are you?" Roger asked, "'Mark has got his work' they say 'Mark loves for his work' and 'Mark's in love with his work'. Mark hides in his work!" With each quote, Roger pushed against Mark's chest, sending the film creator backwards but never falling.
"From what," the red-haired man asked. He was confused. The New Yorker had never thought of himself as hiding from anything.
With a crazed look in his eyes, Roger continued to push. "From facing your failure, facing your loneliness, facing the facing the face you live a lie." Roger pushed harder this time. It made Mark stumble and almost fall. "Yes, you live a lie. Tell you why you're always preaching not to be numb. When that's how you thrive. You pretend to create and observe when you really detach from feeling alive!" Mark was shoved this time, but the film maker was prepared, though never would he have been prepared for his best friend to yell at him like this.
"Perhaps because I'm the one of us to survive," Mark said without holding back. The instant he said those words however, Mark regretted them. He could not believe he had just said that.
"Poor baby! No more! I've gotta go," Roger yelled back. He went to his suitcase and closed it. The man started for the door. However, Mark stopped him.
"Hey, for some who's always been let down, who's heading out of town," Mark asked. He had rushed around so that he was blocking the door.
Roger stepped forward and grabbed Mark. "For someone who longs for a community of his own, who's with his camera, alone? You're living a lie, Mark. I'm tired of living this damned lie I have lived for twenty years. I'm leaving. You're not stopping me. I'm sorry." Roger took his hands from Mark's coat, balled his fist and punched Mark out cold. By the time Mark had come to, Roger was gone.
"Oh everyone's left.
We're apart.
I can't believe it.
Can our family ever be whole again?
Can winter ever end?
Can our night mare,
Just be…
Can't we all wake up?"
, Mark sang sadly. He wiped his nose, which Roger had so crudely bloodied. He just sat there, feeling so much regret. For a full year he had not had any regrets – he had lived a life with his motto the same as Life Support. Now, everything he had done, he regretted, even the regret he felt was instantly regretted. He could not help it. What was he going to do now? Was there anything to be done?