TITLE: I Remember Mark Cohen
AUTHOR: Gema227

EMAIL: Not listing it here, feel free to PM me when ever you like. I don’t bite, really.
CATEGORY: Tragedy/Hurt/Comfort
PAIRING: Nothing strictly mentioned, but assumed canon pairings
SPOILERS: Nothing really
RATING: T for language
CONTENT WARNINGS: Character death
SUMMARY: AU. Everyone knew that Mark Cohen would die, even himself. But no one saw it coming that he would die first. Whether they like it or not, he’s gone and it’s finaly time to tell him what they really thought of him. Angst, character death, a series of character study drabbles
STATUS: 1 of 12 planned chapters
ARCHIVE: Nothing yet
DISCLAIMER: I don’t own RENT...yada yada yada…..It belongs to the wonderful Jonathon Larson…yada yada yada……Please don’t sue my ass, this is just fanfiction….yada yada yada
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Much love, peace and fruit-baskets to Crazy Homeschooler for the last minute snap-beta. Extreme angst. Enter at own risk. Oh, and if you do, might you leave a teensy, tiny review, even thought this story is tragically over done? Thanks.

Let’s set the scene.

It’s an old church, musty and dark. A few lights are on; something tells us that they’re the only ones that work. The altar is dilapidated, the marble cracked and dusty. One lone candle is alight on the altar, its flame flickering bravely in the darkness.

The back door of the church opens, the outside light spilling across the pews and illuminated the particles of dust that hang in the air. For the first time, we notice a shape on the altar. It’s the shape of a box, a closed casket. It’s black, shiny and seemingly out of place in the broken-down atmosphere. Our attention turns back to the door as ten people file in, one right after the other.

It’s certainly a motley crew, all different races and ethnicities. But one thing is alike on each of their faces. The expression of deep and profound sadness. These people have lost someone, that much we can tell.

They walk slowly down the center aisle and fill in the first few pews. One of them, a tall lady with short blonde hair, walks up and opens the casket. Glancing down once at the figure inside, she clamps a hand over her mouth and shuts her eyes tight, trying to block away the image. Holding back tears, she returns to her seat.

Close up on the body in the casket. It’s a man, a young man, twenty-five if he’s a day. His pale blond hair contrasts sharply with the stark whiteness of the coffin padding and his black-rimmed glasses stand out on his insipid complexion. The eyes behind the spectacles are closed and the expression on his face is eerily solemn.

The group shift slowly in their seats, all of them clearly uncomfortable. Out of the silence, a sob pieces the air, high and shrill. Focus swings to a young woman in the front pew, her hand clamped over her bright red lips, trying to contain her horrible, open-mouthed sobs.

“Oh…my…god.” She manages to choke out, resting her head on the shoulder of the tall, African-American women next to her.

Everyone else glances at each other uncomfortably, so much to say, but no one wanting to say it. Whether they were ready or not, the time had too quickly come.

It was time to remember Mark Cohen.