This ends abruptly, but there isn't really a way to finish it. It's sweet, serene and needs to be surrendered.

As Collins layed in the bathroom propped up against the tub, at least five or six empty beer bottles next to him and one nearly empty one in his hand, he couldn't stop his drunken tears. They kept flowing with such an extreme passion and force that he just could not stop them. Was the bathroom the only place he could get true serenity? True peace? Was this really his last resort to finding some sort of peace in his crazy, mixed-up and fucked-up life?! Was this dingey little bathroom the only place he could find true solace and quiet?

The walls were eerily white. There was a faded, flowery trim around the ceiling, making it feel sort of homey if you will. The shower doors had some weird kind of mural, flowers or a forest of some sort. The sink was a simple pedestal sink, not much to say about it. April had died in this bathroom. The tub and some parts of the walls and floor were still tinged a light red. The blood reminded him of April's hair, how it was always so vibrant and bright, like Angel's personality. Angel. The sole reason he was crying in the first place. Ten months. 52,560 minutes, give or take a few. From December 24th to October 29th. Ten months of the greatest love and passion Collins had ever felt in his 26 years of life. The most passionate, romantic, lustful, eternal love he'd ever known is his whole time of existance, and past lives, too. He was sure of it. There couldn't be any other way to describe it. The kisses, the hand-holding, the love-making, the witty banter, the shy flirting. He couldn't possibly sum that up into any words whatsoever. None. Nothing. There was nothing to it. Simple English could not describe such a meaningful and powerful love. No language could put that into words. The simple words you're reading right now are devistating understatements of the real, true love Angel Dumott Schunard and Thomas B. Collins had. No, have.

He heard laughter coming from the living room. There had been a party tonight. Angel's birthday. The others had noticed, but refused to react to, Collins leaving to the restroom with a 6-pack of beer. Sure it was weird, but what wasn't weird when it came to Collins' ways of reacting to Angel's death lately?

She was born on June 10th at 4:03pm in St. Jude's hospital in Puebla, Mexico in 1967. Collins mind kept repeating that same phrase over and over, trying to pull a kind of meaning from the words, some sort of escape, but came out unsuccessful.

Collins had stayed out in the front room for a while, trying to ignore everyone as he thought of Angel's birthday the year she had died. Collins gave her everything he could afford. Jewlery, candy, flowers, new clothing. He gave it all, yet such petty items were ill-deserving of this sweet, sweet Godsend.

"Nothing's good enough for you," he'd said with a smile.

"You are," she'd replied as she kissed him.

It all hurt so bad to think of all these things. Time most certainly did not heal all wounds, for this wound seemed to only rip farther and farther open as the days droned on. Sleep, eat, loft, NYU, sleep, eat, NYU, loft, eat, sleep, loft, sleep, NYU. It was all a dizzying and repeating cycle now, and Collins wanted so much to forget the past and do something new. Flee to Santa Fe as Roger had, run away as Mimi did. He wanted to, but he couldn't. Angel was here. He couldn't leave Angel before he died. He was going to die with Angel, on her grave. He wanted to be as close as possible to Angel when he died, and a cold and sterile hospital room simply would not suffice. It wouldn't.

Collins suddenly felt overcome with an undenying anger, tears still plummeting down his face at an eerily rapid speed. He'd never been known to be an angry drunk, nor had he ever been known to be a "drunk," but lately that's what he was becoming. Even two years later, every day had had some significance to Collins' and Angel's relationship. Everyday was something new to the couple and was something that shoud be implanted into Collins mind forever and never leaving.

January 4th: A walk in the park. Nothing different.
January 20th: A trip to the grocery store together. Nothing out of the ordinary.
February 7th: First love-making with whipped cream involved. Nothing odd.
February 18th: Collins came home and found Angel asleep on the couch. Nothing scary.
March 1st: Angel sent a bouquet of flowers sent to NYU. Nothing weird.
March 17th: Angel said "I love you" to Collins for the 1,432nd time. Nothing peculiar.
March 29th: Angel visited Collins at NYU, as he did everyday. Nothing strange.
April 9th: Angel made Collins breakfast. That morning it was huevos rancheros. Nothing unerving.

Every little insignificant day to anyone else had some sort of significant meaning to the couple and everyday could not simply go by without a drink. Something to ease the pain and make the memories a little bit more fun to remember. He didn't want to forget Angel, he just wanted to make things a bit more fun. Luckily, none of the others had taken a notice. They hadn't realized that Collins would drink himself into a stupor nearly every night. They hadn't seen the stacks and stacks of beer cases and boxes and boxes of beer bottles stashed in his apartment.

He suddenly heard a light rapping on the door, and a calm and melodic voice sounded through it. "Collins, it's Mimi. What are you doing in there?"

Realizing that the tears were still full-fledged, he coughed and cleared his throat, not bother to wipe away the tears. "I'm, uh, fine Mimi."

She chuckled slightly. "It's been an hour. I'm coming in." The door handle twisted slighty and Mimi's thin form came in. Her face switched immediately from soft and loving to concerned and terrified when she saw Collins on the ground, surrounded by beer bottles. "Oh my god, Collins! What are you doing?"

"Drinking myself to Angel," he replied simply.