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.
Disclaimer: If I owned RENT, not only would I be a guy, but I would also (at this point in time) be a dead guy. Chances are good, if you're a dead guy, you aren't writing anything. Chances are also good that if you own something, you're not gonna be writing fanfiction for it. Ergo, in summary, I don't own RENT.
Notes: Yeah, yeah. It's taken me a while to get it out, and I do apologize for that. I just had a lot of trouble with writing this chapter. this is probably the third or forth version of it.
Anyway... further notes about the content are at the bottom. If you've any questsions, though, just ask me in a review. Anyway... er... enjoy...?
Chapter 2: The Soundtrack to Hell
Once I'd finished glowering at the wall and drinking my drink, I eventually got up and retreated to the corner where the phone was located and where I'd set up a workspace for my writing. There were a couple of notebooks there and pencil holder filled with an assortment of mechanical pencils, variously colored ink pens, a two gel pens with fluffy feathers on the end, a few paint brushes and a fairy wand. I don't know why I hung on to that thing, but I'd had that wand since I was in forth grade. My brother gave it to me. I haven't seen him in years – since he disappeared somewhere. I don't remember where.
Anyway, my computer was also at the desk, and it was this device that I decided to use tonight, rather than handwriting anything. Just for the record, I don't make a habit of keeping a diary now, and I didn't then. I just wrote down snatches of stories that occurred to me, bits of dialogue. Maybe, if something really weird happened at work or whatever, I'd note it down, but mostly it was just random scenes and things.
But, when I worked on my computer, I was actively working on my manuscript for my novel. My novel that I would finish. That I wouldn't abandon in the middle of writing it, like I'd done with so many other projects.
For the past couple of days, I'd been having a bit of writer's block as to how to proceed with a certain scene, but whether it was because my frustration and annoyance had unlocked some barrier or because of something else entirely, I now sped through writing with great ease. Indeed, I spent the rest of the day sitting there, immersed in the world I'd created through my words and imagination.
I would have probably stayed there, working late into the night until I fell asleep on the keyboard or something, if I hadn't been distracted and, therefore, interrupted.
At first, I don't think I noticed it, the faint strumming of a vaguely familiar melody (perhaps something I'd played on the piano when I was subjected to lessons as a kid, or maybe I'd heard it on the classical station of the radio; I dunno, but it wasn't familiar enough for me to put a name to it, though I recognize the tune), played upon guitar strings. Which was funny because I didn't own a guitar. I had a flute, a kazoo and a clay ocarina I made in high school ceramics class, but no guitar.
Anyway, though I didn't notice the melody at first, eventually, I paused in my writings, looking up from the computer and frowning, wondering where the hell it was coming from. Was it one of my neighbors? Was there someone on the roof, plucking it out, and the sound was dropping through the skylight (which I had, by the way, temporarily fixed with duck tape and wax paper)?
I tried to ignore the haunting waltz and turned back to the pale glow of my word processor, displayed upon the screen. However, at that point, the player of said melody plucked a wrong note rather loudly, and I sighed, irritated. If this person was going to forcibly provide a soundtrack to my writing, the least they could do was get it right. Nevertheless, I attempted to keep on plodding through my story. But, alas, the distraction had done its work of, well, distracting me, and I had completely lost the train of thought I'd been pursuing in this portion of my story.
Therefore, I sat there during the intervening few moments of silence, staring at the page I was on, chewing my lip and rereading the last couple paragraphs in the hope of tripping the thought process again. However, yet again, distraction ensued, and the melody started again. This time, I actually paid attention to it and was confused to realize that it had to be coming from somewhere in my apartment.
Another bit of schizophrenia manifesting itself, perhaps?
Frowning, I got up, my spine cracking a bit, and one or two other joints popping in protest of having been kept in one position for so very many hours. So, I took a few moments to relieve them by stretching before I followed the guitar sound to one of the two rooms besides the main one and the bathroom. Well, they weren't so much two rooms as one room that had been divided into two by some really thin walling. Anything going on in one room could be heard in the other, and neither was particularly big. I had hung a hammock diagonally in one to serve as my bed, and I stored things in the other.
Anyway, first I checked in the room where I stored stuff – nothing. So, my minstrel was in my bedroom. Lovely.
I opened the door, and who do you think it was, plucking out a melody on the guitar?
Wrong! It wasn't Mark Cohen. It was someone completely different, and I let out another one of my oh-so-charming, profanity laded screeches. But, the man, sitting on what I could only assume to be an invisible mattress, didn't even flinch. He just kept strumming away.
He was a long and lanky sort of guy, with shortish, spiky bleached blonde hair (Blonde. Ha. Why did everyone have to have blonde hair? Brunette hair is very nice! But no one ever dyes his or her hair brown.). I couldn't see his eyes or his face that well, as he was hunched over his guitar, staring at the stings, but from what I could tell, he looked kind of handsome, in that gaunt, rock star sort of way.
Anyway, following my scream, I stared at him and his lack of response for another minute or two before I growled out an order for him to get his guitar-pluckin' ass out of my bedroom and out of my apartment. However, I was interrupted by Mark's voice.
He murmured, from right behind me, "He used to play that all the fucking time."
I jumped, being quite startled, and spun around to face Mark. I scowled at him. Worse than scowled. I verily glowered. But, before I could get a word out, he continued with a sigh:
"Maybe you'll be lucky and only have to listen to one concert comprised of Musetta's Waltz, but, if he keeps it up, you'll be with me in agreeing that the soundtrack to Hell is Musetta's Waltz. And yet…" A soft smile curved his lips as he looked past me at Roger, who had set his instrument aside and flopped back onto his invisible mattress. "I'd rather hear him playing that again – actually hear him play it, not just the memory of him playing it – than any other sound."
Curiosity got the better of me for a moment, and, glancing back to the oblivious Roger, I asked, "Why? You two, like, a couple or something?"
Mark blinked, giving me an odd look. "No. Not like you're thinking. We were best friends. Brothers who just happened to not be related in any genetic sense."
"Oh. Hey, if you're here and talking to me, then why doesn't he even notice we're here?" I asked, curiosity still ruling me.
"Because… He's a memory."
"But… you said earlier that you were a memory."
"I am."
"Then how come you two can't –"
"He's a memory of a memory… Just a projected image of memories. And this… isn't my memory, but a memory of this place. I can only watch it."
I adjusted my glasses and shook my head, letting out a puff of air in exasperation. "Well, stop watching it and get him out of my room, then, memory. Whatever the hell you are." I was back to my glowering. "You can get yourself out, why can't you get him out?"
Mark rolled his eyes a little, turning them back to Roger and ignoring me. Roger, meanwhile, was beginning to act very twitchy. He sat up again and reached for his guitar. But then, after he had the guitar, he put it back down, bouncing his legs a little as he seemed to be debating what to do. Peering a bit harder at him, I noticed how very… out of it, he looked. He seemed to be coming out of it now, and had been coming out of it since he started playing the music, but if I didn't know any better, I would have said he had been, very recently, high on… something. Then again, I thought, I didn't know any better, so perhaps my guess was right.
Anyway, Roger scratched at his arms, eyes darting around nervously, mouth forming various profane words. Then, he got to his feet and began rifling through invisible drawers and piles of things that became visible for brief flashes of time as he touched them. And he grew more agitated.
"Oh shit," he groaned, closing his eyes as a spasm went down his spine; he shivered violently for a few moments before he managed to quell it. "I… no… I can do this. I can fuckin' do this. She said I could, said we could. Said we should, and I can. But, oh God! Why does it have to hurt so much? April!"
He looked towards the door, looking right at us, though he didn't see us. "April, where are you?" he called in a strained voice as he began to shiver again. Roger clenched his jaw and took a staggering step or two towards us, causing me to jerk back a little, though he was still several feet away..
I glanced questioningly at Mark. However, Mark's eyes were fixed upon Roger, and I went ignored. It was odd, though, seeing Mark look so… pained. So… guilty. So wretched as he looked on. I was just beginning to feel some compassion for him when another voice sounded – a young woman's voice – that distracted me.
"Roger, I'm here, babe," she cooed as she bounced – like she was a little kid back from a trip to the candy store or something – from my apartment door.
She was very pretty, with milky skin, a smattering of charming freckles across her nose and mostly straight, coppery red hair, falling in a disheveled but nevertheless attractive manner about her face and shoulders. She was also very skinny, and she, too, had the coming-down-from-a-high sort of look to her, but her hazel eyes were bright with a childish energy and zest. Clutched in her fingers was a small white packet, or maybe it was a clear packet that had something white in it; I couldn't tell and didn't feel like taking a closer look.
She bounced on over, holding the packet aloft and shaking it as she (walking straight through me; Mark had moved aside) skipped into Roger's room. No.. Not Roger's room. My room! And as for her walking through me, what was up with that? It wasn't that it was a bad feeling – indeed, I hadn't felt anything at all – but it was disconcerting and… just wrong. Just plain wrong. Especially for schizophrenia induced hallucinations.
"Why the hell am I doing this?" I wondered aloud, throwing my hands up and turning away from them all, ignoring Roger's at once joyful and at once upset cries. "Why the hell am I standing around, watching these delusions?
Though the questions had been rhetorical, Mark answered them, anyway, though he didn't take his eyes from Roger and April as they debated the administration of their drug. "Because, whether you admit it or not, you care."
"What? That's absurd. You're just some creepy imagined person who hangs around at random times and they're… I don't know what they are. But, you all need to just fuck off. No matter what you say, this is my apartment, this is my head, and I'd like to keep it that way, so just leave! Go! I don't need creepy, geeky little bastards living in my head, nor do I need a couple of fucked up druggies running around in it, either!" You might have noticed, by now, that my language tended to grow rather coarse when I was pissed off. Well, so now I was pissed off.
Mark just… looked at me. He'd torn his eyes away from his two friends to look at me. And then he'd faded. Just like that. April and Roger didn't, though. But, I ignored them, instead going out to my couch ( a dilapidated thing, repaired with various colors of duck tape ), grabbing my afghan and plopping upon the furniture. I pulled the blanket over me and then took my decorative pillow and squished it down over my ears. I knew I wouldn't be getting any writing done any time soon, but I'd be damned if I was going to sit and watch the figments. No, I was going to go to sleep. Or, at least try.
Perhaps it is some demonstration of my callousness when really pissed off that I drifted off within the hour, glasses pushed at an awkward angle and all.
AN: So, there you have it. Chapter II. I can't guarentee the third chapter'll be out quickly, despite it being summer break. As you may have noticed, I'm not exactly that great about speedy updates. Heh. Understatement of the year - I'm TERRIBLE at speedy updates. So... if you don't hear from me for a while, do know that I'm sorry, but I'm just having troubles with writing the next chapter.
As for the content, what with having April & Roger there, well... since this is an apartment haunted by memories, there are gonna be both good and bad memories, right? And not every memory is going to be a crucial bit of plot or anything like that. It's just... memory. For some reason, totally random things stick out, so... yeah.
Anyway, I love you guys! So, please share the love and review...
Sargent Snarky
PS; I stayed up until five in the morning writing this, so do forgive any typos and things... or anything that doesn't make sense. And... if you see that stuff, please let me know in a review, thanks!
