Disclaimer: Everything RENT is Jonathon Larson's.
Italics are flashbacks.
"D'you think he's alright in there?" Mark asked.
The chilly September wind tore through his thin, threadbare jacket, making him shiver. His fingers weeded nervously through the ragged ends of his beloved scarf and pulled it tighter around his neck in a futile attempt to keep the cool air at bay.
Collins shook his head. "I don't know, " he replied softly, almost to himself. "Man," he continued. "What—what the fuck, man?" He laughed bitterly. "I mean..." He trailed off, lost in thought, staring across the seedy New York streets as dusk settled the city.
"Yeah," Mark whispered, biting his lip. Fresh tears welled up from behind his glasses. He turned away from Collins and wiped them away. "Poor April..."
He took in a ragged breath, lost in his own mind. Life was becoming more like fiction. These things don't happen to people he knows, people he loves. They happen in romance novels, blockbuster movies and cheesy screenplays, to celebrities, to faceless people in the newspapers, but not to the people he cares about, not to his family. Not their April. Everything was falling apart, and he couldn't stop it. More than ever, Mark felt the outer world closing in on them. In his own mind, he had constructed a protective space around the people he loved, thinking, naively, that well-wishing would keep them from harm. But now their little bubble had burst open. Now they were open, exposed, unshielded. Nothing could stop the cruel world from destroying them.
The blood. Again it greeted Roger. A stark contrast to the dirty white of the bathroom.
The artistic part of Roger's mind found the whole morbid scene beautiful. The red against white became symbols. Passion and death against birth and renewal. A battle between the warm, inviting red of blood against the cold, heartless white of modernism. The blood seemed like it was painted on the walls and floor. A painted suicide—an artist's death.
His eyes took in the setting, his mind photographing every detail, his heart knowing that he would never forget it. It was painful. But he wanted it to hurt, wanted the pain. He wanted to suffer, since it was his fault that she was dead.
He sang his heart out that one night. As the last chord rang out, he raised his head and lifted his arms, breathing in the glory. He had the world at his feet.
April came backstage after the show, as always. Hot, sweaty, drunk, he clung to her, pulling her into a passionate kiss. She smiled against his mouth.
"Great show," she whispered.
"I know," he answered, grinning.
After a few more drinks, they walked (or staggered) home. When they arrived at the door of April's building, Roger stopped her from going in.
"Wait, I have a surprise for you," Roger said, smiling.
"Oh, really?" April's crooked smile answered his.
"Yes, really. Come on." He pulled her into the alley next to her building.
"What..." She yelped as she tripped over garbage from the dumpster.
Roger laughed, pulling her deeper into the dark alleyway.
"Are you going to rape me?" April asked.
"No," Roger said. He looked around. "Ok, this is good."
"For what?"
"Sit down. There." He pointed to a stoop.
She sat down slowly. Reaching into his jacket, he pulled out a small package.
"Voila!" He said, grinning proudly.
"What is it?" she asked, her gray eyes guarded.
"This, my love," he knelt down in front of her, and took her wrists in each hand. "Is heaven," he finished in a whisper near her ear.
"I don't know..."
He cupped her face in his hands, his fingers still clutching the tiny bag.
"Don't you trust me?" He asked, searching her eyes.
She stared back for a long moment. Finally, she nodded, her eyes still troubled despite the grin she forced onto her face.
"Yes. I trust you."
Roger reached for the needle.
It was his fault. He brought her into everything, the drugs, the sex. She had loved him, trusted him, and he had let her down, betrayed her. He had believed they were invincible. Yeah, everyone was dying everywhere they looked, being destroyed by disease, each other, or from the inside, but nothing could touch them.
"Not us," Roger whispered, staring at the bloody mess.
He backed slowly out of the bathroom, the scene forever imprinted in his mind. Fresh tears ran down his face, and he did nothing to stop them. When he reached the door, he took one last look at the apartment. Already, it felt lifeless. A morbid feeling permeated the space—a feeling of death and decay. Invisible, yet so think Roger felt that if he reached out his hand, he could grab it.
He walked out the door, a little piece of crushed, white paper clutched in his hand.
Thanks for all the reviews. You guys are all so nice. One more chapter to go.