Disclaimer: I don't own Mimi or Roger. And I don't want to own Benny. Jonathon Larson does.

Hello? Is there anybody in there? Just nod if you can hear me…Is there anyone at home? Come on, now, I hear your feeling down. Well I can ease your pain, get you on your feet again. Relax. I'll need some information first. Just the basic facts. Can you show me where it hurts?
-"Comfortably Numb," Pink Floyd

Mimi's life before Roger could be described as a wonderland gone wrong.

A confused swirl of images, over loads of every color from the rainbow, deafening roars through her ears, and overpowering and most often then not nauseating tastes and smells.

Her image is broken in the shattered, grimy mirror that she had to wipe clean with some tissues from the bathroom shortly after her arrival. Raven curls flowing to her waist, skin growing paler by the day, tired eyes, and so skinny her ribs were showing.

Trembling she applies red as blood lipstick and thick layers of mascara to her soft features. The window in the dancer's dressing room is broken with fly paper bravely covering, but icy December wind still seeping wind. Her skimpy leather costume isn't helping matters and she can feel a cold coming on.

Great. Just what she needs.

Gingerly she pulls a syringe out from the dresser drawer, dabs her right arm, and injects heroin into the vein. The voice of Angel, her best friend in the world, rings trough her clouding mind, scolding her stupidity.

Whatever. Death would be knocking on her door soon. Why not speed the visit up?

Sweat rolls off her brow under the strobe lights as she drags her body across the stage, flirtatiously winking at the men closest to the edge. The club is small, suffocatingly warm, and reeks of cigarette smoke and cheap beer.

Faces swam across her vision, glowing men screaming for more, thrusting money at her, and a few proud women, whispering nasty comments about her to each other. Muffled words, damp hands trailing down her body, and she laughs a grin curling upwards on her lips.

Not that she's happy. Strippers are a fantasy come to life so looking anything other than happy is a big taboo.

She's home now though she's not entirely sure when she got there. Angel had been there, handing her an eviction notice that had apparently been posted everywhere, and talking to her before going to the corner to play drums.

Shouts are heard from outside. The residents of Avenues A and B are pissed off at Benny and his power plays. Bursts of flame swirled around outside, drifting lazily to the ground. Eviction notices set on fire…seems like a good idea.

With her small plastic cigarette lighter she walks onto the fire escape, lighting the scrap of paper and she let it drop…fuck you Benny….fuck you.

Tires screech down the street, a Range Rover came to a sudden halt in the middle of it. Benny climbs out, glaring, and is engulfed by the angry masses, voices yelling out in the middle of the night.

She wants to yell too but her throat is hoarse, she grabs onto the railing, feeling light-headed. Someone's looking at her…someone standing over her.

She gazes up and drowns in the most amazing green eyes she's ever seen.

He smiles.

She smiles back, a real one this time.

And suddenly everything feels better.

Author's Notes: That's it. Please read and review.