Disclaimer: Not mine. Characters belong to Jonathan Larson. I'm just borrowing them as a coping mechanism.
Notes: Based on a scene in some movie I saw recently. I don't remember what it's called, but James Woods is in it. Anyway, the scene reminded me a lot of Roger and April
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Two weeks ago, I told you that we needed to talk. That it was really important for us to talk.
"What, are you pregnant?"
"Well, no, but I--"
"Then why are you worried, baby?"
I couldn't come up with a good answer fast enough. How could I? Before I'd even started looking for one, I was watching the needle pierce your skin, watching you squeeze the plunger, watching your veins twitch, watching that first rush wash over you.
My turn.
How quickly words empty out of your head when it's your turn. I watched you rig my needle, watched you tie your belt around my arm, watched you put your needle into my skin and finally felt. It was the only time I could just feel instead of watch. Watching gets so tiring after a while. After a while, you just wanna live.
I've been trying so hard for the past two weeks to 'just live'. But it's too hard to live when you're dying.
Tonight was my last attempt. I watched you open the door, right as I was pulling the needle out of my arm. You came in right at that crucial moment after hitting the hit, but just before the hit hits. I watched you in slow motion now.
"… what are you doing?"
"Hey, baby!"
"April, what are you doing?"
"Just getting' high, baby."
I tried to get up off the bed to greet you, but I tripped into your arms. "Thanks, baby. You caught me! Thank you for catching me. You're my hero, Rog."
"What are you doing?"
You just kept asking me that. I thought it was fairly obvious. I even told you flat out what I was doing. Didn't you understand?
"But you never shoot up by yourself. April, baby, what's going on?"
"Me 'n' Serg've been practicin'. He's teachin' me how to shoot, I'm teachin' his new girl how to dance. She's real shy about it, so I'm helpin' her get acquainted with her body."
I gave you a small sample and tossed my shirt off, moving closer to you. "Come get high with me, baby. Please?"
"April, I gotta work tonight, you know that."
"Aw, come on. You can blow off one gig. Whadda ya say?" I took the belt of my arm and put it around the back of your neck, pulling you down to the bed on top of me. "Stay with me."
"I can't just 'blow off' a fuckin' concert, Ap. You know that."
I pouted and pulled you closer. "I don't want you to go!"
"I have to go!"
"But I don't want you to!"
I started to whine, almost cry. I was way too fucking high. "But, baby!"
"I've gotta fuckin' play, April! I'll be home in a few hours and we'll get high and fuck until we pass out, okay?" You kissed me and thought that would fix it. "But right now, I've gotta go."
"NO!" I was crying now. I couldn't make you understand that there were more important things than playing a stupid fucking gig. "No, you fuckin' don't, Roger! Just stay here with me, please, baby? Please? For once, just fuckin' stay here with me! Stay with me, please." I was sobbing now, holding your hand against my face and crying into it. But you pulled away and headed for the door.
"I don't have to listen to this shit."
"NO!" I was screaming. "NO! Baby, please!"
"Shut up, just shut up!"
Your tone scared me a little, but this was do or fucking die. You reached for the door and I leapt off the bed and threw my arms around your neck, clinging to you for dear life. "Please, baby, just listen to me. Please? You've gotta stay. You've gotta stay with me, please!" I was sobbing and absolutely hysterical and I knew I looked fucking crazy, but I had to keep you with me. Just tonight. If I could get through tonight, I'd be fine.
"Just shut the fuck up! I can't fucking take this right now!"
You were in the living room now and almost to the front door. I knew that this was it. I did the only thing I could think of and threw myself around your legs, screaming and crying and begging you not to go. The front door was open and you were trying to kick me off of you, but I held on, still pleading. Still crying.
"Roger, please! You can't go tonight. Not tonight. Stay here!"
You finally kicked me off your leg. My head hit the wall and you stopped and bent down to check on me. "April, don't do this, okay?" You started to stand up again, but I was quicker. I was between you and the doorway, pressed up against you and trying to push you back into the loft.
"ROGER! Please!" You pushed past my easily and I started to chase you, oblivious to the fact that the only thing I had on was a pair of black lace underwear. It didn't matter anyway, though, because your push knocked me on my ass. I cried harder than ever and tried to scream after you, but my blood was rushing around my ears and I couldn't hear anything. Then I got really dizzy. At first, I figured it was the smack. But after an hour, it wasn't any better. So, naturally, I cooked up some more.
I must've looked insane running around the loft crying and screaming for hours and hours about how you just didn't understand. We needed to talk right now and you couldn't be fucking bothered. Just one fucking sentence and I would have been fine. We could've gotten through it together.
For hours I just ran around the loft screaming and breaking shit. I thought about breaking your guitar, but of course it was with you. Maybe then you would've listened. I should've taken your fucking guitar hostage. But it didn't matter now.
My blood was pounding louder than ever through my veins and I couldn't shut it up. I ached all over and my brain was going into overdrive. I had to get out. My body was crawling. Every bit of me was clawing at me from the inside, trying desperately to escape. The words I couldn't say were eating me alive and I could feel their teeth sinking into me. Refusing to let go until I exploded.
I was going to leave. I grabbed the first tube of lipstick in the bathroom I could find. Blood red. How appropriate. Quickly as I could, I scrawled a quick note to you on the bathroom mirror. Now you had to listen. You couldn't pretend not to hear if you saw it. I started out the front door, but didn't get far. I was going insane, I was sure of it. I'd done too much and my brain was shutting down. Oh, my God. I had OD'd. I needed someone to check on me. Oh, my God. I was gonna die. I pounded on every door on our floor, screaming for someone to help me because I was dying. Oh, my God! I was dying!
Nobody came.
I tried everything I could to keep myself conscious and alive. I packed and unpacked a bag four or five times. But after a while it was clear that I wasn't dying because I OD'd. I was dying because my veins were full of poison. Once I was sure that more smack wouldn't hurt, I cooked up another couple shots, took another couple hits. By three in the morning, I was fucking gone. I could barely stand, let alone talk. So I decided to take a bath. That would help calm my nerves, right?
I ran myself a nice, warm bath and sank into the water. But I still couldn't stop crying. I still couldn't stop being aware of the fact that I was dying. Right now. And I couldn't shake this quote from a play I'd read somewhere in the distant past when I wanted to be an actress. 'One should be all dead when one is half dead, don't you agree?'
It echoed in my head, amplified times a million. 'One should be all dead when one is half dead.' Over and over like some sick broken record. 'Don't you agree?' Ten minutes turned into thirty, thirty into an hour, just sitting in the tub with that ringing in my ears.
That's when I grabbed the razor. Shut up! Just shut up! I had to stop the voice. The words were seeping out of my pores now, infected the water I was trying to clean myself in. The water had stopped, but the tub was overflowing with the weight of those words. They were crawling out of my veins and clawing at me from the inside, trying to get out. One should be all dead. Half dead. Dead. Don't you agree?
The first long incision let me breathe. The second left me breathless.
One should be all dead when one is half dead. Don't you agree, baby?