Chapter Eight: Edgy
April 24th, 3:00 PM, Eastern Standard Time
"Mark! Mark!"
Hands shook him, a loud voice burst through his ear, and all Mark could do was scream through the nightmarish vision. He began punching, kicking, and practically thrashing as multiple hands branched out to grab his flailing limbs, holding him down. Mark struggled, eyes screwed shut, unable to fight off the strong hands as he attempt to wring free from the tight grip that seemed to bruise his skin. The booming voice shouted through his ear and, still, he could not wake from the reality of his nightmare.
"Mark! Mark, wake up!"
He panted and heaved as two hands held down his head, rough texture brushing against his cheeks as they held him forward. Mark had no choice; he opened his eyes, and looked towards the shadowed form in front of his face. Blinking rapidly, Mark struggled to keep the tears away from his eyes. The voice was still talking to him, but Mark couldn't make it out. Various sounds crashed through his head, it felt like one giant migraine.
"It wasn't meant to be like this, ya know? I promised myself that I wouldn't end up like him when I grew up, but, for some reason, I think I did a worse job by not doing anything all your life." The crash of a bottle, voice drunken and slurred.
Another with the sound of rain dripping onto the pavement. "Just forget him. Davis will kill us if he figures out we did this. I mean…if he ever finds out. This little shit won't say anything. Will you?" Head tossed as Mark recalled a slap. "Didn't think so. I wonder why Davis likes this dude anyways; he's too innocent for his own good. Whatever, come on, the Well Hungarians have a gig."
More rain, it dripped down his very skin, it almost felt as if a spider was crawling all over him. Screams, they came from Mark, and he couldn't stop them. It grew so horrible that soon he felt as if he was on fire. "Just grab the damned thing and go. He won't say anything about this if he knows what's good for him."
"Dammit! Mark! Mark!" The yelling grew more insistent. "Wake up! Man, it's a dream!"
Glazed eyes regained a bit of color as the same rough hands gently slapped him in the face, head rolling from side to side as Mark's scrawny body deflated onto the mattress he currently lay in. Blue eyes blinked against the brightness in front of him.
"Mark?" The voice, rough and tired, sounded slightly relieved. "Are you all right now?"
Good question. Mark struggled into a sitting position, but, suddenly, felt two strong hands pushing him down. It felt vulnerable. Mark couldn't help it; he let out a small whimper and pushed his head further back into his cushions, screwing his eyes shut against the uncomfortable darkness. The dark didn't seem so bad when he knew that his eyes weren't open. Suddenly Mark couldn't but feel that he had never been less all right then he was right now.
The images of distorted dreams seemed to be swimming across his mind trying desperately to press them together into a form of at least one single coherent thought. Everything seemed to be mocking him: The drunken slurs of his father on a particularly off night, the taunts from Roger's old band mates and… and those voices. Two men meshed to form one. So familiar, yet, so puzzling at the same time.
Nothing made sense anymore. Absolutely nothing.
"Mark! Come on, man, don't fade out on me now."
Eyes opened and widened suddenly as the heat rose to Mark's cheeks. He finally noticed the familiar masculine lines around the shadowy face, the darker part of the person's chin signaling the small stubble. "Roger?" Mark, again, struggled into a sitting position. "Damn, Rog, get off of me. You're hurting me."
Roger, who seemed to be sitting on Mark's stomach in a previous attempt to hold the flailing blond still, scrambled off Mark and settled down on the side. "Sorry…" he said cautiously. "Geez, you scared the shit out of me."
Mark staggered into a sitting position, leaning his back against the headboard. "What were you doing?"
"It looked like you were going to hurt yourself. You were flopping around like a fish out of water." Roger sighed. "Head hurt?"
A cough. "Like a bitch. Geez… What happened?"
"You tell us." Marijuana smoke lifted through Mark's nostrils and suddenly, as he looked towards the foot of the bed, Mark found the large shadowed form of Collins sitting on his bed, one leg tucked underneath his body as the other swung freely off the mattress.
Mark just shook his head, a hand was stuck under his nose and he suddenly found himself fingering two small, white capsules. "What's this?"
"Prescribed medicine. We got it the day you got out of the clinic but it's just something to calm you down and help the headache, we haven't had to use it yet so I didn't want to tell you about it." Collins sighed; Mark felt the anarchist shift around his bed and cautiously stuff and cold glass of water into his hand. "Get it down with this."
"Thanks." Mark sighed, uncaring what pill he was popping. The only thing he wanted to do now was get rid of his headache, it felt like his head was going to explode any second. Of course, it didn't help that his throat was extremely raw from screaming. "What's that noise?"
Thumping. Thumping. Thumping.
Ruff! Scratches on the door, claws clicking ceremoniously on the wooden loft floor. Ruff! Ruff!
"Damn it, my head is seriously screwed up."
Mark let his head fall into his hands, head still thumping from the migraine as the noises echoed through his ears. Suddenly Mark finally understood what people meant when they said that when you lose one sense your others enhance. Damn the facts.
A hand on his shoulder made Mark whip his head up, "Calm down. It's just Blink trying to get in."
Creak… The door opened so suddenly that Mark wondered who had gotten up to open the door. Ruff! Ruff!
Odd texture and slobbery wet kisses nudged at Mark's cheek suddenly and soon his throbbing migraine was calming down to a lull ache. He patted Blink on the head, a small smile snaking its way up Mark's face, as he patted the faithful dog contently. Mark laughed as he attempted to nudge the dog's wet nose away from his mouth.
"Better?" Squish. The bed sunk, Collins had gotten the door.
"I'm fine."
Two words, the two words said more in the past four weeks than Mark's whole twenty-four years of life. It seemed so odd to his tongue, strange more like, but the words still came out on a sour tongue. There didn't seem too much for Mark to think of these days -especially these days. With nothing to do, no filming or trying to find a job, Mark was stuck with his own thoughts. It felt as if nothing was up there if he just thought about his words.
Life was just a big pile of words upon gestures and sights.
Except… no more sights…
Mark grabbed a fistful of hair as the thump thump thumping came back. Tears were building in the back of his eyes and suddenly the darkness was too much for his taste.
Everything was lost. Everything was… Nothing…
Roger's hand was moving from his shoulder and was now rubbing small circles up and down his back. "You're all right now." This was Gentle-Roger, Mimi's Gentle-Roger. "Calm down. Deep, even breaths."
Mark hadn't even realized his breathing had become shallow until Blink started nudging his throat.
In and out. In and out. In and out. In and out. In and out.
"That's it. Good," Roger whispered into his ear, voice still soft and gentle. "Okay?"
"You should be sleeping." Mark coughed.
Collins came up closer and ruffled his hair. "Boy, you need more sleep than we do. That sounded like some nightmare."
"Something like that." Mark sighed, leaning his head back against the headboard again as he absentmindedly patted Blink on the head. "I didn't wake you, did I?"
"Man, its 3 PM." Roger said. "You've been asleep since, at least, 11:30 PM last night."
Shit, Mark thought, whoever said oversleeping couldn't kill you is dead wrong.
Bad choice of words.
Collins let out a puff of marijuana smoke and Mark coughed a single word, "Strong…"
Roger sighed. "Put that out Thomas."
Crsshht… The marijuana smacked between Collins' two fingers before flicked towards the nearest garbage can outside of Mark's open door. "Better?"
He coughed again and felt Roger's hand still rubbing circles on his back. "It's okay. I'm fine, really."
"It doesn't sound like it." Roger placed a hand on his forehead. "You're sweating up a storm Mark."
"Happens when you wake up from a nightmare." Blindly, Mark reached up and massaged his throat. "Guess I just overexerted myself from all that screaming."
"Yeah," Roger said. "You scared the shit out of Mimi, though; she thought you were having a heart attack."
"More like a panic attack," Collins said under his breath, but Mark still heard it.
"It wasn't anything like that," Mark defended himself, patting Blink on the head. "I was just having a nightmare. That's all it was, nothing else."
A squeeze came on Mark's shoulder and he looked to the side were Roger was. "Hey, we're not trying to make you feel bad, okay? I'm just saying, it sounded bad. Are you sure it wasn't anything?"
A pause. Could he really tell Roger his dreams? Could he tell Roger that something was starting to pull at the back of his mind and suddenly nothing was making sense anymore? Could he? Well… he could…
"I'm sure."
He just couldn't.
"All right." Roger said, nodding his head hesitatingly.
"Is Mimi okay?" Mark questioned. "I mean-"
"She's fine." Roger replied. "Just worried, really. Calm down, man. We're all right."
"Are you sure because you said it's 3 PM and-"
"Jeezus. Mark, I swear!" Roger hissed, "We took the pills, just take care of yourself for once!"
Mark recoiled, subconsciously moving away from the angered musician. He did not like Angry-Roger, not one bit. It reminded him of the days of Withdrawal-Roger or, even, High-Roger. Fights, yells, punches, kicks, sobs; all the running emotions…
"I didn't mean-" Mark tried to smooth over, barely aware that Blink was beginning to bark again.
"Shut up!" Roger yelled, suddenly very angry as he hopped off the bed. His shadow-form glared down at Mark. "How can you keep asking about us when there's nothing wrong with us? Absolutely nothing. We're fine, okay? Others may not see it Cohen-"
Roger only called Mark "Cohen" in two incidents: if he was joking, which was plainly not the case, but it also happened when he was angry.
"-but I do! This whole time and I've been wondering if it's true and I think it might be. Those words I said, remember them? Remember what I said to you when I left? You tell me if they're true!" Roger continued to yell.
The door opened. "Roger? Love, calm down." Mimi's voice.
Collins stood.
Ruff! Ruff! Ruff! Blink barking.
Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.
Stupid migraine.
"Facing your failure, facing your loneliness, facing the fact you live a lie! You're always preaching not to be numb when that's how you thrive: You pretend to create and observe when you really detach from feeling alive!" Roger mocked. "Prove that as a lie!"
Mark looked towards the shadowed Roger, tense and furious. He felt his eyes blink back the tears that were threatening to fall.
"Shit…" Roger muttered, turning his back and running.
Prove that wrong Roger, Mark told his friend. He winced at the sound of the slamming loft door. Prove it wrong that you're not afraid to feel something. It's the same thing.
"Mark…" Mimi's petite hand was on his cheek. "Mark, I… He-"
"Go get him Mimi." Collins, rough-voiced and calm. "Make sure he doesn't do anything stupid."
"All right." Mark could barely see as Mimi nodded wordlessly and pressed a kiss onto his forehead before heading out the door in just a few quick strides.
"Here," a Kleenex was stuffed into his hand, "clean your face off. You've got dog slobber all over your cheeks."
"Yeah…" Mark chuckled hollowly as he complied, dabbing his eyes and cheeks. "Thanks."
From
facing your failure, facing your loneliness
Facing the fact you
live a lie
Yes, you live a lie - tell you why
You're always
preaching not to be numb
When that's how you thrive
You pretend
to create and observe
When you really detach from feeling alive
Damn it. Why'd it have to be those words? Mark didn't think that Roger remembered him. Or, at least, he was hoping Roger didn't remember them.
"Mark," Collins grabbed his arm and gently pulled him out of bed, "come on, man, Mimi made some chicken noodle soup for lunch."
"Mimi cooking? I think I'll pass." Another hollow laugh.
It was all too obvious that Collins wasn't in the mood. "Don't joke, not now."
"Sorry."
"And," Collins continued, pushing Mark gently onto a chair near the dining room table, "stop apologizing for something that's not even your fault."
Deep breaths. Mark watched wordlessly as the anarchist wandered in the kitchen. He trusted Collins that much, he was sure of it. Thomas Collins was like the big brother to their large bohemian family. Always mature when needed and always a fun, kind partier when the bohemians needed a good time.
"Here," The black bowl slid across the table and landed in front of Mark's nose, a strong whiff of the chicken noodle washing into his nostrils. "Eat up."
Collins handed Mark a spoon and suddenly Mark's stomach did a flip. "I really don't think I can keep this down."
"Mark." Collins said sternly. "Just eat the damned soup."
"I-" He opened his mouth, decided against commenting, frowned and stuffed a large portion of the soup into his mouth. It went flatly down his throat, better than Mark expected.
Mark continued to eat in the uncomfortable silence, the only sound being the unusual breathing of Blink at his shin. He felt the burning eyes of Collins' eyes on his face even though the anarchist was flipping through some sort-of book. Onion-thin pages ruffling against the air coming from the heater.
Spoon clattering against the bowl, Collins looked up. "Done?"
"Yeah."
More clattering, the spoon and bowl deposited into the sink with the rest of the dirt dishes. Collins busied himself with the mess. "Roger really needs to learn how to get off his ass and do some real housework."
"You don't need to do that," Mark said. "I can do it later."
"No," Collins said. "No, you can't, can you?"
"I could," Mark said confidently. "Visually impaired people can do things just like everybody else."
"True, however, the visually impaired go through certain training so that they learn how to cope with everything. It takes time to do things on your own. I know you found a way to take a shower by yourself-" He finished up and walked back towards the table, shadowed form standing above Mark in a towering way.
No. Not now.
"Where's Benny?" Mark interrupted. "Is he still working on that studio space he found in the city?"
"How long has it been since you really picked up your camera?" Collins countered.
"What about Maureen and Joanne?" Mark tried again. "Are they still together? You know them…"
"Has it been that long since you filmed anything? Days? Weeks?" Collins questioned. "Roger films foryou."
"I…" Mark looked past the shadowed form of Collins. "There's never…" Searching, wracking his brain for a different subject. Anything but this.
"Mark, I know you don't want to talk about it."
A sigh. "Then… just don't."
"Mark, I can help."
"Listen, Collins, I get enough of this from Doctor Crow. It doesn't help." Mark sighed. "Talking it out may seem like the best thing, but it doesn't work with me."
Collins shook his head. "I talked to Doctor Crow on the phone yesterday Mark, she says you don't open up enough to talk. You said some good things. You opened up a bit about your blood-family, but you don't talk about us in New York. Are you that ashamed of us?"
"No!" Mark said forcibly, accidentally kicking Blink as he backed out of his chair and began blindly pacing the living room. "No, it's not like that at all! I'm just…"
"You're just what? Mark, you're not in this alone." Collins said.
"It's just… I just…" Mark grabbed his head again as the pounding returned; he ignored it this time. The pitter-patter of raindrops followed soon and Mark could tell that Collins wasn't going to say anything. "What's the point in this? Huh? I'm mad, annoyed, scared, but, mostly, I'm just… confused. I know this isn't the ultimate death sentence for me, but I'm a filmmaker. Nothing else. I haven't found myself to be anything but a filmmaker. Now, I'm just… me.
"Yet, I don't know who I am. All my life I've been trying to be the good guy because that's what's expected of me. I never yelled at my parents when they didn't understand me, never trying to make Cindy's life hell, I helped Roger through his withdrawal, I didn't say anything to Maureen when I knew she was cheating on me and I even let Maureen break up with me because I didn't want to hurt her feelings. See I'm a good guy?
"Or, at least, I try to be. You all do it, even when you don't realize it. Throw the burdens on Mark Cohen, because he can handle anything. It doesn't matter about his pain because your pain is important enough to step on my feelings. Throw all the anger out on me, because apparently I have no problems in the world. It isn't enough that's I've lost some friends already and I'm going to lose more. Guess what? I have feelings too! Didn't know that? Well, that's why people don't expect me to feel. Need something to do? KICK ME DOWN BECAUSE I'M JUST TRYING TO BE A GOOD GUY! Well, what do you do? Call me. Call Mark Cohen!"
Labored breathing followed down on Mark's rant as ignored the frantic barking of Blink down at his side. Mark wandered aimlessly towards the windowsill and leaned against the bench so that he was blankly staring out into the rainy New York City. He shivered as a hand flopped down on his shoulder.
"I just feel…"
"Irritated?" Collins whispered.
"Down right pissed." Mark hung his head. "Roger's right… I don't know how to feel alive."
"Mark," Collins shook his head; he turned the young man and made him face him, "you know how to feel. There's a point of knowing how to let those feelings out and letting others help you."
The tears fell like a waterfall. They splashed down Mark's cheek and suddenly he was clinging to Collins' shirt in a desperate attempt to hold himself up. Collins was patting his back reassuringly and Mark felt like he needed this.
Collins whispered Mark's ear, "Everything's going to be fine."