Withdrawal, 1/1
1.
Above all else, Roger is angry. Angry at April for doing this to him. Angry at Mark for denying him what he craves most. Angry at all the people in his life who told him smack would be his downfall, and are now correct.
He’s angry at himself for needing heroin this much. For being unable to control the simultaneous sweating and chills that wrack his body, the nausea and dizziness that prevent him from consuming anything resembling food.
He’s heard Mark mumbling to Collins: he’s getting thin, and he has yet to start taking his AZT. Collins has no answers. No one does.
And that makes him angry.
2.
It’s hot outside, but he’s freezing; his blanket now holds more water than the Hudson, and refuses to dry in the suffocating humidity. But Mark is there, cooling his forehead with a damp washcloth as Roger stares into the murky depths of the porcelain bowel.
Mark is always there.
3.
Anger consumes him again as his body refuses to cease trembling. The lack of control Roger has over his own body is frightening, and maddening. He needs control, needs some sense of stability in this rollercoaster life of his.
He finds it in the form of a knife, the same one April used. He finds that fact ironically poetic as he draws lines across his forearms, blood quickly rising through the jagged lines on his skin.
And suddenly, the knife finds itself flung halfway across the room in irritation - he can’t even create straight lines - and when Mark finds it nearly an hour later, the evidence of Roger’s dilemma is quickly hidden.
Mark discovers it anyway.
4.
Will I lose my dignity?
Will someone care?
Will I wake tomorrow from this nightmare?
5.
It’s the dance they do - Roger treats him like shit while Mark tries desperately to pretend like he’s not dying. Neither wishes to keep up this illicit tango, but both fear the outcome when it ends. So they keep dancing, swayed by the music of car horns and emergency sirens and life in New York City. Mark tells him to take his AZT while Roger sits on the couch and picks Musetta’s Waltz on his old Fender.
Sometimes, Mark tries to get him to leave the loft.
Sometimes. But they both know what he’ll say.
Besides, it’s getting colder now, and Mark’s worried he might catch a cold.
Secretly, Roger’s worried too.
Worried that his shitty immune system won’t be able to handle a runny nose, and he’ll drop dead before Hanukkah. Worried that he won’t find his one song before he dies and will end up just another nameless, AIDS-ridden, ex-junkie starving artist in New York’s Alphabet City.
He’s worried about what’ll happen to Mark when he’s gone. And Collins. And Maureen. And, fuck, even Benny. He’s worried about how they’ll make rent, and how they’ll pay for food, heat and electricity.
And he’s worried that despite all his talk about surviving, what with Collins at NYU and Maureen whoring around and Benny selling out, Mark won’t survive the loneliness.
That’s the thought that really scares Roger.
Because Roger knows he’s going to die, but he can’t bear the thought of Mark passing.
Above all else, Roger is angry. Angry at April for doing this to him. Angry at Mark for denying him what he craves most. Angry at all the people in his life who told him smack would be his downfall, and are now correct.
He’s angry at himself for needing heroin this much. For being unable to control the simultaneous sweating and chills that wrack his body, the nausea and dizziness that prevent him from consuming anything resembling food.
He’s heard Mark mumbling to Collins: he’s getting thin, and he has yet to start taking his AZT. Collins has no answers. No one does.
And that makes him angry.
2.
It’s hot outside, but he’s freezing; his blanket now holds more water than the Hudson, and refuses to dry in the suffocating humidity. But Mark is there, cooling his forehead with a damp washcloth as Roger stares into the murky depths of the porcelain bowel.
Mark is always there.
3.
Anger consumes him again as his body refuses to cease trembling. The lack of control Roger has over his own body is frightening, and maddening. He needs control, needs some sense of stability in this rollercoaster life of his.
He finds it in the form of a knife, the same one April used. He finds that fact ironically poetic as he draws lines across his forearms, blood quickly rising through the jagged lines on his skin.
And suddenly, the knife finds itself flung halfway across the room in irritation - he can’t even create straight lines - and when Mark finds it nearly an hour later, the evidence of Roger’s dilemma is quickly hidden.
Mark discovers it anyway.
4.
Will I lose my dignity?
Will someone care?
Will I wake tomorrow from this nightmare?
5.
It’s the dance they do - Roger treats him like shit while Mark tries desperately to pretend like he’s not dying. Neither wishes to keep up this illicit tango, but both fear the outcome when it ends. So they keep dancing, swayed by the music of car horns and emergency sirens and life in New York City. Mark tells him to take his AZT while Roger sits on the couch and picks Musetta’s Waltz on his old Fender.
Sometimes, Mark tries to get him to leave the loft.
Sometimes. But they both know what he’ll say.
Besides, it’s getting colder now, and Mark’s worried he might catch a cold.
Secretly, Roger’s worried too.
Worried that his shitty immune system won’t be able to handle a runny nose, and he’ll drop dead before Hanukkah. Worried that he won’t find his one song before he dies and will end up just another nameless, AIDS-ridden, ex-junkie starving artist in New York’s Alphabet City.
He’s worried about what’ll happen to Mark when he’s gone. And Collins. And Maureen. And, fuck, even Benny. He’s worried about how they’ll make rent, and how they’ll pay for food, heat and electricity.
And he’s worried that despite all his talk about surviving, what with Collins at NYU and Maureen whoring around and Benny selling out, Mark won’t survive the loneliness.
That’s the thought that really scares Roger.
Because Roger knows he’s going to die, but he can’t bear the thought of Mark passing.