"I hate the fall," April said, breaking into the comfortable silence.
"That was random," Roger replied.
They were sharing a "picnic"—if crackers and a bottle of water constituted a picnic—in the park. The unusually cool September air had a soft breeze that ruffled her hair. He lounged on the damp grass, stretched out like a cat in the sun, while she sat next to him, softly running her fingers through his hair.
"Maybe it's my name," she continued. "I mean, in April, everything's alive, being born, beginning. And in fall, it's all dying." She stopped for a moment, then said, "Wouldn't it be ironic if I died in the fall?"
Roger stared up at her, troubled. "Don't talk like that."
"I'm just saying."
He studied her. "You're too morbid for your name."
Laughing, she leaned down for a kiss.
Later that day, Roger ran up the stairs, two at a time, a bouquet of roses he had bought off a street vendor in one hand, a very, very cheap bottle of wine in the other. April's morbid statement had troubled him. She had seemed depressed, so Roger thought the situation called for a "cheering-April-up" party (and yes, the idea of getting "slightly intoxicated" and having hot, passionate, albeit drunken, sex was a factor, too). And a small amount of smack rested safely in his pocket, just in case they needed it.
Reaching her door, he knocked with the hand holding the flowers. When she didn't come to answer, he knocked again. No reply.
"April?" He called. Maybe she wasn't back from her doctor's appointment. He tried the doorknob. Unlocked. He pushed the door open.
"April?" He stepped in and closed the door behind him. He was struck by the blank emptiness he felt. A shiver ran down his back. Something was wrong. Very wrong.
His nervousness mounting, he called out a third time. "April." He set down the bottle of wine on the table and looked around. The bathroom door was closed. He walked up to it, knocked. "April?" He asked.
He opened it. The air left his lungs. His mind reeled. It couldn't be. She wouldn't.
"No," he whispered, backing away from the bathroom. "No, no..." he kept repeating himself, trying to keep reality from tearing him apart. The words became louder, until it was a ragged, raw scream.
"No, no, NO!" A sob tore through his throat. The flowers dropped from his limp hand, forgotten. He staggered backwards into the table. It shook under his weight, and the bottle fell onto the floor, glass shattering everywhere, the liquid drenching the bouquet.
He leaned heavily against the table, gasping for breath, tears streaming down his face. He tried to think, tried to keep his thoughts away from her, fuck, what had she done, what should he do, who could help him... His mind took a long time to work. He tried to grasp at his thoughts, tried to stay sane. He felt like he was on the edge of going mad. He needed help, he needed someone...Mark. Mark helps. Mark can help. He clutched onto that thought and nothing else. Mark. Call Mark. Call Mark. Roger turned to reach for the phone on the table, but a little piece of white paper caught his eye. It was her handwriting. He stared at it, the words shattering his world. No. It couldn't be...
Baby,
I'm sorry.
We've got AIDS.
Hey everyone. Yes, it's over, but thanks so much for reviewing. You all made me happy. :smile: This is my first story, so it was kind of short, but I hope to do some more soon (maybe something happier?). I'm thinking of doing a sequel to this one since you all seemed to like it, and I just got another idea for a different story, so hopefully I will get started on those two soon. Thanks again for reading.