Choices Not Had
Author:Girl Who Writes
Pairing/Characters: April, implied April/Roger
Word Count: 591
Rating: PG - Adult themes and imagery
Genre: Drama, Dark
Summary: This was her choice – a choice she could make freely. The last choice she could make freely – without drugs or pain or fear or anything.
Disclaimer: Rent belongs to Jonathan Larson, and I make no profit from this purely fanbased venture.
Spoilers: Rent musical.
Warnings: Dark, gruesome.
Notes: It's been awhile since I wrote anything - my muses packed up and left, so I felt very rusty writing anything. Written for lj's rentchallenge.
Special Thanks: starletfallen - the example of April's suicide spawned a plot bunny that was very agreeable after a weekend of chocolate
This is the way the world ends, not with a bang, but a whimper – T.S Eliot
She made the decision when she found the test results crumpled at the bottom of her bag. It's lingered at the back of her mind since the visit to the clinic
She's seen people dying of. Her mother is a nurse in Connecticut. She's seen suffering, seen people struggle for that last breath, that last pain-filled moment. She doesn't want that. She doesn't deserve to fight for her life. She deserves better.
The loft is drafty, especially now she's wearing her favorite dress – bright green, bought the first day she came to New York City. There's a paint stain along the hem.
She hasn't written a suicide note yet. What to say? 'By the way, Roger, I'm HIV+, which means you are too. Or maybe you gave it to me. Anyway, I've seen people die from AIDS, and there is no way in hell I'm going to be one of those repulsive corpses, begging with the universe for just another minute, just one more look around. I want it to be on my terms. Love you, best of luck, April. P.S - Sorry about the bathroom, Mark.'
No, that wouldn't be right.
She gets up from her perch on the old couch, and goes into the bathroom. The mirror is cracked down the middle, and it warps her reflection as she stares into it, peeling off her bracelets, and taking out her earrings, leaving them lined up around the basin. Roger had left his razor in the shower. The blade had spots of rust on them.
April leant her forehead against the mirror, willing herself not to cry. This was her choice – a choice she could make freely. The last choice she could make freely – without drugs or pain or fear or anything.
"I'm not a bad person," she whispers to herself. "Thinking you're the worst person in the world is no different from thinking you're the best. It's giving yourself a place in the universe you haven't earned. I'm making my own decision. That's all. Everyone will understand."
She picks up her lipstick and stares at the mirror. She knows what to say. The only thing there is left to say, really.
The water in the bath is cold and she shivers, her dress clinging to her torso, the razor on the edge of the tub, as she draws her knees to her chest, unconsciously rocking back and forth. She can pretend this is something she has the power to take either road, but really, she feels like there's a brick wall between her and the edge of a cliff, and only an inch of room to move. She feels suffocated because of the disease that runs through her veins. There really isn't a choice. Die now, die later. Die at your own hand now, suffer later. Control your fate, damnit.
The blade slips on her skin before digging in and it stings - she hisses in pain. It's a strange sight – the blade runs across the skin and then the blood begins running out of her arm.
The pain clouds her mind as she stiffly rearranges herself in the bath, staring up at the cracked and water stained ceiling, and the world goes a little bit blurry. She rests her head on her shoulder; she can feel the blood run from her arm and drip on the bathroom tiles.
She counts the drips and she finds herself humming something. Musetta's waltz.