Our Memories

And it feels like now

As I sit in the pew and lean forward, staring at my feet, the murmur of the priest registers in my mind, but I don't hear him. Part of me is aware of Mimi's arm around me, rubbing my side soothingly, but I don't feel it. Because I'm not here.

Physically, I'm surrounded by my family (what's left of it, anyway) while a strange man tells us about someone who he knew nothing about and that I knew better than myself. Physically, I'm in a church saying goodbye to the best friend I've had, that I'll ever have.

But mentally, I'm years and miles away from this place. Mentally, I'm jumping from scene to scene in my memories of the past three years (it sounds so small when you put it like that) that somehow contained a lifetime. Images of Mark's face dance around my vision, so clear there are more than a few moments where I feel I could reach out and touch him. His voice rings in my ears.

And it feels always

"They're cherry blossoms! They're my favorite flower!"

"I guess I'm the exception that proves the rule."

"What color is the sky, Roger?"

"It's just...quiet here, that's all."

"It WILL get better."

"...I like it here."

"Roger..."

"...I liked it here."

When I come out of my reverie, I find I've somehow followed everyone else outside as the casket is lowered into the ground. Words about 'ashes' and 'dust' that never really meant anything to me are spoken as the wooden box gets further and further away. Suddenly, I remember that my hand is clutching something. I look down to see my fingers wrapped around a small branch covered in pink flowers. I toss it into the hole and start to walk away.

"Roger?" Mimi calls after me, but I just shake my head.

"Not now." I need to be by myself.

And it feels like coming home

I feel completely numb as I walk to the loft. As I enter the living room, I take in the entire place slowly, as if I'm seeing it for the first time. I sit on the couch and look around at nothing in particular. For the first time since I moved in here, the entire place feels empty.

Then my eyes finally decide to stop and focus on a single object: Mark's camera. It sits on the far end of the coffee table, abandoned, soon to be gathering dust from lack of use. His work, his trademark...him.

My emotions hit me all at once and I feel tears streaming down my face. I bend over double and cover my face, shaking almost violently. I cry like I haven't cried since I was a child, tears coming out in buckets, my entire body forcing the sobs out of my lungs. I rock myself back and forth, trying to control my breathing, but as soon as I inhale the air is pushed out of my lungs in a whimper. "Oh, god..." I plead to the empty room, knowing it's too little too late.

As the sobs subside to hiccups and sniffles, my eyes feel like sandpaper and my lungs are on fire. I wipe away the last of the tears, and tentatively look up at the camera again. This time, I stand and pick it up. As I've seen Mark do hundreds of times, I wind it up and, almost shyly, hold it to my face and look through the lens.

I never saw blue like that before

"March 23, 1991, 10:32 AM, eastern standard time. From here on in, I add 'filmmaker' to my resume. There's no reason for this thing to gather dust. At least, not yet."

AN: Wow, two chapters in one night (erm, morning I guess). Yay insomnia!