Everyone knew that April killed herself. That she slit her own wrists with a razor blade in the bathroom and left him the note that would change his life forever.

Everyone knew that Roger couldn't handle anything for months after. That this discovery lead to his withdrawal from heroin, from everyone, from life.

Everyone knew that it was Mark who saved Roger. That the filmmaker stayed with the musician through everything, despite everything, in hopes of everything….and nothing.

But no one knew that on that specific night, Mark saved Roger accidentally. That because Mark found April first, Roger is still alive.

No one knew that on that night, Roger saved Mark too.


That particular night Roger came home and for once he wasn't high. Wasn't high, but about five minutes from getting there. That's how far it had gotten. That's the way it was. Roger was either high, in withdrawal, or five minutes away from slamming another needle into his arm.

His head swam a little as he shut the door behind him and stumbled into the bleak loft. It was quiet, dark, and eerie in a very off way even to him who could only really focus on when his next hit would come.

"April? April!" Roger called; he never shot up without her. It was their thing; they bonded over it, obsessed over it. They loved each other with it. "April!"

Not soon enough. His next hit would not come soon enough, because now a stab of worry poked away at his need for heroin. It would have to wait till he could find out what the hell was going on... where the hell April was… why the loft had become so fucking eerie.

Then he heard it.

A whimper. Crying? …from the bathroom.

April must be in another one of her moods. Easy to fix. He'd simply wrap his arms around her, kiss her neck, and lead her to his bedroom where heroin waited to take away her pain, their pain.

Or maybe it was Mark in the bathroom. Mark was careful not to show emotion around Roger anymore. To not show how much he hurt.

The door was half open light shot out in jagged edges. Roger walked forward. Slowly. Dread. When had he last felt such dread? Never. As a kid? It didn't matter.

When will his next hit come?

Roger reached out and opened the door. And there she was. April just as he thought she would be, looking as beautiful as ever. Covered in a blanket of dark, shining blood. Covered…

He'd always thought red looked great on her. He'd always told her that.

April, lying on the floor in an odd position, had green eyes that looked at him now, accusing him. Where were you? You let this happen. You. Roger blinked quickly, but he was unable to take his eyes away from his girlfriend. Her hair fell across her forehead and cheeks, beautifully, matted in blood.

In her pale hand between her long fingers, a stained note, "We've got AIDs."

AIDs…? We? The used, bloodied razor blade sat next to her other hand. Roger went to grab it but…


But then the musician saw him. The filmmaker. Mark. He'd been right on both accounts. Both Mark and April had been in the bathroom. Roger had been right. It didn't seem there were a lot of times he could say that.

Shouldn't he be screaming now?

He felt sick.

When will my next hit come?

He saw Mark on the ground, desperately, illogically giving April CPR. Struggling, tears streaming down his face, desperately whimpering and pushing down on her chest. If he knew Roger was there he probably wouldn't be crying.

"Come on, april, come on. Please please please…don't do this. Please. I can help please please please April." The filmmaker was begging, mumbling, and struggling.

Mark was covered in April's blood. Red never looked good on him, not on Mark.

But on April it looked wonderful.

But Mark was drenched in the red blood as he struggled to breathe air into April's dead lungs. And with a start, Roger realized it. April was dead. April. He loved her. His baby was lying there dead on the ground in her own blood. She'd taken her own life… Roger loved her so much it hurt. Would take his life for her. The razor blade.

Roger took a step towards it, and Mark looked up, finally seeing him. The filmmaker wiped wet tears from his face, succeeding only in smearing blood on his cheeks.

"Roger…Roger. Roger I can't- we… it's okay…okay. It's okay. It's okay." Mark said, but his whole body was shaking. "I'll just. We'll put blood back in her. See? See? She'll be okay. You'll be okay. Nothing bad is going to happen. I'll take care of it. I'll do it. I can do it. I can help you. I can help..please.."

Mark failed to suppress the sob in his throat. The filmmaker tried illogically pushing blood from the floor into April's open wrists. As though it would help… as though he could take it back…for her, for Roger… And Roger watched Mark.

Mark who's girlfriend was probably out fucking another guy right now. Mark who had to deal with two druggies almost entirely by himself. Mark who was too thin because he spent all his money buying food for the entire family, while Roger and April spent theirs on heroin. Mark who worried about everything and everyone and who cared too much. Mark who got hurt every time he tried to stand between Roger and heroin… which was almost every day. Mark who had always been there…

And somewhere, in the back of his mind, Roger realized that if he did not do something. If Roger didn't take control of the situation his girlfriend wouldn't be the only thing he'd lose today. He'd lose his best friend too.

And almost as if on cue, the filmmaker's eyes fell on the razor blade,

"Maybe if I give her some of my blood? Will that work? Will that will that can we do that?" The filmmaker reached a pale shaking hand for the sharp blade, and Roger's stomach lurched in protest pushing him into action.

"No! Fuck! Mark don't!" Roger grabbed Mark's arm and pulled him out of the bathroom roughly.

"But… Roger… But I have to help her. I have to do something I have to I have to. I found her…like this. I found her, she needs help. Everything will be okay if I just… I'll take care of it… don't worry Rodge, I can do this. I can handle…I can handle it."

Roger wasn't listening. He was staring at the blood on Mark's face. Blood… April… AIDs…. April's blood has AIDs in it and it was smothered all over his best friend.

"Shit. Mark… stay here. Stay here! Don't fucking move." Roger walked back to the bathroom, hands shaking terribly. It really could be the end of all of them.

He felt sick. Like he would throw up. Just don't look at her and you'll be okay. Don't look at her and you can make it long enough to clean Mark and get your hit then sleep forever. Roger grabbed a towel and threw it in the sink drenching it with water. He almost slipped on the blood on the way back out.

Mark hadn't moved. He didn't look like he had breathed since Roger left. Roger kneeled to where Mark sat and wiped the blood off of him, made him change his clothes, and continued to clean the blood away. He was almost finished. The blood soaked the towel now instead of soaking Mark.

"Roger…Roger this isn't helping April! This isn't helping April, Roger! Roger!"

"Shut the fuck up Mark! Just shut the fuck up!"

God, why was he the sane one? It was his girlfriend whose blood was on the floor. Why did Mark have to let this push him to the edge? Why? Why hadn't Roger just avoided the bathroom and shot up… alone. In his bedroom. He wouldn't have to deal with this now.

And then he'd find April and Mark dead on the bathroom floor. And then Maureen would come home and have to deal with three lifeless bodies. Maybe it all would've been better that way. No more pain.

April had the right fucking idea.

Mark stood shakily and tried to go back to the bathroom, but Roger held him back.


"Roger...I have to get in there… I have to take care of her"

"Just fucking sit down!"

"I have to help her. I have to help her. Someone has to help her!

"Sit…down!" Roger grabbed the small man's arms tightly, nails sharp against the sleeves of the filmmaker's sweater.

Mark was gasping for breath, fighting back uselessly, kicking, screaming, "Someone has to save April! Someone has to help her! I have to help her!"

"April is dead, Mark! April is fucking dead!"

And together, they slid to the ground. Fell on top of each other.

Together they moved to grip on to each other's arms, backs, struggling for something to hold on to. Some kind of sanity.

Together they reached the same place. Both hovering delicately between sanity and insanity.

They'd be switching soon, but for now they were together…

"Roger…I'm sorry. I'm so sorry… Roger…" Mark's voice came out in an exhausted whisper.

"Shut up…just… stop talking. Just shut up…"

Mark fell asleep on the floor with Roger still gripping his arms. It hurt to breath, but Roger didn't stop. His head pounded, his body shook. He wanted his heroin, but he was too exhausted to move. He wanted his April…

Fuck. April… AIDs?

Heroin. Mark tried to stop him. Tried so hard, struggled for so long, watched Roger fall down this spiral and knew that it would be the end of him… and April too. Mark's compassion for others hardly stopped at Roger. Roger didn't fucking deserve the filmmaker and his compassion. Didn't deserve anything. He'd just killed his own girlfriend.

"I'm sorry…Mark. So fucking sorry." And Roger let himself give into the tears that burned at the edges of his eyes, found himself surrendering to his own quiet sobs against the sleeping Mark. "How the hell…did my life get this fucked?"


Just don't think now. Just don't think. And God, Mark had found her. Fuck. He shouldn't have had to... Roger should have found her…but then Mark would have found them both and… no one would be there to save him then…

Everything happens for a reason.


Roger knew when he woke up tomorrow the shock would finally wear away. He'd give into insanity, to withdrawing from life. He'd shoot up and give into the world Mark had just occupied. And Mark would be there to care for him. But Roger wasn't sure if it would matter. If anything mattered anymore. Tomorrow Roger would give in…

Everything happens for a reason.

But for tonight, he'd fall into a restless sleep clinging to the only person he had left.