Still aren't mine… This is the last part. I dedicate it to those who've come and gone, and those who've laughed with me as we watched the 14 year olds squeeze into too small costumes in front of the Nederlander in a vain attempt to get rush tickets that were already going to be mine. Love to Leah for the ass-tastic times, good and bad, and to Pete who always insured I had a good seat. When one door closes, a new one opens. Slainte.

"Darling, give me your absence tonight/Take the shade from the canvas and leave me the white/Let me sink in the silence that echoes inside/And don't bother leaving the light on/'Cuz I suddenly feel like a different person/From the roots of my soul come a gentle coercion/And I ran my hand o'er a strange inversion/A vacancy that just did not belong/The child is gone/ Honey help me out of this mess/I'm a stranger to myself/But don't reach for me, I'm too far away/I don't wanna talk 'cuz there's nothing left to say." -Fiona Apple-

Chapter Eight

Her cold got worse. It seemed like every other day she was back at the doctors, whether for the aches, the fever, or the ever-present stomach cramps. She never left the apartment otherwise anymore. I had assumed she was just knocked up or something.

I had band practice that afternoon; Mark was out filming or looking for gainful employment or whatever it was he spent his time doing anymore. Collins had been at MIT for almost three months, Benny was busy winning over Alison Grey of the Westport Greys, and Maureen had just begun her experimentation with women outside of a threesome.

It was two weeks before Christmas.

It had just begun to snow…

The green numbers blinked midnight on Benny's VCR as Roger pushed open the door with his foot while balancing his guitar in one hand and a warm six-pack in the other. "Baby, you here?" he called, knowing that she had to be; she had not left in almost a month. The setting sun pierced though the holes in the make shift curtains, flooding the room with a violent crimson light. It was almost romantic.

Roger paused at the brown plaid sofa to drop his guitar bag on it, coughing as a cloud of dust billowed up at him. Still clutching the beer, he meandered into the kitchen, stopping at the refrigerator to deposit the new beer and take out a cold one, along with a piece of pizza that had begun to look questionable. "Baby, you need anything to drink?" he again called, receiving another answer of silence.

With a shrug, he kicked the door of the fridge closed and preceded down the short hallway to his room. Nudging open the door, he held the pizza in his mouth while digging in his back pocket. "Look, baby, I got candy…" he trailed off as he entered the empty room. "Baby, where are you?" he called as he plopped on the bed. He was answered by some light splashing in the bathroom; she must be taking a bath.

Kicking off his shoes, he propped his feet up on the low mattress, finishing the beer in three swigs. He tossed the empty can into one trash filled corner; the pizza crust soon joined it. He could not remember the last time it had gotten this bad; April usually kept in clean for him. Opening his hand, he stared down at the small powder filled baggy. With his other hand, he dug into a pile next to the bed, pulling out a very dirty, badly burned spoon and a dingy looking needle. After a few more minutes of waiting, he dropped them all into a pile on the bed and hopped up. Patience had never been his besotting sin.

He crept out of his room and snuck further down the hall to the bathroom in hopes of surprising her. He leaned into the door, ear pressed against the splintering plywood and listened for a moment. All he could hear was the crackling from the radio as it tried desperately to pick up a radio signal other than static. With a mischievous grin across his face, he pushed open the door and stuck his head in. "Baby, hurry up…"

He did not remember the bathroom being so red when he had left that morning. Wide-eyed, he looked around frantically before panic overtook him. He slammed the door back, causing the mirror to shatter with the force as he dove across the room. Landing on his knees beside the bath, he scooped her limp body into his arms. "Baby, what's wrong… Baby…" he choked on the words as tears threatened to slip from his eyes.

With his calloused fingers, he brushed the sodden straw-like hair from her eyes. "Baby…" He kept stroking her hair, rocking with her as he felt her shudder for breath once. Her pale eyes fluttered open and he stared, his eyes burning, back down into them for a long second. A few tears slid down from the corner of her eyes and over her freckled nose before her eyes rolled back into her head.

Her thin neck drooped back over his hand. "No… no…" he managed, pulling her even more out of the water. Streams of pink coursed down her chest as he held onto her, still rocking on his knees. "Please, baby… Wake up…" The words caught in his throat. "D-don't…"

But nothing happened as he pleaded. She did not sit up with a crooked grin and wipe makeup off her arms; Mark did not pop out of a hiding place with a camera in tow. "You fucking whore!" he spat as she slid out from his grasp and back under the water. "Don't you fucking leave me… I need you, baby," he moaned as his voice cracked.

The tears flowed freely, blurring his vision as he scanned around the room, not knowing what he looked for, but looking all the same. He saw her clothes folded neatly, sitting on the top of the toilet seat; perched on her shirt was a folded piece of notebook paper with his name written on it in red marker.

He stared down at her for a last moment, running his fingers lightly down her cheek before crawling on hands and knees over to the toilet. With shaking hands, he picked up the paper, turning it over and over again, slightly nervous about what it contained.

He turned it back to the side with his name written on it, tracing his shaking fingers over the familiar writing. It took him a long while to actually open it. She had written not in her usual brightly coloured magic marker, but in a regular black pen, and her handwriting was much more rigid than usual.

"Roger-

My fever burns me deeper than I've ever shown to you. I just want to get it over with.

Tears form behind my eyes but I do not cry as I count the days pass me by. The last three years were just pretend.

You say you'll never let me fall from hopes so high. I don't know what to believe in.

You don't know who I am.

I realize what I am now to smart to mention.

I love you.

We're dying.

We have AIDS.

-April"

He read it twice before it sunk in at all. It was not until the fourth time that his jaw dropped. The paper crumbled slightly in his hand as he held hard onto it. He did not hear the door open as Mark trudged in, eyes slightly red from a confrontation with Maureen in the Food Emporium.

------------------------------------------

Mark looked around the dark apartment for a minute before noticing Roger's guitar case lying on the sofa. He dropped his coat on the couch as well, then turned to deadbolt the three locks on the door. He hated being alone at night; even with April and Roger here, it was as good as being by himself. He never saw them. Too busy fucking or fighting, as usual.

He was almost disappointed that Roger was there, as selfish as he realized it seemed. He really enjoyed talking with April alone; she was the only one who listened. His shoulders hunched, he waddled into the kitchen to see what was still edible. He never could figure out why there was never any food but at least three cases worth of mixed match beers. Not that he minded very much, but he would kill for a sandwich on some days.

Finding nothing, he traipsed down to his room, stopping briefly to peek into Roger's. It was empty for the first time in a long time. Maybe Roger had finally been able to get her out.

Passing the room, he pushed into his when the light from the bathroom caught his eye. The door was half-open and it was eerily quiet. He paused for a brief second, looking down at the light. Something felt funny to him, but he shook it off and proceeded into his room to play with his thoughts…

Mark slipped out of his room almost an hour later, with is hunger renewed and an intense desire to wash his hands. He chastised himself mentally for not getting anything at the store earlier, but after seeing Maureen propped up against the Chef Boy-ar-dee cans with that blonde girl's hand up her skirt, he had lost his appetite. The fight that had ensued afterwards had not helped much, either. And now he felt guilty for imagining that he could be so bold as to group someone in the grocery store, and that the someone he was holding up was April, not Maureen.

He furrowed his brow as he noticed the light in the bathroom was still on, and it was as quiet as it had been when he arrived. He figured they had probably fallen asleep without turning off the light, so, while wiping his hands on his tattered shorts, he walked down to the bathroom.

"Can't remember to do fucking anything…" he muttered to himself as he pushed open the door. He stepped back as he saw Roger sitting stoically on the toilet seat. "Roger, what the fuck? Are you high?" he demanded, stepping back in. Roger remained still. "Yo, space cadet…" he managed before seeing the crimson stain trickling down the outside of the bath tub. "Oh, shit…"

He slid across the room, dropping to his knees beside the tub. With one arm, he pulled her head above the water while hitting her face lightly with the other. "Come on, April, wake up… Can you hear me?" Her skin was cold and devoid of colour. His gaze shot up at Roger. "How long has she been like this?" he inquired.

After a few seconds, Roger managed, "Two… two and a half hours…" His voice sounded like sandpaper and he never lifted his gaze from his hands and the paper they held.

"Jesus," Mark spat, skidding across the floor until his back hit the wall. He stared at his hands, watching the pink water dry on his palms. "Have you called anyone?" he again demanded. Roger remained mute, eyes glued to the paper. After a minute, Mark regained the use of his legs, standing and stomping over to Roger. Grabbing him by the shoulders, he shook him violently. "Roger, did you call an ambulance?"

Snapping to Roger shoved Mark away. "Don't touch me…" His voice cracked as he repeated, "Don't touch me… Don't touch her…"

Mark spat a curse at him, then turned around and reached into the water, grabbing her bloody wrist to search for a pulse. He knew it was hopeless, but he tried nonetheless. He probed her tattered forearm for a sign of any hope for a moment before Roger shoved him away, finally vacating his perch. "What are you doing? I'm trying to help…"

"We've got AIDS," he cried, the words sounding as if they were being ripped from his soul. "She has AIDS…"

Again Mark stared down at his hands, at the drying blood on his fingertips. Blinking a few times, he stumbled to the sink and scrubbed his hands until they were raw. He could feel his heart pounding in his throat as he stared at the pink, chapped flesh of his palms. In his head, Roger's last words rang repeatedly. April, his April, she could not have been sick. She was young, she was beautiful… She could not be dying… She could not be lying two feet away from him dead…

He was pulled from his trance with water splashing behind him. He turned in a daze to watch Roger, curled beside the tub, holding onto April tightly as he rocked back and forth. Mark saw the tears teetering in the corner of his eyes and decided upon a hasty exit.

He did not bother turning on the light as he stumbled down the hallway towards the kitchen. He had to stop to catch himself against the wall twice, forcing himself to continue to the phone. He would have time to grieve later; now they needed some help from the professionals. If they waited any longer, there would be trouble.

He somehow found the phone and grasped it in his shaking fingers. It took four times to successfully dial a three digit phone number, and luckily by that time he had found his voice enough to speak. "We need help… My roommate's dead… Please send some help… I'm on the south side of St. Mark's Place…"

The flurry of noise and activity made Mark jittery. He was trying as hard as he could to remain calm and blend in with the wall while the paramedics and the police swarmed the apartment. He almost lost it when they wheeled her out, white sheet covering her from head to knee. Roger was still curled up in the bathroom; Mark had made sure to hide all the paraphernalia before any of the cops had shown up.

He slid down the wall, hugging his knees to his chest as the last of the paramedics walked by. Burying his head in his arms, he finally began to cry. From down the hall, he could hear them grilling Roger. Shaking from head to toe, he managed to whisper, "I kept screaming in her ear, 'Wake up, wake up...' She just couldn't hear me."

In the bridges he burned or the way that she died.

495780, 495781, 495782, 495783….