Title: The Apartment

Author: Sargent Snarky

Rating: T (for now, though it may be bumped up, later, for language, drug & alcohol use, violence, sexual references and possibly content, etc.)

Genre: Supernatural / General

Summary: (very postRENT) I didn't believe them when they told me it was haunted. I was an idiot. And yet… I don't regret seeing them. Meeting him. And learning their story.

Notes: So, this is told from the POV of a yet unnamed woman. Yes, I've decided that the nararrator is female... Well, I didn't decide... It's just... as this went on, I grew very certain that it was female. >.> Yeah. Anyway...

I think I forgot to disclaim the last chapter, but it applies then and now that I do not own RENT or any aspect of it. I do, however, own the narrator of this story and the plot. >.> Or, own it as much as one can own any written word. Yeah.

To you reviewers, though, I'm very greatful! I love you guys! I'm soooo amazed by how positive you guys were, and for that I thank you very, very much! But, don't be afraid to critisize if you don't like something or see something that's wrong or bad... so... This chapter is for you guys!


Chapter 1: The First Ghost

Mark. Mark Cohen, that was his name.

Of course, I didn't know that when I first saw that blue-eyed ghost, two days after I'd moved in, but he told me, later. As in after I'd stared at him, blinking stupidly, my mouth somewhat agape, of course, and after I'd turned right around and went back to my bed, fully convinced that I was still asleep. It was, after all, still quite early in the morning. Too early, actually. Also, it was after, upon waking up again an hour later, I came back out and he was still there, this time sitting on the metal table instead of standing by the fire escape.

"Oh, holy shit," I said, freezing where I stood.

He blinked, lifting his eyebrows at me and adjusting his glasses on his nose. But, he didn't say anything, just giving me that questioning look.

"You're still here," I groaned, displacing my own glasses so that I could rub my eyes.

He nodded. I rubbed them again.

"But, you can't be," I continued, adjusting and readjusting my spectacles. My voice grew a bit frantic as I went on: "There's no such thing as ghosts. Although, if you're not a ghost, but merely a creepy bastard invading my apartment, I suggest you leave before I pull out a gun and shoot you." I took a step backwards, now in the doorway of my room. I really did have a gun with me, under my pillow, loaded, but with the safety on. It didn't hurt to be able to defend myself, after all, despite the fact that guns were technically illegal to possess in New York City.

He blinked and shook his head. "I'm not a ghost," he said, his voice soft and sad, not the voice one would expect from a creepy invasive bastard. Still, I took half a step backwards. "I'm a memory," he corrected, and I paused.

"Whose memory?" I asked, suspicious as before.

"My own."

"And who are you?"

"Mark Cohen, filmmaker, watcher, documenter, listener, friend."

And then he was gone, leaving me confused and unsettled. Well, more than confused an unsettled. I was downright freaking out.

Maybe… maybe there really were ghosts? Maybe the other tenants spoke the truth? Or… hell, I could have been imagining things… right? Right.

I looked at the clock. Three in the morning. Ok, I was defiantly sleep walking, so I returned to bed. And when I woke up five hours later, he wasn't there. So, I forgot about it, or tried to. It was hard, though. His eyes… those piercing, sad eyes, full of memory and yet empty of life. They were what stuck in my memory and refused to be forgotten. But, I did manage to push the thought of them from my immediate thoughts.

That is… until a week or so later, on a Sunday, when I didn't have work, he was there, again.

The blue eyed man… Mark was sitting in a chair, watching me as I came out of the bathroom from my lukewarm shower. I'd went ahead an put on a t-shirt and comfy flannel pajama pants, as I had no intention of leaving the apartment that day, instead quite content to remain and work on the novel I was attempting to write. So, at least I wasn't just covered with a slightly ratty bath towel. Still, the utter invasion of privacy was not nice.

"Holy fucking shit!" I practically screamed, quite beyond startled.

But then, as he lifted his eyebrows, still calmly gazing at me, waiting, it seemed, to be addressed, I calmed down a little. My heart still thudded against my ribs, however, and my pulse did not decrease just yet. But, to cover this up, I scowled. I scowled good and darkly at him, which puzzled him faintly. Good. He needed to be confused. Jerk.

"You're not real. Go away," I snapped.

He looked a little hurt.

"Don't give me that stupid look! Ghost, memory or whatever, you, mister, are just a figment of my imagination, something that is not real."

During the times when I had actually thought about him, I'd convinced myself that I'd grown paranoid due to the stories I'd been told and had thus conjured up, with my own mind, this "ghost" to bug me. Yes, I was fearful that I'd become slightly schizophrenic, imagining a fellow person to inhabit this apartment.

"I'm a figment of imagination," he agreed with a slight nod as his eyes slid off into the middle distance. "But not yours. You are just a witness."

"Ah, shit," I muttered, still scowling. "Fine. Stay. Whatever. Just… just… stay out of my way."

I really hadn't been in the mood to argue with something born of my own over active imagination. So, I stalked past him over to the kitchenette and, after filling the electronic kettle and praying that the power was on, I began to boil water. I didn't have a proper coffee machine, but I'd found a fairly cheap and fairly decent instant coffee that served as substitute for the real stuff.

While awaiting the kettle to whistle and click off, I returned to where I could see him sitting on the chair. He was fiddling with his old camera, or at least that's what it looked like, but he glanced up when I began to speak.

Glowering at the man, I said, "I'm not afraid of you, you know."

He lifted an eyebrow and returned to hid fiddling. I think he was loading film. Ghost film…?

"I really am not!" I insisted, taking his actions to be a sign of disbelief. "And just so you know, you're not welcome here in my apartment, so you had better leave!"

Here he paused. I though he would laugh at my pathetic attempt at a threat, but he didn't. Instead, he straightened up from his hunch, this time leaning back against the back of the chair. His eyes rested upon me as his lips quirked into a wry smile.

"Your apartment?" he queried, as if he thought I were lying.

"Yes, it is my apartment! I signed the lease, and I paid my rent straight up! I also have a job, so I shall continue to pay rent for as long as I live here!"

"Your apartment?" he repeated in a similar tone, but with less inflection. Before I could further protest or justify, he continued: "Well, perhaps you rent it, but it isn't yours. Not really. Nor is it the landlord's. He may own the site of the building, and he may own the building on top of it, but… Not this apartment."

"Well, who owns it then?" I asked, a bit of a growl in my tone. "You?"

The latter I added in a scornful tone, but a wan smile twitched his lips and he nodded. "Me and Roger, mostly," he said softly. "Or at least we used to… now it's just me. They've all left… Left me behind to watch them live. And die." His voice was sad. Mournful, but not regretful. Nor was it bitter. Yet, there was a bitterness to his words.

"Who…?" Despite myself, I was actually interested. For a few moments I'd forgotten and continued to forget that this was a ghost who was a figment of my imagination brought on by stress and paranoia due to the stories of my neighbors.

"April, Angel, Mimi, Collins, Roger, Maureen and Joanne. Oh, and Benny, for a while. They're all gone now."

"Who… were they?"

"My friends. Best friends."

"Oh."

His lovely blue eyes, which had turned away, gazing at the middle distance, now returned to me, fixing me with an intent, yet hesitant gaze. "Do…. Do you want to… see them?"

"Huh?"

I was about to ask what he meant when the bright, cheery, yet nagging whistle of my electronic kettle sounded, breaking the moment. I started, coming back to myself. Realizing what I had been doing – talking to this thing that wasn't anything at all! – I quickly composed myself and shook my head before turning on my heel and stalking back to the counter and the kettle.

I purposefully avoided looking up as I made my coffee, not wishing to see what I was sure would be disappointed, sad eyes in that weary, yet young face. However, when I finally did look up, as I lifted the mug to take a test sip, I nearly dropped it, for he was gone. Mark Cohen had vanished. Again!

But, instead of making me afraid or worrying me, this simply annoyed me. So, it was with a hmph of displeasure that I plopped down, with my teddy bear mug (Yes, laugh if you must, but the mug had several small teddy bears holding balloons dancing around its surface; I'd had the mug since I was like six years old, and it hadn't broken yet, so it remained in my cupboard. Ok, stop laughing now.) into the seat that Mark had occupied. Or seemed to occupy.

Perhaps I'd been unconsciously expecting the seat to be icy with the chill of death or perhaps gummy with some residual ectoplasm, but I found myself feeling slightly disappointed. And so, my irritation with the Mark character increased. And when I realized the source of my increased perturbation, I kicked myself and my mood became worse.

That day sucked. Mark Cohen sucked. The shitty apartment sucked because it was on an older power grid, so the lights flickered sometimes and other times there'd be several minute brown outs for no reason. And my attitude spiraled steadily downwards. Chances were good, though, that a large part of the problem was the hormonal imbalance that causes PMS, as it was that time of the month, too.

Thus it is with pity that one should think of Mark when I next encountered him. Or he next encountered me. Whichever the hell it was. Which was that evening. Lucky, lucky Mark.
AN: It's a short chapter, shorter than I'd like to post, but it ends at a good break, due to how this progresses.. Sorry if this chapter seemed weird or... ooc or something. It was mostly written after performing Seussical or after late running practices... so... it was written while I was very tired and probably not thinking clearly. Therefore, forgive typos and things, but do let me know where they are.

Sargent Snarky