Step One:
He takes a shower, and hopes to whatever messed up version of God he believes in that the shower isn't cold. Inevitably, it always is. He's gotten used to it, though, and he almost –almost, enjoys the feeling of tiny razorblades stabbing his back fiercely. The shower lasts eight minutes start to finish. He dries himself off quickly, staring blankly into the mirror so that he doesn't have to see the blood that never fully removed itself from the wall. The red and white towel he uses is thrown on the floor to the left of the toilet, and glasses and pajama pants are affixed to his body.
Step Two:
Mark reaches for the mug Roger got him on his 21st birthday, with thoughts of Irish crème. Instead, the cup is filled with hot liquid. The tea tastes like sandpaper, but Mark savors it anyway. He grabs one of Collins' books off the shelf and skims through it, absent-mindedly sipping his tea. He finishes his tea and places the book back on the shelf, pretending he's learned something philosophical.
Step Three:
Mark finds himself in front of the bathroom mirror again. He fills the sink with water and drops his glasses in. His toothbrush is dipped in and brought it to his yellowing teeth –toothpaste is rare in the loft. After his required two minutes pass, he lifts his glasses out of the water, drains the sink, and spits. He picks the discarded towel up off the floor and wipes at his lenses. He places the towel back on the floor, and the glasses back onto his nose.
Step Four:
He makes sure all the lights are off and a chair is propped against the door, whose lock has long since broken. He pokes his head into each room occupied at the time. The room that Collins and Benny once shared comes first, whichever combination of the two are asleep on the mattresses. Occasionally, the couch is checked, if there was drinking earlier in the day and someone has passed out there. He pokes his head into the room next to his, careful to avoid the creaky floorboard. Mark looks to see Roger and someone else curled up in the bed, and for a split second he thinks it's April, then remembers it's Mimi. He just looks to Roger, watching for the steady rise and fall of Roger's chest, and pretends there's not a woman curled into it. As long as he's breathing when Mark goes to bed, he'll be breathing when Mark wakes up.
Step five:
He gently shuts his bedroom door and climbs under the flimsy blanket –Roger has the quilt Mrs. Cohen sent last Hanukah. He places his glasses on the crate next to his bed and rolls onto his stomach, his face buried in a pillow. Mark takes a deep breath and lets all the tears he had stifled that day form a small puddle. He makes sure the pillow muffles all of his ragged breaths, but he cries until he feels like his tear ducts are shriveled up. He cries for April, and for Angel. He cries for Collins, who was running around the country doing God-knows-what. He cries for Joanne, who they haven't heard from in years. He cries for Maureen, who had fallen hard into the world of partying and recovered in his arms, only to leave for a woman. Again. He cries for Mimi, and the unborn child that will most likely die and drag her along. He cries for Benny, who lost Alison to a quick fuck and his money to stocks. He cries for the lesions forming on Roger's arms. Mostly, he cries for himself, and the fate he cornered himself into. For the future that terrifies him and the past that haunts him.