"I wanna lover I don't have to love
I wanna girl who's too sad to give a fuck."
-Lover I Don't Have To Love, Bright Eyes
Mark had gotten careless.
The door was unlocked.
The evidence spread out on the carpet in a neat row.
The needle was already in his arm, already injecting the drug into his vein.
He might've noticed that the door opened. That someone was yelling at him. Asking him what the fuck he was doing.
But somehow he found he couldn't care less. He was already gone, drifting, drifting; leaving the cold loft and the angry Roger behind him.
RMRMRMRMRM
Ugh, Mark thought as he stirred. It had to be midnight. Why was he on the floor? It was dark and yet, he could sense someone's presence. "Roger? Is that you?"
The lights immediately flicked on and Mark let out a violent groan. "Damn Roger! What the fuck's that for?"
Roger's face was pale and drawn as he closed in on Mark. Leaning down to his level, he stared him in the eyes for a moment. His hand retracted and came across Mark's face with a reverberating clap.
Damn, that had hurt. Roger had never ever hit Mark before, at least not like that. They'd gotten into fist fights before, of course but Roger had never gone after him, unprovoked and while he was unarmed and unaware. Rubbing his cheek gingerly, he leaned up on his elbows. "Fuck Roger! I don't need this right now, it's fucking-" Mark stopped suddenly, collapsing onto his stomach again. As he lay on the floor, he saw the reason why Roger was pissed and smacking him around his room.
On the carpet was the almost empty bag of powder. And next to it, a drained needle. Mark didn't have to roll his head over to see the rest of his smack equipment on the floor. He knew it was there.
"Roger…I…" Mark struggled to keep from crying as he tried to force the words out. "It's not what it looks like," he winced at his choice of words, they sounded false even to his own ears.
"Mark. I'm not a fucking idiot! What the fuck were you doing?" Roger's voice was loud and angry. All the harsh melody of his voice had flown out the window and only jagged edges remained.
"I don't…I don't know…I was…"
"You were what Mark?" Roger flew at his friend, shoving the bag into his face. "This is what killed April! This is what nearly killed me! What's still killing me!"
Mark stopped being sorry. He stopped apologizing. Who the fuck did Roger think he was? "The heroin isn't what killed April! She slit her wrists Roger, she did it herself. You're dying from AIDS because you were too damn stupid to stop having sex with a fucking slut!"
Roger's hurt showed on his face but Mark wasn't done. He was out for blood. "This is my life Roger, MINE. I don't have to explain myself to you!"
"Mar-" Roger began to bellow, but Mark was already off the floor and getting his coat and winding his scarf several times around his neck.
"I'm going out," he said determinedly, heading for the door.
"Like hell you are," Roger blocked the door with his body. He had at least fifty pounds on Mark and a good 5 inches but a surge of adrenaline tipped the odds in Mark's favor. Roger would've followed him immediately if Mark hadn't thrown a well placed punch at that exact moment.
He left the door open as he ran down Avenue B.