The therapist's first name is my best friend's name. She pretty much rocks my world, and she knows it! There is some strong language in this chapter as well, so if you're easily offended, don't read any further. If you can handle it, well, onward and upward!

Mark didn't know what to say. He looked at Roger, lost for words. He bit his lip, trying to buy himself time. But Roger would not hear of it.

"Mark, tell me, damn it," he said. "Something happened, didn't it?"

"Well, yes, in a matter of speaking," Mark said hesitantly.

Roger glared at him. "Mark, tell me. If something happened to them, don't you dare hide it from me."

"Rog," Mark began, "don't you remember that Angel died three months ago? She died on Halloween, her favorite holiday, remember?"

"Oh," Roger said glumly, "right. Sorry, I forgot. Kinda hard to keep those things straight when I've been fucking unconscious for a month." His Kryptonite-green eyes locked onto Mark's crystal-blue ones. "You're fucking dodging, Mark. Skillfully, but it's still dodging!"

Mark sighed. "I know, Roger," he said, biting his lip again, "but I don't know if you should know yet. You should rest and get better first."

"Mark, don't be a prick!" Roger growled dangerously.

Mark looked back at Maureen, Joanne, and Collins. The three of them were giving him looks that clearly said he'd gotten himself into it and he was going to get himself out.

"I'm sorry, Roger, but I really think it's best if you don't know until you're better."

"I can't believe you're fucking hiding this from me!" Roger yelled. "Did something happen or not?"

"Yes," Mark snapped, suddenly feeling irritated, "something did, Rog. Mimi died a week ago, Rog, before you woke up, and we buried her."

Mark watched Roger's reaction carefully. For a few minutes, he sat silently, just breathing. Then he started to sob and the tears came.

"Oh my God, Mark," he sobbed, "how could you even try to keep something fucked up like that from me?"

"Roger, you can't dwell on Mimi's death," Mark said. "You have to concentrate on getting better. That's all you can do for now."

Roger didn't say anything. He merely sat there, tears running down his face.

"Maybe if you say you'll get better for Mimi, it'll be easier," Mark suggested, as Roger's grief quieted. "She wouldn't want you to dwell on her death, Rog, you know that. She was just too sick. Her body finally just had to let go."

Mark looked pleadingly at Roger. "Rog, I'm so sorry. We would have told you a little while ago, but we were just more worried about you. We didn't even know if you would make it. Don't you see that?"

Roger nodded, still crying silently. Mark backed away from him, toward the other Bohemians. "We should leave you to rest." Roger looked swiftly at him. "We'll be back later."

"Bye, Roger," Maureen and Joanne said, looking sadly at him.

"Get better, man," Collins said comfortingly, and then they left.

Roger felt the familiar feeling of immense loneliness take over him again, coupled by pain from his injuries and sorrow. He pulled the covers up to his chest and collapsed into an exhausted slumber.

The next day, when Mark and the Bohemians came to see Roger, he was asleep. Mark noticed the IV in his wrist and figured he was possibly sedated.

Doctor Thomas came into the room and did a quick examination on Roger. "He's just sleeping," the doctor assured them. "He had a very rough night. He woke up a while after you left, and was panicking. We had to sedate him so he could sleep, but once he was, we took him off the sedation. What did you tell him yesterday that upset him so?"

"His ex-girlfriend, Mimi, died last week, while he was still in the coma," said Mark, "and he'd forgotten about our friend, Angel's, death. He didn't take it as well as we thought he would."

Mark quickly explained about Mimi and her death. "She was addicted to heroin, and it destroyed her. She ended up with a high fever and hypothermia, and after we'd found her in the alley across from the Cat Scratch Club, we took her to the loft and she died soon after. Angel's death wasn't so quick, her death took much longer. She lived with it for months, even years, and eventually, she just let go, too."

The doctor's face fell. "I'm sorry. I can see why he was so upset now. But he had to be told sometime."

Mark nodded. "He knew about Angel; we were all in the hospital when Angel died. But he forgot. I wanted to wait until he was better to tell him about Mimi," he said, "but he insisted. I suggested that, maybe, if he would recover with Mimi in mind, it would make it easier. I don't know if he'll listen to me or not, though; he can be pretty stubborn sometimes."

Doctor Thomas nodded. "That sounds like a good suggestion," he said, "but it's up to him to follow such advice." The doctor looked at Mark. "If you don't mind me asking, how long were he and Mimi together?"

"Almost a year," Mark answered.

"I see. Well, once he wakes up, we'll run a few tests and I think he's good to go home tomorrow, as long as he keeps up with his soft-food diet for the next six weeks, in order to let his jaw heal. Everything else will heal with time and no pressure. Call us tomorrow to set up therapy appointments."

"Yes, Doctor. That should make him happy— getting out of here, I mean." Doctor Thomas smiled. "Thanks." Mark heard Roger groan and he stirred. "Hey, Rog, rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty."

Roger's eyes opened and he looked at Mark. "Oh, it's you," he said sourly.

Mark ignored his remark. "How are you feeling?"

"I wish everyone would quit fucking asking me that," Roger said irritably. "I just want to get the hell out of here. I'm sick of fucking being here, sitting on my ass."

"Well, then," Mark said, grinning at him, "it'll make you happy to know that you're getting out of here tomorrow."

Roger smiled. "Good," he said simply, "then what?"

"Then you get your casts taken off in six weeks, and then therapy for six weeks to regain back your strength."

Roger smiled. "I'm glad," he said truthfully. He looked at Mark. "Mark, can you do something for me?" Mark nodded. "When I get out of here tomorrow, go to the loft, and in my room, you'll find some papers in my guitar case. Bring them to me."

Mark nodded. "OK, Rog, I will," he said. He knew what Roger was talking about: the song for Mimi. What was Roger planning on doing with it? Mark was slightly concerned, but he nodded nevertheless. "I'll see you tomorrow, then," he said, "and we'll go home, OK?"

"OK," said Roger, and he leaned against his pillows, better satisfied this time. Mark squeezed his good hand encouragingly and then he nodded and left.

Two months later, Joanne and Mark drove Roger to the therapy building and Mark helped him out of the car. It was 10:30 on a Friday morning, the 23rd of March, and Roger was due for his first therapy session. He'd gotten his casts off the day before.

"Mark," he panted, as he managed to stand up on the sidewalk on his crutches, "I— I don't think I can do this."

Mark frowned. "Now, now, none of that bad attitude; remember, you're doing this for Mimi and no one else. Not me, not Collins, not Joanne, you're doing this for Mimi, and most importantly"— Mark put his hands firmly on Roger's shaking shoulders— "for yourself. Now come on, you say you don't want to be called an invalid— well, prove it. Persevere!"

Roger looked down at Mark, slightly stunned at his words. "Wow," he said, "OK, you win, I see your point. Let's go." Roger hobbled into the building and Mark got him into a chair. A therapist came out to meet them.

"Roger Davis?" she called. Roger looked up from concentrating on where his feet were going. "I'm Madeline Saunders. You can call me Madeline or Maddy. Come with me and we'll begin your session."

"Right," said Roger, and he looked at Mark. "Don't you dare leave me here, alone?!"

"We have to, Rog," said Mark. "We have to go to work. We'll be back in two hours. Do not give Madeline any trouble."

Roger grinned evilly. "See you later," he said, and Mark and Joanne left as he went hobbling along beside Madeline.

Roger soon realized that the only thing he liked about therapy was, despite the incredible difficulty, learning how to walk again. He was almost glad, at the end of the hour, that none of his friends could see him. They wouldn't laugh, he knew, but they wouldn't really believe it was him, either. He felt pathetic and useless, like a child.

Well, technically, until I can walk again, I am fucking useless, he thought bitterly to himself.

All Roger could think about was regaining his legs and hand back. His legs and hand being healed meant he could go back on tour. His legs meant… freedom.

Madeline helped him over to parallel bars and he pulled himself up. They extended from one wall to the other, and he was obviously supposed to walk them. Roger realized with horror just how far he really had to go, when he began to walk them. His legs shook like they were brand-new and unused. It wasn't a pretty sight.

Roger walked back and forth across the bars for an hour, and then Madeline called for an end to that. "You're doing very well," she said. "It won't be long before you can walk slowly, but easily, and then we'll work on getting you back up to speed, OK?"

"OK," said Roger, "as long as that's soon, or I'm gonna have an aneurism or something."

Madeline smiled. "Recovery from something like what happened to you is never 'soon'," she said. "But you're making progress already, and it's not even the end of the first day yet. Let's get you some weights to regain back strength in your arms, too."

"Well, good," said Roger, "because I need my arms to play my fender guitar."

Madeline got the weights for him and he sat down and lifted them. It wasn't difficult, but it wasn't easy, either. Even his arms shook from disuse. "You play guitar?" she asked.

"Yeah," he said. "I tour three months out of the year. So far, my best song is Your Eyes, dedicated to my ex-girlfriend, who died last week. I write whatever comes to me."

"It sounds like a great way to entertain yourself and others," said Madeline. They continued talking for the next half an hour, then Madeline looked at the clock. "Well, our time here is almost up. Joanne and Mark will be here soon to pick you up." Roger stood up with her help. "Same time on Monday and Wednesday, OK?"

Roger shrugged. "Sure."

Madeline escorted him out to where Joanne and Mark were standing in the lobby. "Bye, Roger; great job today."

Roger didn't let Madeline see, but he smiled at Mark and Joanne. It really was progress… progress for Mimi.

"Mark," he said, looking at Mark, "you forgot to do something for me when I left the hospital."

Mark smacked his forehead with his hand. "Oh, the papers!" he exclaimed. "I'm sorry, Roger. Do you want to go get them now?"

"Yes, and then we have to go to Mimi's grave. I want to give them to her. I want to talk to her. I want—"

"Closure," Mark suggested.

Roger smiled wearily. "Yeah; can we do that?"

"Sure, Rog, we'll go do that now. Come on."

They climbed into Joanne's car and drove to the loft. They retrieved the papers Roger asked for and then drove to Mimi's grave. By the time Roger hobbled up to it, he had tears on his face, but he was smiling sadly. Mark set the papers down on Mimi's grave, putting a rock over them to hold them down, and then Roger began to speak.

"Mimi," he said, "I miss you so fucking much, Baby. After you left, I got myself into a big mess; everything had been my fault. Breaking up with you like the heartless bastard I can be sometimes, and then I got into a car wreck, Baby. It fucking sucked. I'm so sorry I did, too, but it was an accident. It was raining and I just didn't see that truck. I'm sorry I couldn't protect you from your addiction, but I really did try. I really did love you, Baby. I miss you so fucking much now. It's so hard to go on without you, but I am. I'm getting better with you in mind."

Roger looked up at the sky. "Say hi to Angel from all of us. I'm sure you two are having a blast wreaking hell up there without us, pun fully intended. I love you. Bye, Mimi."

Roger turned to face Joanne and Mark, who were both crying. Roger gave them a smile of understanding and they went home.

Eight days. That's how long it took me to come up with this. You readers probably have no idea how frustrating this is for me, except for maybe Rosablasifann08 and Renthead621, because I complain to them over Email and MSN. But the lack of writing and the massive amount of block that I'm having is horrible and it's actually physically wearing on me. I HATE Writer's Block with a vengeance!

Well, now that we got that out of the way— and somehow, it came to me in school, in the middle of my second period class— here's the next chapter for you. I hope it meets expectations, I really do. Please review; it would make me feel better, because I feel really bad for not having updated in a long time. Thanks and have a great day.

Until next time, lots of love,

Renthead07