I'm earning a reputation
My conscience, mistrust and regret
Courageous, just like the captain
Marching forward with no doubt in his head

-Guster

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

"Mark, you have a visitor!"

I stop pacing. I'd been walking the length of floor from the bed to the window and back for the last two hours. Pacing is appropriate behavior for a prisoner.

I've come to the awful and emotive conclusion that I was a hostage here. There was no other explanation.

There are familiar, heavy footfalls on the stairs and my face lights up. I run into the hallway, ecstatic.

"Roger!-"

But it isn't Roger.

It is the stranger from the hospital room and he's grinning that same expectant grin that scares the fuck out of me.

Paranoid, I lose my balance and fall against the wall, scrambling to shove myself backwards into the prison of my old bedroom. From the doorway, I trip over my tongue as well. "You! Who are you?"

"I'm…" He tries, but I look away, and for the first time I notice that's he's carrying a guitar.

Roger's.

I sit up a little and eagerly peer around his big frame. But there is no one else on the stairs. I stare up at him dumbly.

So he holds out his hand to help me up and I feel myself want to flinch from the huge palm inches from my face. But I restrain myself. There isn't actually anything threatening about him.

The back of my head shifts and throbs and persists to do that uncontrollable mind-altering shit that it's been good at lately. I take his hand. And in one swift motion I am flung to my feet and my eyes are even with his chest. I get the feeling that he wants to hug me again- that he's been wanting to hug me for the longest time- and I take a defensive step backwards. Clearing my throat, I frown a bit and hope that manners will repair some of this discomfort.

"Won't you come in-?" I drip with sarcasm. This is hardly a time for cordiality. I make a sweeping motion to the bedroom and play the hospitable host, trying hard to ignore the fact that the appearance of my houseguest had just knocked me to the floor. Jesting as he steps inside, I continue with a cracked sense of charm. "This is my…bedroom. I guess I live here now. Don't know why. I have an apartment in the city. Roger's my roommate-" I gesture the guitar and babble on, "But I've been cooped up here for the past three weeks. My head hurts like a bitch, I think I'm the victim of some horrible car accident, I've had no contact with the outside world, I think I'm being kept here against my will," I giggle nervously. "So please, excuse my lack of manners because frankly? I'm losing it. Oh, and I'm Mark. Now who are you?"

I fall to the bed and feel like crying.

His face contorts, as if he's having trouble thinking of what to say. Quietly he answers, "An old friend..."

"Oh. Well that's good. I was convinced you were the Angel of Death. I saw you at the hospital too. An old friend from where? Brown? High school? I'm sorry… I really don't…" I shake my head and trail off. "It feels like I should know you but-" I squeeze my eyes shut in hatred of my unreliable brain. What the fuck was happening to me? "We're friends then? Listen, I apologize. I'm really fucking losing it!" My eyes tear up. "Maybe it wasn't a good idea to have a visitor today…"

"Mark, it's Collins." The man whines. Whining does not seem suitable forthis man. It doesn't fit his voice. I am not friends with people who whine.

"Collins." My voice cracks and I shake my head and my lip quivers so hard I have trouble speaking. "Yeah, I'm sorry- I don't remember you…I feel…"

Collins grabs my shoulders and I stop my blubbering and freeze up to watch him blubber right back at me.

"Collins Mark! Tom Collins!" He shakes my shoulders and I hold onto his wrists and let him. Maybe he can help my brain along. It's trying so hard to remember.

"No no no nope! I don't know you, I don't-" It's almost as if I don't want to remember. "Goddamnit!" I sob and allow my overwrought body to fall into his arms. We have a history, for God's sake I know we do! I shudder and he hugs me harder than anyone has ever hugged me in my life.

"You remember?!" He pleads.

I shake my head against his chest and cry.

"It's okay." He says, unsure himself.

"No it's not. I don't remember you but I know I should! Ha, there's a lot of things I know I should remember and I can't. I don't know why! I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

"Don't apologize." He lets me go and I look up to see that he's been crying too.

"I don't know what's happening to me…"

"No one does Mark…" He mutters grudgingly.

I laugh and lean my head against the sloping roof where Roger's picture should be. "I think…maybe I'm dying." I say jokingly and my stomach churns from my confession to this stranger. "Death." I say, and we both let the word echo in the room. It tastes acidic in my mouth, the 'th' sound sending putrid ripples over my lips and tongue.

Collins stares at me with teary eyes.

I hold back another wave of my own tears. "It's funny because I used to think-" I stop mid-sentence and lift my head. I've never told this to anyone. Not even Roger.

"There's gotta be a problem in the space-time continuum or whatever the hell-" I shake my head. "God is fucking with me. Death follows me everywhere! April, Mimi, Angel-" And suddenly I remember who Collins is. I choose not to say anything. "And I used to think- I was the center of all this bereavement. What a selfish notion, hey? That it was somebody's idea of fun that good 'ol Mark Cohen got to stand by and…witness everyone he loves just…go! How privileged I am! And now this is it. This is the end. And I'm alone!" I throw my head back and laugh. "I always fucking knew it! This is ridiculously ironic, I can't even begin to tell you. I'm losing my fucking mind! Literally, I think parts of it are missing in action. It's seen too much death. And like any soldier that knows what's good for him- it packed up and deserted. I used to film you know. But then I realized that my camera had seen every last ounce of bullshit my own two eyes observed! So I abandoned that fucking thing. Dropped the hobby. Recording suffering isn't the greatest pastime, surely you'll agree! I've got reels and reels and REELS of things I'm trying to forget. If I ever get out of here I think I'll burn those fucking reels… You wanna help? I've got thousands of shots of Angel…" I grin. He knows I know.

But instead of laugh with joy like I expect him to, he lays the Fender across my lap.

"Please, don't ever burn your film Mark."

I stretch my fingers across the frets and refuse to acknowledge his advice.

"…Collins. Did Roger run away?"

Collins' head snaps up and his eyes look slightly excited. "What do you mean by that?"

"Um…I mean 'did he run away."

Collins thinks a moment.

"That's one way to put it."

"Damnit! Why did he go?"

"Hmm, well, he had to..."

"Is he okay?"

"I imagine he's great."

"…Did he tell me he was leaving?"

"You were with him the night he left."

"Was I? Were we fighting? Shit. God, was this my fault? Because I told him- I was being…" I sigh. "Any reason you have his guitar?"

"He wanted you to have it."

"What? Have-? Okay, um, do you know where he is?"

Collins gives me his infamous fatherly veneer, surveying my face closely with moist eyes. I try my best not to feel lost. I'm missing something. The guitar sinks heavily into my lap and I am painfully aware of its presence. There is a moment of silence lasts a bit too long, and I fear the thunder in my brain will follow. To my surprise I retain my sanity.

I repeat my question, as Collins is too damn reluctant to answer.

"Well actually," Collins responds, "He really wanted you to come and visit him."