Disclaimer: I don't own these characters, nor do I claim to. Rar.

A/N: Yeah. This is a fun little morbid fic-thing. Enjoy. I'm evil, I know. Reviews make me happy!

It wasn't my fault. He had it coming. He should've learned by now to leave me alone. It wasn't my fault. The ambulance begs to differ; the sirens scream, "It's your fault, Roger!" as it speeds away. But it isn't. It's his fault. He was always trying to be Mother Mark, never leaving me a lone. It's my life; I can do what I want with it. So I fucked up, why couldn't he just accept that?

The ambulance is out of earshot now, but its haunting screams still echo in my mind as my blood alcohol level falls.

It's your fault, Roger.

No! It's not!

It's your fault, Roger.


It's your fault, Roger.

It can't be.

But it is.

I glance around the cluttered loft. Our loft, a place once filled with our laughter, with two best friends, and two polar opposites. Now all it's filled with is blood, shattered glass, and my guilt. How had it happened? How did I end up alone?

Angel died two years ago, not unexpectedly. We all thought that Collins coped fairly well with the death of his lover until that one fateful day in January that Mark walked in on Collins to find that he had drowned himself in the bathtub. Maureen and Joanne left for California soon after that, as Maureen was never one to deal well with grief. It was only Mimi, Mark and I left. It became a game. Who would be the last one standing? Not Mimi. She died a year ago after catching a cold. I knew I was going to lose her but I couldn't believe that she was gone. I retreated back to my world of vices with alcohol as my staple. Never once did I think I'd be the one left to tell the story. But I am. Mark is…dead.

And I killed him.

The haunting screams of the ambulance are still lodged in my brain and have nearly overcome the denial. Was it my fault? My blood alcohol level falls lower still. Maybe it was.

He had asked me what I wanted from the store. I wanted booze, obviously, as I was on my last bottle. I used the fact that I intimidated him to get what I needed. But he returned from the store with the coarse paper bags filled with food and devoid of alcohol. I was drunk. I was desperate. And I was infuriated. I demanded to know why he hadn't brought me what I needed to survive.

In situations such as this, most people can plead temporary insanity and say, "I never meant to hurt him!" That, however, is not the case with me. The only thing on my mind when he told me that I needed to stop drinking and get help was to hurt him. I wanted to inflict as much pain as possible.

Mark was never one to defend himself. I had beaten him with everything I could manage- empty beer bottles, my hands, even a chair at one point. It was almost euphoric to feel the glass shattering beneath my grip as my blood mingled with his. I knew my blood was poison to him. His cries of anguish seemed hilarious at the time. And when I'd inflicted as much pain as I could, I stood over his bloody, mangled corpse and laughed like the maniac I was. I laughed because I got my revenge. I laughed because I knew he wouldn't disobey me ever again. I laughed until I couldn't remember why I was laughing. And then I saw his body. The realization of what I'd done hit me, and it hit hard.

My guitar is still laying haphazardly on the floor where I'd dropped it in my frenzy to get to Mark. It's surprisingly still intact. I retrieve it from the floor and strum idly.

It had taken me a while to call the ambulance. I was still drunk and very shaken. And I had no story. I did call eventually and managed, shakily, to convince the EMT's that Mark had been mugged. I never saw them load his corpse into the truck, or drive away. But I heard it.
I realize that my fingers are echoing the eerie theme of the sirens on the guitar strings. I'm struck with sudden inspiration. Grabbing Mark's camera from the corner of the table where it lies, I set it hastily up on the tripod in the corner of the room. I let my fingers play the ambulance melody and from my mouth pours my heart and soul. Everything I've lived, everyone who died, the trials, and the pain. Everything I've ever wanted to say poured from my lips, forming the best song I've ever written. This is my one song.
Finally, my chapped lips close, and my calloused fingers cease their playing. I extract the film from the camera and place it carefully on the table, labeling it One Song Glory. Picking up a shard of glass, I slash it thrice across each wrist. I told my story, I sold my soul. It lies here on this table, and I will lie next to it.