Author's Note: I come bearing a new chapter, and a new penname. I figured that after five years of the same, it was time for a bit of a change. Here's hoping you all still recognize me. I know there are a lot of memories associated with my old name, but I think it's time that some of those get left behind. I feel like my writing has changed drastically over the past year, so maybe it's time that my identity does too.
All of that said, I should also share the fact that I am no longer planning on making this fic as epically long as I originally was. It will still have a decent plot, and I highly doubt any of you will miss any of it. The reasoning behind this is that I have realized I need to make it a manageable length in order to keep up the quality. That and I decided to cut as much unnecessary filler as possible. I'm trying to do that in a lot of things recently.
This chapter is un-betaed. I blame any egregious errors entirely on a very bad headcold.
Chapter 7: Eyes Open
The air was positively acrid with the smell of smoke. There had been a time when nights like this felt festive, but now all she knew was the pain in her lungs brought on by the intense humidity and pollution. Mimi lay on her back in the scraggly summer grass, her arms spread on either side of her snow-angel-like, and stared up at the sky.
"Ready? Damn, this sucker's gonna be big!" Rusty took the mostly-extinguished cigarette stub from between his lips and blew out a weak mouthful of smoke. He coughed a bit and grinned, revealing a mouthful of rapidly yellowing teeth.
Mimi averted her gaze, feeling a mix of nausea and longing at the sight of him. He'd barely said a word to her since their last fight, but he had yet to kick her out of the gang. She knew she was on the edge, in danger of being on her own again, and so she kept her mouth shut. Sometimes when she looked at him now, she seemed to see the deadness lurking just behind his dark eyes. He'd become so thin his face looked like a skull in the moonlight very late at night. The sight of it haunted her in her dreams, those nights when she did manage to sleep.
"Biggest fuckin' firework ever!" yelled Jack, the new kid, as the can they'd filled with gunpowder went skyward with a bang.
"Happy goddamn independence day," muttered Perox, her slim face appearing directly over Mimi's, making her jump a little. "Where the hell are those aliens?"
"Mark!" The pounding wakes Mark from his first sleep in three days, sending him catapulting off the couch and onto the floor with a painful thud. "Open the fucking door!"
He finds his glasses on the table with one hand, and puts them on, raking the other through his short blond hair until it sticks up all over his head in spikes. He realizes he is sore as he gets to his feet, muscles cramped from sleeping on the couch and in chairs at the hospital. When he makes it to the door at last, it takes a conscious effort to slide it open. He has always known it is heavy, but it seems particularly so today.
"Mark!" Maureen's fist is raised mid-knock when the door reveals her, and for a moment Mark feels a crazed laugh forming in the pit of his stomach. He swallows it down, figuring showing Maureen just how upset he is probably isn't a very good idea.
"What?" snaps Mark, too loudly.
"Oh, I think you know, Marky. Or at least I've heard as much." Maureen's face is set in a look of hard determination that makes Mark's stomach tighten even more than it already is. She very seldom gets this look. Only when she's very, very upset. And prepared to do something about it that, for once, involves honest emotion instead of theatrics.
"Maureen, be straight with me. I can't deal with this right now." Mark watches as she stalks over to the couch and climbs up on it, her heels making little dents in the worn green fabric. Maybe she isn't above theatrics today after all.
"That is what this is about, isn't it, Marky? People being straight with one another. You had to know I'd find out eventually." She leans her hands on Mark's shoulders as he comes to stand in front of the couch. He pulls away roughly.
"What, Maureen?"
"Benny, Mark. Benny is going to take the lot again. He's going to evict all of the homeless and go ahead again just like he did before. And you are going to let him do it." She sounds like she might be ready to cry. Mark has to force himself to breathe.
"Yes, Maureen. I know. Did he tell you the rest of the bargain?" Maureen shakes her head, and Mark plows ahead. "The minute we stick our noses in, he buys this building again too. Puts us out. I can't do that Maureen, not now."
"So you're willing to let the homeless be evicted instead? When you have options?" Her gray eyes flash coldly.
"Yes, Maureen!" Mark shouts, snapping at last. "Yes, I am. Because I don't know what else to do right now. Roger's gone, Maureen. I haven't heard from him in four days. Collins said he saw him using near the hospital last week. I just hope to god that Mimi doesn't find out, because…" He breaks off, realizing just how crazy he sounds. "I think you should go now."
Maureen steps down off the couch, waving her arms like a tight-rope walker. She gets all the way to the door before she turns back.
"I'm sorry, Mark. I guess I've mistaken you for someone who cares."
"I hate that movie," groaned Mimi, rolling over onto her side and grimacing as a sharp pain ripped through her stomach.
"Yeah? How come?" Perox sat on the grass beside Mimi, suddenly in one of her friendly moods. Mimi regarded her suspiciously; she always had to wonder why when Perox decided to drop the enemy act.
"I dunno. Who'd want the world to get destroyed like that?" Mimi watched as another tin can shot up in the air, almost above their heads. She cringed a little at the sight of it, not wanting to give her fear away. That was always unhealthy, she'd learned, particularly when you lived on the street.
"Think it'd do the fucking world good," said Perox, uncharacteristically articulate. Mimi looked closer at her, and realized suddenly just how pale and thin she'd gotten. "Get me outta this shit hole, anyway."
"What happened?" asked Mimi at last, deciding to take a chance on honesty.
"Ran outta money yesterday," said Perox distantly. She had one hand subconsciously splayed over her bare stomach, and Mimi suddenly realized how all the pieces fell together. "Not gonna be getting' anymore of that soon, either. Call me outta commission."
"What'll you do?"
Perox laughed bitterly. "Not your problem, bitch."
"Roger!"
He finds the hardness of the curb for the third time in as many days, a cigarette cradled between two fingers, burning down redly.
"Roger, this has got to stop, man!"
When he looks up, he sees a memory walking toward him. Collins, book in one hand, jaw set in hard determination. It takes him back two years, to a time just after April. To a bad trip and a friend back to visit at just the right time.
"What do you want?" Roger's voice is hard, and his eyes burn as he looks up at the other man, fighting against the hope that Collins is here to save him again. He tells himself he would rather crash and burn this time than be saved again. This time there is nothing to be saved for. Nothing but more pain.
"Roger, give this up and go home. Mark's worried." Collins sits beside him on the curb.
"Mark's not my fucking mother." Roger takes a drag from his cigarette and fumbles in a pocket for the packet of smack he knows is there. He doesn't want it, really, but it feels better to make the others angry than sad.
Collins chuckles sadly. "I'd sure as hell hope not. Come on, man, this isn't you." Collins puts a hand on Roger's shoulder. He shrugs it off, hard. "Look. I know it's hard. Shit, I know better than anyone. But trust me. This isn't going to fix anything. Go see her, Roger. You don't wanna end up hating yourself."
"Already fucking do," says Roger. "Piss off, man."
Collins grabs Roger's arm, attempts to pull him to his feet. Something snaps inside Roger, and in a flash Collins is on the ground, bleeding from a nasty-looking gash on his temple. Roger just stands there, staring for a moment. He has no idea where the sudden burst of energy has come from; he's spent the past few days in a fit of numbness, barely able to bring himself to eat or breathe. Now he's just done the unthinkable, and he has no idea how.
"What the hell's going on here?" A man in a business suit is staring, eyes wide as saucers, cell phone in hand, ready to dial up the police as soon as he manages to snap out of his shocked trance.
Roger takes one more look at Collins lying on the pavement, then turns and runs, bile burning in the back of his throat.
Suddenly the grass felt like a thousand needles, prickling into Mimi's back. She groaned and rolled onto her side as yet another burned-out tin can came to rest a few feet away from her. It was comfortable for a moment, but then a sharp pain in her stomach sent her rolling over yet again, cursing under her breath.
When it had been clear that there was no baby, she'd breathed a sigh of relief. But the symptoms hadn't stopped. At first she'd assumed that the stomach pains were from hunger, from bad water, from nerves. But the more she thought about it, she realized that they hadn't always been there. It had only been in the past year, since her father had really gone over the edge with his drinking.
Since he'd started coming to her at night.
She swallowed hard at the thought, and tried ended up on her back again, trying to focus her gaze on the night sky. It was far too smoky to see either stars or moon, but she had the distinct feeling that it was a clear night, way, way up there.
Another can went up in the air with a bang, trailing sparks through her field of vision. For just a moment, Mimi let herself pretend it was a shooting star.
Wishing wasn't something she'd done much of lately.
"Mark?"
Mark stares at the answering machine from his seat on the couch. He makes no move to pick up the phone.
"Mark, it's Collins. Come on, man, pick up."
Mark switches off the camera in his hands and continues to stare at the little black box that's talking to him. The sight of it has put a thrill of fear in his stomach every time the light has flashed since Christmas. Somehow he's come to view it as the bearer of all the bad news in their lives. He lets it be the first one to hear because he can no longer bear that burden.
"Look, we need to talk. I think Roger's lost it."
Slowly, Mark gets to his feet and walks toward the machine. He knows this is a message which requires urgent attention. If Collins has found Roger, they need to get him back to the loft as quickly as possible. He's seen Roger in breakdown mode before, and now it's getting dark out.
For a moment, Mark's fingers hover over the receiver as Collins continues to talk. He no longer hears the words, only the quiet desperation behind them and the beating of his own heart. He feels as though he might burst if he is forced to face one more emotion today.
Almost of its own accord, Mark's index finger reaches out and stabs the 'off' button on the answering machine.
Mimi wakes from the fever dream to the sound of shuffling feet. The sound of guilt, she might have called it once, but she no longer has the energy to look at the world the way she's always prided herself on doing. For a moment she is disoriented, the smell of gun powder and alcohol seeming to linger in her nostrils. She shakes it off and sits up, telling herself that the nightmares are just the product of too many painkillers.
Then the visitor opens his mouth, and she feels as though she's still asleep. Still in the dream.
"Get the hell out of my room." For a moment she can't believe she's really said the words, they've come so suddenly. Somehow, in three days, rationality has turned to sadness, which has in turn given way to rage. There is no question in her mind anymore. This is nothing short of abandonment and betrayal.
"Thought you'd be happy to see me." Roger smiles nastily, and she realizes instantly that he's high.
"You have ten seconds before I push that call button, you bastard." Worse than his absence is the gall of his standing before her like this, in direct violation of everything they've ever promised each other.
"I'll go. I just wanted to tell you I moved out." His voice is flat now, and the circles beneath his eyes are so deep he looks like a zombie from a bad tv movie.
"Damn you, Roger. You walk out on me like this and I never want to see you again." She thinks that it is already true, but the emotional war going on inside her head makes her feel in danger of splitting down the middle.
"I can't do this, Mimi. I just can't." He shrugs. "We both know it's for the best."
"Look me in the eye and say that again." It is taking all the strength she has left just to hold onto some shred of rationality.
Roger takes one step closer, leaning over the side of the bed. His eyes are huge in the low light, and for a moment she wonders whether she should be afraid.
"I love you," whispers Roger.
Mimi's hand connects with the side of his face before she's even realized she's moved it. Roger reels backward, clutching one hand to his cheek and looking as though she's the one who's been entirely disloyal here. She feels tears forming in the back of her throat, curses herself for them. She's always had a talent for finding the relationships that will hurt her the most.
"Roger, I'm going to close my eyes. I'm going to close my eyes and scream. When I'm out of breath, you'd better be gone."
"You can't—you wouldn't—"
The tears feel like acid behind her closed eyelids, and the sound tears from her throat like a thousand knives being dragged over her skin. Her lungs feel like they just might explode, but she thinks that if they do maybe it will finally ease the pressure there. Stars bloom on the back of her eyelids and still she holds on, forcing out every last ounce of voice and energy. For a second she is sure she is going to die like this. Then she feels the pillows behind her head, and air flooding back into her lungs. She waits a moment longer, then pushes gritty eyes open.
Alone.
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