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find_rightbrainTitle: In the Eyes of a Young Girl
Chapter: Thirty-Three - How'd I Let You Slip Away?
Feedback: Will make me love you muchly.
Characters/Pairing: Roger, Mark, Maureen
Word Count: 1645
Rating: R
Disclaimer: I do not own Rent, and I'm extremely unlikely ever to. Shiny?
Chapter Index
Chapter Thirty-Two
Death lies on her, like an untimely frost on the sweetest flower of all the field. - Shakespeare
Maureen tugged impatiently on Mark's arm, half-dragging him towards the stairs up to the loft. "Come on, Mark, you've been filming all day! You can give up a few shots and come upstairs now. I'm bored."
Roger rolled his eyes. "You might as well give up, Maureen. He's probably going to be here filming for another two hours."
With a sigh, Mark shifted his camera to the other hand and turned to face Maureen, lowering his camera a little. "I will not," he said, giving Roger an annoyed look. "I just want to… I'll only be down here for a few minutes. You two go on up, and if I don't follow you in five minutes you can come and drag me up."
"That's the best we're going to get," Roger said as he took hold of Maureen's arm, pulling her towards the stairs with him. "Come on, April's probably home."
Maureen pulled her arm away from Roger, but she did go up to the loft with him, hurrying up the stairs a few steps ahead of him. She reached the door first, pulled it open, and froze completely. "Oh my God…" she whispered, stunned as she took in the absolute chaos of the loft. It looked like a tornado had come through, papers and film and everything else overturned, strewn about…
"What is it?" Roger caught up with her in a second, stared at the loft for an instant, and then roughly shouldered past Maureen, immediately going into the bedroom. "April? April, are you home?" Evidently he couldn't find her in their own bedroom, because in a second he stepped out and went to Mark and Maureen's room. "April!"
Maureen still stood in the doorway, silent and still until she noticed the pattern of blood drops on the floor, evenly spaced, like footsteps. They led out of the bathroom, to the bedrooms, the kitchen, back to the bathroom. Suddenly chilled, she walked across the loft to the bathroom door and tried the knob. Locked, and not a sound from within. She stepped back from the door, cold dread in the pit of her stomach. "Roger! The bathroom door's locked!"
"What?" Roger asked, stepping out of the bedroom. He looked frightened now—between the state of the loft and not being able to find April, real worry, real fear had begun to sink in.
"The… the bathroom door, it's…" Maureen gestured to the door helplessly, realizing for the first time that she could see under the door that the light inside the bathroom was on. Roger tried the door and swore when it wouldn't open.
"Get Mark," he snapped at her, eyeing the door. When she hesitated, Roger turned to glare at her, his voice sharp as he ordered, "Get Mark!" He slammed his shoulder against the door, silently thankful for once that the doors in the loft weren't all that sturdily built, and the bathroom door shuddered under the force.
Maureen ran to the window and out onto the fire escape, leaning over the edge so she could see Mark. "Mark! Mark!" He looked up at her with a start, his confused frown visible even from several stories up. "Get up here now, it's April, she's… Just get up here!" Behind her, she heard Roger finally break open the bathroom door, and turned away from the fire escape, rushing inside to the bathroom.
By the time she got there, Roger was already inside, and Maureen could only stand in the doorway, taking in the scene in bits and pieces. April in the tub in her clothes, the water red—not clear, or even some shade of watered-down pink, but red. Roger by the side of the tub, awkwardly half-cradling April and sobbing, whispering to her so softly that Maureen couldn't really hear any actual words, just her name repeated over and over, April, April, April… The knife in the soap dish, still with blood on it. The shattered mirror in pieces on the floor, sink, toilet, everywhere, some shards with April's blood on them. A piece of paper on the sink, April's handwriting visible on it, that Maureen didn't dare to pick up and read.
Mark burst through the still-open door of the loft, breathing hard. He must have taken the stairs at a dead run. He dropped his camera on the couch as he passed it, for once not taking the slightest care to see that it wasn't damaged. He had heard the panic in Maureen's voice, knew that something had to have happened… As he reached the bathroom door where Maureen stood, he found out, and stood there in absolute shock for a second before Maureen turned to him, buried her face in his shoulder and just started sobbing. Automatically, he put an arm around her shoulders and hugged her to him as he backed out of the room a few steps to pick the phone up off the floor. As he heard the dial tone, he let out a breath of relief that the phone was still working and numbly dialed 911, though he had the sick feeling that calling the hospital wouldn't do any good.
While the phone rang, Mark held Maureen close to him with his free arm and tried to ignore Roger's voice in the other room, rising and becoming more frantic as the truth became harder and harder to deny, "April, April-baby, please wake up, please, angel…"
*
Mark grimaced as he scrubbed at yet another bloodstain on the kitchen floor, forcing his mind away from the fact that it was April's blood. What was he going to do without her? His sister, his April Shower. Without her, the loft seemed a little emptier, a little darker, as if she'd taken with her some special glow of her own, something he hadn't noticed until she'd gone. Silly, not to have noticed something like that.
The bathroom was clean now, amazingly so. Still hadn't replaced the mirror, and Mark wasn't particularly inclined to any time soon, but the blood was gone. No one ever would have believed what it looked like four days ago, when Roger had found her there in the tub… Everything was white now. Pure white, spotless, immaculate. Too much so. It had never been that clean before. Before they had to get rid of every trace of what she'd done to herself. But even with the blood gone, Mark still couldn't go in there, not without seeing the streaks of red everywhere, almost hearing the glass from the mirror crunching under his feet. And that damn note on the sink, written on paper from the notebook he had given her (a detail only Mark had noticed, it seemed), just four words—Baby, we've got AIDS. Hell of a way to break it to Roger.
Roger still hadn't come out of his room, just locked himself in there once the body was gone, once there was no denying that April was really gone. Mark wasn't sure whether he'd come out at all since then—maybe in the middle of the night, to get some food, but he couldn't be sure. No one was ever in the living room to notice anymore, that time of night, with Maureen sleeping in Mark's bed every night now, the futon that was once hers now abandoned. The two of them needed the comfort of someone next to them at night, these past few days. As for Roger… Mark didn't even want to guess what he was doing in his room. It could be nothing, but then again… He knew that his drugs had to be in there too, and April's, and… Mark didn't even bother to hope.
Mark sighed and scrubbed harder at the bloody spot on the floor. It wasn't going away. He should have known, he should have done something. He'd known Roger and April were getting blood tests, at Collins' insistence, but he'd never guessed… Should have been there when she got the results. He could have protected her. He should have been able to. He'd promised Collins, and… failed. The hardest phone call he'd ever made was calling Collins the night after… that… and telling him about April. He'd hardly been able to get out a coherent word for half an hour, and Collins ended up comforting him though the news had to have broken him just as much as Mark.
A tear slid down Mark's cheek and landed on the floor beside his hand. He blinked at it for a second and drew a breath, starting to fight back the tears the way he had been for the last several days. He hadn't let himself cry, not when he had to keep Roger and Maureen both stable and sane, when he had to be the strong one for once. Collins had offered to come back to the loft, but Mark refused, told him he couldn't leave his job at MIT. It was true, but it meant that Mark hadn't been able to cry at all for his April Shower. But with the first tear came every other one he had held back, in a rush too sudden to fight off, and in a minute or two Mark found himself sitting on the kitchen floor with his back pressed against one of the cabinets, his knees pulled up to his chest and arms wrapped around his legs, his entire body shaking with the force of his sobs.
"Damn it, April," he whispered through tears. "Damn you. How could you do this to us, to Roger? How could you leave?"
If she were here, she'd have been in tears too, he knew, apologizing, promising to never, never do it again, asking him to forgive her, putting her arms around him and crying with him… But this wasn't the sort of thing in which you got second chances.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter: Thirty-Three - How'd I Let You Slip Away?
Feedback: Will make me love you muchly.
Characters/Pairing: Roger, Mark, Maureen
Word Count: 1645
Rating: R
Disclaimer: I do not own Rent, and I'm extremely unlikely ever to. Shiny?
Chapter Index
Chapter Thirty-Two
Death lies on her, like an untimely frost on the sweetest flower of all the field. - Shakespeare
Maureen tugged impatiently on Mark's arm, half-dragging him towards the stairs up to the loft. "Come on, Mark, you've been filming all day! You can give up a few shots and come upstairs now. I'm bored."
Roger rolled his eyes. "You might as well give up, Maureen. He's probably going to be here filming for another two hours."
With a sigh, Mark shifted his camera to the other hand and turned to face Maureen, lowering his camera a little. "I will not," he said, giving Roger an annoyed look. "I just want to… I'll only be down here for a few minutes. You two go on up, and if I don't follow you in five minutes you can come and drag me up."
"That's the best we're going to get," Roger said as he took hold of Maureen's arm, pulling her towards the stairs with him. "Come on, April's probably home."
Maureen pulled her arm away from Roger, but she did go up to the loft with him, hurrying up the stairs a few steps ahead of him. She reached the door first, pulled it open, and froze completely. "Oh my God…" she whispered, stunned as she took in the absolute chaos of the loft. It looked like a tornado had come through, papers and film and everything else overturned, strewn about…
"What is it?" Roger caught up with her in a second, stared at the loft for an instant, and then roughly shouldered past Maureen, immediately going into the bedroom. "April? April, are you home?" Evidently he couldn't find her in their own bedroom, because in a second he stepped out and went to Mark and Maureen's room. "April!"
Maureen still stood in the doorway, silent and still until she noticed the pattern of blood drops on the floor, evenly spaced, like footsteps. They led out of the bathroom, to the bedrooms, the kitchen, back to the bathroom. Suddenly chilled, she walked across the loft to the bathroom door and tried the knob. Locked, and not a sound from within. She stepped back from the door, cold dread in the pit of her stomach. "Roger! The bathroom door's locked!"
"What?" Roger asked, stepping out of the bedroom. He looked frightened now—between the state of the loft and not being able to find April, real worry, real fear had begun to sink in.
"The… the bathroom door, it's…" Maureen gestured to the door helplessly, realizing for the first time that she could see under the door that the light inside the bathroom was on. Roger tried the door and swore when it wouldn't open.
"Get Mark," he snapped at her, eyeing the door. When she hesitated, Roger turned to glare at her, his voice sharp as he ordered, "Get Mark!" He slammed his shoulder against the door, silently thankful for once that the doors in the loft weren't all that sturdily built, and the bathroom door shuddered under the force.
Maureen ran to the window and out onto the fire escape, leaning over the edge so she could see Mark. "Mark! Mark!" He looked up at her with a start, his confused frown visible even from several stories up. "Get up here now, it's April, she's… Just get up here!" Behind her, she heard Roger finally break open the bathroom door, and turned away from the fire escape, rushing inside to the bathroom.
By the time she got there, Roger was already inside, and Maureen could only stand in the doorway, taking in the scene in bits and pieces. April in the tub in her clothes, the water red—not clear, or even some shade of watered-down pink, but red. Roger by the side of the tub, awkwardly half-cradling April and sobbing, whispering to her so softly that Maureen couldn't really hear any actual words, just her name repeated over and over, April, April, April… The knife in the soap dish, still with blood on it. The shattered mirror in pieces on the floor, sink, toilet, everywhere, some shards with April's blood on them. A piece of paper on the sink, April's handwriting visible on it, that Maureen didn't dare to pick up and read.
Mark burst through the still-open door of the loft, breathing hard. He must have taken the stairs at a dead run. He dropped his camera on the couch as he passed it, for once not taking the slightest care to see that it wasn't damaged. He had heard the panic in Maureen's voice, knew that something had to have happened… As he reached the bathroom door where Maureen stood, he found out, and stood there in absolute shock for a second before Maureen turned to him, buried her face in his shoulder and just started sobbing. Automatically, he put an arm around her shoulders and hugged her to him as he backed out of the room a few steps to pick the phone up off the floor. As he heard the dial tone, he let out a breath of relief that the phone was still working and numbly dialed 911, though he had the sick feeling that calling the hospital wouldn't do any good.
While the phone rang, Mark held Maureen close to him with his free arm and tried to ignore Roger's voice in the other room, rising and becoming more frantic as the truth became harder and harder to deny, "April, April-baby, please wake up, please, angel…"
Mark grimaced as he scrubbed at yet another bloodstain on the kitchen floor, forcing his mind away from the fact that it was April's blood. What was he going to do without her? His sister, his April Shower. Without her, the loft seemed a little emptier, a little darker, as if she'd taken with her some special glow of her own, something he hadn't noticed until she'd gone. Silly, not to have noticed something like that.
The bathroom was clean now, amazingly so. Still hadn't replaced the mirror, and Mark wasn't particularly inclined to any time soon, but the blood was gone. No one ever would have believed what it looked like four days ago, when Roger had found her there in the tub… Everything was white now. Pure white, spotless, immaculate. Too much so. It had never been that clean before. Before they had to get rid of every trace of what she'd done to herself. But even with the blood gone, Mark still couldn't go in there, not without seeing the streaks of red everywhere, almost hearing the glass from the mirror crunching under his feet. And that damn note on the sink, written on paper from the notebook he had given her (a detail only Mark had noticed, it seemed), just four words—Baby, we've got AIDS. Hell of a way to break it to Roger.
Roger still hadn't come out of his room, just locked himself in there once the body was gone, once there was no denying that April was really gone. Mark wasn't sure whether he'd come out at all since then—maybe in the middle of the night, to get some food, but he couldn't be sure. No one was ever in the living room to notice anymore, that time of night, with Maureen sleeping in Mark's bed every night now, the futon that was once hers now abandoned. The two of them needed the comfort of someone next to them at night, these past few days. As for Roger… Mark didn't even want to guess what he was doing in his room. It could be nothing, but then again… He knew that his drugs had to be in there too, and April's, and… Mark didn't even bother to hope.
Mark sighed and scrubbed harder at the bloody spot on the floor. It wasn't going away. He should have known, he should have done something. He'd known Roger and April were getting blood tests, at Collins' insistence, but he'd never guessed… Should have been there when she got the results. He could have protected her. He should have been able to. He'd promised Collins, and… failed. The hardest phone call he'd ever made was calling Collins the night after… that… and telling him about April. He'd hardly been able to get out a coherent word for half an hour, and Collins ended up comforting him though the news had to have broken him just as much as Mark.
A tear slid down Mark's cheek and landed on the floor beside his hand. He blinked at it for a second and drew a breath, starting to fight back the tears the way he had been for the last several days. He hadn't let himself cry, not when he had to keep Roger and Maureen both stable and sane, when he had to be the strong one for once. Collins had offered to come back to the loft, but Mark refused, told him he couldn't leave his job at MIT. It was true, but it meant that Mark hadn't been able to cry at all for his April Shower. But with the first tear came every other one he had held back, in a rush too sudden to fight off, and in a minute or two Mark found himself sitting on the kitchen floor with his back pressed against one of the cabinets, his knees pulled up to his chest and arms wrapped around his legs, his entire body shaking with the force of his sobs.
"Damn it, April," he whispered through tears. "Damn you. How could you do this to us, to Roger? How could you leave?"
If she were here, she'd have been in tears too, he knew, apologizing, promising to never, never do it again, asking him to forgive her, putting her arms around him and crying with him… But this wasn't the sort of thing in which you got second chances.
Chapter Thirty-Four