I.)

Six-year-old Roger Davis was content. It was mid-afternoon on Halloween and he was admiring his Batman costume in the bathroom mirror. His mother ad promised that when his father got home they would both take him trick-or-treating.

He bounded into the kitchen, cape billowing behind him, and struck his best superhero pose. His mother didn't notice. She was whispering harshly into the phone trying to keep her voice low. A strangled cry escaped her before she slammed the phone into it's' cradle and sunk to a chair at the table, head in her hands.

"Mommy?"

Roger cautiously made his way to his mother, stopping in front of her. She raised her head sadly mumbling a "C'mere baby" before pulling him onto her lap and in to a tight hug.

"Honey, Daddy isn't coming home tonight," his mother trailed off, clutching him tighter as she began to sob. He never got to go trick-or-treating.

Never saying a word he sat in his mother's lap for hours as she cried, watching through the kitchen window as the leaves fell.

II.)

Leaving his backpack in the front hall, fourteen-year-old Roger leisurely strolled towards the kitchen going through guitar rifts in his head. Upon entering, the music in his mind stopped, like a record skipping off track. There sitting at the kitchen table, drinking a cup of coffee like he belonged there, like he never left, was his father.

"Welcome home son."

"What are you doing here?"

"Wanted to see how my boy was doin'. Fourteen's a big age; almost in high school." In a vain attempt at hiding his hatred, Roger turned and opened the refrigerator. He grabbed a carton of orange juice and took a swig. He prayed this would make him look indifferent to the whole situation.

"Mom know you're here."
"She let me in," his father smirked. Not in the mood for his games Roger threw the carton back in it's' place and slammed the refrigerator door.

"Well this was a great talk," he moved to leave. "See ya in another eight years."

"Roger." The sadness in his father's voice almost made him feel guilty. Almost.

"I'm sor—"

"No you're not," Roger cut in.

"Let me—"

"I don't want to hear it. You have no idea what you put Mom through." Voice cracking he quietly added, "What you put me through." After a long tension filled pause his father spoke.

"What happened to my little boy?" Fighting back tears Roger glared at his father.

"He was let down by his hero."

"Roger I'm still your father." Blue eyes turned to ice.

"I don't have a father." Storming out of the house Roger ran until his lungs burned. Enraged, he kicked the leaves littering the ground, screaming as they fell back to the dirt.

III.)

He was finally free. High school was over. Alright, it had technically ended in June, but thanks to senioritis he had to retake chemistry, thus delaying actually receiving his diploma. This also derailed his plans to escape to the city after graduation; his mother wouldn't let him leave until she was physically holding his diploma.

Roger grinned as he threw his last t-shirt into his overstuffed duffel bag. This scrawny blonde kid from his English class had given him a tip-off to this apartment his roommate at Brown knew about. Apparently the two tenants, some kind of philosopher and a struggling actress (he hoped she was hot), needed help paying the rent and were looking for another roommate. Roger eagerly offered his services.

Barreling down the stairs, duffel bag in one hand, guitar in the other, he stopped short at the front door searching his pockets for his pre-purchased one-way train ticket (he wasn't taking any chances).

"Looking for this," his mother questioned from behind him.

"Yeah. Thanks," Roger said, gingerly taking the ticket. There was an awkward silence.

"Listen Ma, I," he was silenced by his mother's strong embrace.

"You be careful in the city. Promise me you'll stay safe," she pulled back wiping away tears.

"And you won't change too much; when you come home you'll still be my Roger."
"I promise." Picking up his belongings Roger gave his mother a kiss good-bye and started out the door.

"I'll call."

Mrs. Davis watched her only child walk away; not knowing that his phone calls would completely stop within a month and that the only knowledge of his life se would have would come from random postcards, normally received on a holiday. She had no idea what the city would turn him into. As he disappeared from her sight, she gazed forlornly through the window on the door, watching the leaves begin to fall as she had so many times before.

IV.)

She had the most beautiful eyes Roger had ever seen. He knew it was corny and cliché, but they were like emeralds and they sparkled when she laughed. She had forced her way to the front of the stage, in front of him, her small frame knocking over girls twice her size; if he hadn't seen it himself he wouldn't have believed it. He made a point to find her after the show. Hours later Roger and the redhead, whose name he discovered over many drinks was April, found themselves casually walking through Central Park at four a.m. trying to avoid the homeless and the police. Rogers' buzz was wearing off, but Aprils' was still going strong.

"Oh my God Roge, look at all these frickin' leaves," April slurred, watching them fall thanks to the cold gusts of wind.

"Well it is fall."

"Let's play in them," and before Roger could protest he was dragged off the sidewalk and deposited in a pile of leaves, April stumbling after him.

"Know what?"

Roger turned to face her, "What?"

"I think I like you," and with that April placed her lips firmly over his. As they explored each other, Rogers' hands ran up and down her arms and his hazy mind, whether from the lust or the alcohol he didn't know, never processed the small bumps his fingers came in contact with.

V.)

She had been pressuring him for months and he had been tired of hearing it every goddamn day.

"Just once. That's all I ask."
"I'm not a junkie April."

"And one hit isn't going to make you one Roge."

Now, as he sat in his room in the loft shaking, trying to tie off his bicep, he wished he had stuck to his convictions. He could usually wait until April got home, they used it as "quality time," but not today. While arranging his other 'instruments' his eyes skimmed the collection of framed pictures on his dresser, all courtesy of Maureen (and he had a sneaking suspicion, Mark). He looked happy and healthy in all of them, traits he now lacked.

As he sunk down onto his bed, prepared needle in hand, he focused on the bright orange, yellow, and red leaves taped to his mirror. Maureen had insisted on the fall 'decorations' because she said they had "a highly pleasing aesthetic value" and reminded her of raking leaves during her childhood. She said Roger was too serious and needed too remember the happier, more carefree days of his youth and that the leaves would help him hold on to his childhood.

When the drug hit his vein and the euphoria started taking over, the leaves, or maybe his vision, started to swirl. Through half-lidded eyes Roger gazed at the leaves, praying they would begin to fall.