Losses

by Trisana McGraw

Author's Note: Written for the livejournal community speedrent challenge #142: given voice lyrics. Fic is slightly AU due to my interpretation of the following lyrics, from BARE:

"You can't begin to know

The pain you've caused

How do I make sense of what I've gained

And what I lost?"

April's pale body sprawled awkwardly in the bathtub, her white arm dangling over the lip. The pallid skin was marred with the scars of track marks, but now they resembled the veins of a leaf in something of a complement to the bright red that started at her wrist and blossomed outward. Frantic cries of disbelief, the grief of a wounded animal.

Mimi Marquez, a shadow of her former radiance as the disease tore her apart from the inside out. Her trembling, ashy hands, fumbling without her dancer's confidence an endless supply of pills. First AZT but now something new – "To help me sleep," she rasped when asked, and her once clear voice now resembled her body, as ragged as if razor wire had been dragged over it. They found her slumped over the couch, not breathing, her skin untouched; her death had worked its damage from inside.

Two very different women, each imbued with her own brand of energy and life, shared something in common: each could trace her misery back to the man who had first granted her a piece of heaven, at so terrible a price.

April had tried to bleed her problems out, but her life escaped with them. Mimi had tried to smother them, but the weight was too much for her dim candle.

He resolved to do exactly what had to be done: to take action.

"What the fuck?" The Man gasped, clawing at his smashed nose and choking on his own metallic blood. Stars flooded his eyesight even as he tried to see where his attacker had escaped to. He flung his free arm at the air but encountered nothing.

"What's going on here?" A policeman surveyed the scene with cynical, bored eyes.

"I got punched, you asshole!" The Man snapped, shaking his head to clear the ringing in his ears, succeeding only in intensifying his headache. He pointed down the cold street. "It was that guy, the quiet one – Rock Star's friend, the one with the fucking scarf!"

The policeman's eyes showed no sign of understanding. "Sir, every person here is wearing a scarf."

"I – I – but it was Rock Star's friend, you know, the guy with the hair and the . . ."

The policeman sighed and rubbed his forehead. Idiot was probably high as a kite and had tripped himself over the sidewalk. As The Man continued to rant to the crowd that had gathered, the policeman turned and began to walk away. The city really should fix those cracks in the pavement, he thought to himself, and get these fucking dealers out of the parks.

Mark adjusted his glasses as he walked at a moderate pace out of the park, but he waited until he was safely out of sight before rubbing his throbbing hands together. He sucked at the blood that had gathered on his knuckles and couldn't help but smile.

He picked up speed, and by the time he had reached the loft, he was taking the stairs two by two.

He shoved through the door – it was never locked – calling, "Roger!" Without waiting for a reply as he took off his coat and scarf, he continued, "What a rush! I – well, you know I'm not violent, not at all, but this strange rage was coursing through me – it had been for a while, and, and I knew exactly what I had to do –"

A feeble note staggered through the air, cutting him off. Mark turned, and his euphoric grin melted off his face like a snowball in Santa Fe at the sight of Roger Davis not so much sitting, because he was so thin that he barely made an indentation on anything, but balanced on the edge of the tattered couch. Mark's eyes focused on Roger's hands, the gray skin stretched tightly over brittle bones that moved only to aimlessly pluck at rusted guitar strings; each note, that even he could tell was off, made him wince.

Mark swallowed and told him the entire (admittedly, short) story in detail, but not a moment of recognition flickered in Roger's muddy green eyes. Mark's elation was wiped away in an instant; he bitterly wondered if this were what it felt like to experience a smack high and the inevitable, debilitating spiral.

Two very different women, each imbued with her own brand of energy and life, shared something in common: each had taken with her a piece of Roger and left behind a splintered man.

How do I make sense of what I've gained

And what I've lost?