Disclaimer: Everything RENT belongs to Jonathon Larson.
Roger couldn't get the image out of his head.
The pale, bony hand creeping over the edge of the bathtub. The cold water covering her thin, naked body, her head fully submerged, red hair floating eerily, shifting at each underwater disturbance. The dropped knife lying at the foot of the bathtub. And the blood.
The blood was everywhere.
They took her body away. Carefully, the men lifted her out of the water, easily carrying her tiny frame to where the body bag was.
"Don't look," Mark whispered, kneeling beside Roger. Collins cupped his palm softly to Roger's cheek and gently turned his face away from the scene, wiping away fresh tears. When the ambulance crew was out of sight, Collins let his hand drop from Roger's face. With a sigh, he stood up from his position on the floor. Hesitantly, he walked a few steps toward the bathroom. Glancing quickly through the doorway and wincing at the morbid scene, he gently closed the door and took a deep breath.
"Let's go, you guys." His voice was hushed. "They'll clean it up when we leave."
Mark nodded, standing up. His icy blue eyes looked back down at Roger, huddled against the wall where they had found him. His knees were drawn up to his chest, arms wrapped around them, his face blank, eyes unseeing. Mark thought he looked like a lost, little boy, not like the egotistical, confident rock god that the filmmaker knew. Out of everything he had seen today, the sudden change in Roger scared Mark the most.
"Roger?" He asked hesitantly.
There was a flicker in Roger's green eyes, but he didn't move.
"Roger, let's go." Collins took a step back toward them. "Let's get you home." He reached out to the musician, his fingers brushing against the worn leather jacket. Roger flinched under Collins' touch, as if the hand had burned him.
"Don't touch me," Roger hissed.
"Let's go home. This is no place to be," Collins reasoned.
"Just leave me alone," Roger whimpered, shutting his eyes against tears and pulling his knees tighter to his chest.
Collins met Mark's eyes. Mark shrugged helplessly and looked away.
"Please." Roger's voice was barely audible. "I need some time alone."
His two friends shared another glance, considering if they could leave him. Mark's eyes roamed across the room, taking in Roger, still crouched against the wall, then the emptiness of the apartment, and finally resting on the closed bathroom door. His eyes came back to meet Collins', and he nodded.
"We'll wait outside for you," Collins said. He led Mark into the hallway and down the creaky old stairs, leaving Roger alone in the apartment.
The musician opened his eyes when he heard the door shut. Taking in the vacant room, he sobbed, a new wave of tears threatening to break free. He got up, feeling as if he had aged thirty years in the last three hours.
Slowly, hesitantly, he stepped toward the closed bathroom door. A part of him was unbelieving. It was all a big joke, a hoax. It had to be. April wouldn't do something like this. She was wild, fierce, brave, a fighter. She would never consider giving up, taking the easy way out. Not his April.
As his hands reached for the doorknob, he felt something crush under his feet. Looking down, he noticed the bouquet of red roses, delicate petals lying limp on the floor in the puddle of cheap wine. He stared at it for a long moment, suddenly overcome with an enormous pain. Taking a shuddering breath, he turned the knob and pushed open the door.
Author's Note: Thanks for the reviews so far. Hope you liked this chapter. There's two more to go.