I could hear the distinctive sound of Roger's fender as I hiked up the stairs to the loft, my bike hoisted over one shoulder and messenger bag slung over one shoulder, precious camera hidden inside. The sound made me smile. Seeing Roger smile and write music and be in love made me smile. I was glad to finally see him happy. It was just the drugs that bothered me…but I let it slide to the back burner most of the time.

For winter in New York City, it was pleasant outside. The air was crisp and generally warmer than it should have been. Not that I complained—it meant we didn't have to bother paying for wood, and that was a comforting reprieve.

I sucked in a breath as I finally reached my floor, grateful to have finally reached the end of my hike. I set the bike on the ground and rolled it toward the huge sliding door.

Something stuck to the door caught my eye.

I pulled up to the door, the sound of Roger and his guitar coming through the door strong and sure. There was a yellow post-it stuck to the door and I slowly peeled it off, feeling my breath leave my body.

We have AIDS.

"The fuck…" I whispered. I turned the piece of bright paper over in my fingers, searching for a signature or something. There was nothing. The scrawl on the front of the note was jagged and smeared, and I could detect traces of dried droplets of water—tears, most likely. I could imagine whoever had written it must have been shaking and crying, too afraid to say it aloud.

And yet, I knew exactly who it was from. April.

I slid open the door. Roger was splayed on the ragged couch, his back to me. When I opened the door, he looked over and grinned, apparently missing the grim look on my face. The glance he gave me made my stomach turn—somehow I thought that whatever was written on that note had to be a joke, it had to be. Roger couldn't have AIDS. Not Roger. Not my best friend. Not April!

"Mark!" he said jovially, then turned away, back to his guitar. He was blasting out the chords of his newest song. If I had not just pulled the horrifying note off of our door, I probably would have remarked how good it sounded.

"Roger." I said quietly. He continued to play. I ventured into the loft, leaning my bike against the wall. "Roger, stop playing."

I had no idea what the message on the post-it really meant in the long run, but my heart was pounding.

"Roger! Listen to me!" I shouted finally.

The chords on the guitar died out into a very painful silence. Roger leaned his arm on the couch and turned to me, eyebrows raised.

"What?"

My hand was trembling as I held my hand out, holding the paper pinched between my thumb and middle finger. He squinted at it, then put his guitar on the couch beside him and rolled up onto his knees, leaning over the back of the couch to get a better look.

"It was on the door." I whispered, feeling as though no greater sound would come out of my throat.

Roger took the note from me and looked at it for a long time, I don't know how long. It felt like forever as he pored over the three words. We have AIDS. Fuck.

"Shit," he said finally, and he vaulted himself off of the couch and was running for the door.

"Roger, wait!" I shouted after him, but he was gone. I took off after him.

He was a flight below me as I flew down the staircase. April lived about a block away in loft housing like we did—illegally, like we did. As I ran, I could hear one word floating through my feverish brain: Fuck. Over, and over. Fuck, fuck, fuck. This couldn't be happening.

I pushed through the heavy exterior door right after Roger did. He was already way ahead of me, but I pumped after him. It didn't occur to me that I had never taken off my bag—now it flopped hopelessly at my side, almost painfully as the camera inside collided with my hip over and over. I grabbed it with one hand to keep it from smashing into me and bolted onward.

"Roger!" I shouted after him as he disappeared inside April's building. I got there only seconds after he did, but it felt like I was a lifetime behind him. Luckily, April was only on the second floor. I didn't have much farther to go.

I could hear Roger screaming her name well before I hit the landing of the second floor. Ahead of me, I could see that he had pushed open her door. I ran inside and found him looking around hopelessly.

There was no April.

"Where the fuck is she?" Roger panted. I wasn't sure if it was an unconscious thought that he happened to speak aloud; he probably wasn't aware that I was there with him. He moved farther back into the loft, shouting her name. I dropped my bag on the kitchen counter, my heart pounding from both fear and the run, and proceeded to help Roger look.

I heard him murmur, "Oh shit," from around the corner. I jogged over. Roger was looking at the bathroom door. April's bedroom, right next to it, was wide open and dark. The bathroom door, however, was closed. Tentatively, as if expecting the worst, Roger approached the door and called her name again through it. He tried the handle—locked. There was no response from inside.

"I'll find something…for the door…" I said, turning and frantically searching for something, anything that would help pry open the door.

"No, no time!" Roger said. I started as his frantic cry was followed by a vicious slam. I turned and saw him throw his shoulder into the door. It bowed but did not open.

I did not know what to do. Dumbly, I stood there, having forgotten the search for a makeshift crowbar. What was Roger going to see when he finally crashed in the door? I dared not even imagine.

Again, Roger's shoulder connected violently with the door, accompanied with a groan of pain. I winced, growing tenser and blatantly terrified. I was shaking.

Finally, Roger slammed himself into the door and the lock gave way. He tumbled into the bathroom, catching himself on the broken doorknob.

The first sound I heard after that was the strangest sound I had ever heard come out of Roger's—or anyone's, for that matter—mouth. It was strangled, desperate, horrified, disbelieving. A wail unlike anything I had ever heard. It wasn't human. And it didn't stop. If there were words spoken in that unending howl of grief, I didn't understand any of them.

Against my better judgment, I moved closer to the door. Roger had fallen to his knees. She was on the floor of the small bathroom, quite dead. I had seen dead bodies before—homeless people died constantly in the night in Thompson Square Park—but never one from a suicide. The sight of April's limp, pale body, blood oozed around her wrists in dark, coagulated puddles, was enough to make me gag.

I wasn't sure what did it—the sight of her dead body or the sound of Roger's wailing—but my stomach heaved and I backed away from the door. I turned away and breathed in deeply, hoping it would help, but I found myself bolting for the kitchen anyway. I retched and leaned over the sink. After I was finished vomiting my knees felt as though they would collapse. I had enough sense to thrust on the tap water before sliding onto the floor and leaning against the counter.

I leaned my face on my knees, feeling a cold sweat come over me.

The worst was the sound of Roger's weeping. I wanted to block it out but I could not make it stop.

The implications of everything that had just happened in about five minutes were barely starting to creep over me. My best friend had AIDS. His girlfriend had killed herself after finding out that she obviously, too, had it. The idea of what was to happen next wasn't even a thought in my mind; it seemed to fucking abstract to begin with.

I brought my head up and leaned it against the counter. I could feel tears creeping down my cheeks out of the corners of my eyes but I made no effort to stop them. What was the use?

I wasn't sure how long I sat there but I eventually became aware of the fact that Roger's cries had slowly become quiet. I reached up to the edge of the counter and pulled myself up onto shaky legs. I felt like shit. The tap water was still running, but had mercifully rinsed away my mess. I turned it off and slowly shuffled to the corner.

Looking around it, my eyes fell on Roger, who was sitting on the floor blankly, partially leaning against the broken door. He had blood on his hands and I could see his handprints on the shitty tile in the bathroom where he had obviously crawled to her. The sight of the blood made my stomach turn again but I forced myself to hold it. I could not, could not lose it again, not in front of Roger. I already looked terrible—more pale than usual, a cold sweat standing out on my forehead and tears streaking down my cheeks.

But he looked worse. The light in his eyes was extinguished, completely. He looked as though he could have died right there alongside April. I don't think he even registered that I was standing there. He looked like he was about to fall over, and I didn't blame him.

Feeling about ready to collapse again, I put my hand on the corner of the wall and slid down to a seated position near him. Luckily, I could not see April from where I was.

As I moved into a seated position on the floor, Roger flicked his gaze at me. His lips parted as if he started to say something, but nothing came out. Tears spilled over his cheeks and he inhaled sharply. I didn't know what to do, what to say. There seemed nothing, nothing in the entire world that would come to me at that moment in time.

"I don't get it." Roger said to me. His voice was strained and hoarse, and came out as nothing more than a dead whisper.

"I don't know, Roger." I murmured. "I don't know."

Then the thought occurred to me: we had to get her out of there. I rolled my head absently around, looking for a phone.

Roger read my mind. "It's by the door."

Again I heaved myself to my feet, feeling so weak it was unbelievable. I felt as though I were dreaming; everything was surreal. Somehow I found the phone; somehow I found three numbers: 911.

I leaned against the wall as the phone rang and finally the dispatcher picked up.

"911, what is your emergency?"

For a moment I lost myself. I couldn't think of what to say.

"Hello? Do you have an emergency to report?"

"Yes." I said finally. "I'm calling to report a suicide."