Who: Roger Davis What: Realizing he has a problem that he needs to deal with. Alone. When: Late night on the 20th Where: Apartment he shares with Mark Status: Complete Rating: R, drug use and hallucinations of suicide
Deep down, Roger knew he was fucking up. And badly. He knew that he should stop. But he couldn't. The heroin ran through his veins, made it all he could think about when he wasn't high. Made him need it. It was a sickness. Roger hated things controlling him, yet the heroin did just that and he didn't care. Or maybe he did but the haze of drugs made him forget about caring. And so it was that Roger was once again in his room after getting more smack, shooting up. After all, Freddie and Mark couldn't keep him contained forever. He always found a way out. It had been so much easier when he was with April and not being hounded by Mark. But that was the pesky thing about being a known addict. Mark knew the signs and so he couldn't get away with it this time. At least, not as easily.
For the first part of the ride, Roger stayed in his room, relishing the rush of endorphins that hit his brain. Really, why had he stopped? The feeling was amazing. And after all the drama and angst of his life these past few years, it was ridiculous. He could have been feeling great all this time but thought he had to be strong and shit. Thought he was cursed to be miserable for the rest of his life all because of his disease. Oh sure, it was killing him but did that mean he couldn't enjoy himself? Maybe it was messing with his AZT.. had he even bothered to take his AZT since he got back on? Roger couldn't remember. But the part of his brain that would yell at him about that was silenced, drowned in drugs.
Eventually, though, Roger's room became boring. That and he wanted to get something to drink, he was thirsty. Listening to make sure that he was alone, Roger left his room and started towards the kitchen, but for whatever reason, he noticed that the bathroom door was ajar. A part of his mind was telling him to ignore it. Nothing good could come from a door that was ajar. But no matter. Curiosity was winning out and so Roger pushed the door open. And stared in shock. Blood. Dripping from an arm hanging over the bathtub. Hair wet and sticking to a pale face. The message in lipstick on the mirror. 'We have AIDS'.
"A....April....."
It was impossible. How could she be here?! April was dead. He'd held her dead body in his arms! Sure, the Seal could bring people but even in his fucked up state, he doubted that the Seal would bring his dead girlfriend there, in her death. That was just too fucked up even for this place.
Hyperventilating, Roger stumbled out of the bathroom into the wall. Suddenly his high was spiraling out of control, plummeting him down into the depths of despair. Hesitantly, he went to the bathroom and she was still there. Crawling to the tub, Roger pulled out April's limp form, rocking her back and forth. True, Roger wasn't really holding April, but in Roger's current state, he thought she was. As he rocked back and forth, the drugged out musician kept repeating he was sorry, that he hadn't saved her.
He couldn't do this. He knew he was in too deep. He shouldn't be reliving this. He had to stop. But he couldn't put Mark through it again. Which meant he had to do it alone. He had to. He fucked up. He had to fix it.