Disclaimer: Nada, zilch, nothing.

Ok, Sunday or Monday didn't work – I was so tired. And the rest of the week was play practices. Sorry! Hope you like it this chapter, though!

After that moment, life pretty much sucked for Roger. Since he had missed so many days at work as a bartender, his boss, Dave, fired him. There went the rent. Thankfully for them, Roger's last paycheck came before his pink slip did, and life went on, without me.

One of the few things that I left behind when I died included my car. It was the same one that I had driven Roger home in on our first 'date'. It was a wonder any of us could own a car, but I did manage to own that green mass of junk.. It was still sitting on the curb by the loft. The last time I had used it was to go to the doctors, which was too far to walk. I remember Roger telling me sometimes, when his band wasn't doing too well or work wasn't going great that he and I would get in my car and drive to Santa Fe.

We never did get to do that.

Withdrawal is tough for anyone, but it really hit Roger hard. Maybe because he was still coping with my death, I don't know, but Roger couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, and couldn't stop shivering. Mark tried as best as he could to help him, after all, Roger was like a brother to him. Yea, Roger was Mark's brother and I was his sister. What a perfectly functional family we made.

One day, as Mark walked home to the loft, a bag of the cheapest groceries he could find in his skinny arms, he couldn't find Roger.

"Roger?" Mark called into the loft, his voice echoing in the air. No answer. "Roger?" Mark repeated, his voice anxious now. Still nothing. Mark was in a panic now, searching all of the rooms until the only one he hadn't checked was the bathroom.

The bathroom that Mark had spent hours, armed with disinfectant and three sponges, just to rid the tub of my blood. The bathroom that was the only place Roger could be, doing God knows what. Mark ran to the bathroom door and opened it, fearing the worst.

He gave a sigh of relief as he saw what was in the bathroom. It was Roger, sitting at the toilet with a pained expression on his face.

"What the hell are you doing?" Roger asked Mark, grimacing as he did so.

"Wha- why didn't you answer me?" Mark asked, blushing and turning his head away.

"Because I was busy, that's why." Roger grunted. "Now leave me the hell alone." Mark didn't need to stick around any longer. He turned around and shut the bathroom door as quickly as he could. He thought he heard Roger say, "Damn diarrhea," but wasn't entirely sure.

Mark couldn't help but smile. This had to be a sign from someone that Roger would get better. He wanted to think that that someone was me.

What did you think? I wanted to lighten the mood a bit. Diarrhea is a side effect of withdrawal, by the way. Please, as always, R & R! GM