A/N: Oh, my, I'm actually writing a story. Freaky, eh? I even wrote an outline for it, and everything!
A shoutout to my beta, Stalker (I-Stalk-Espinosa-xo.) She is awesome. Someone should go send her a PM telling her how awesome she is. She is that cool! She makes my story pretty. And, go read and review her stories. Because they rock!
I own my plotline; nothing else. And even that, I'm sure, has been done before... well, I hope not!
It had started out great with Mark, it really had. He was perfect--or, at least, in Maureen's opinion he was. Both were interested in similar things; or so they believed. Maureen loved the stage, and Mark loved filming her. She was happy, he was happy.
But then, one day, it all went wrong.
It was a normal afternoon. The summer sun was shining down on New York City, practically baking its residents with the strength of its rays. Maureen and April were both hanging around the loft while their men were out; hoping to scrounge up some food. The pantry and fridge were empty--devoid of foodstuffs completely--and a certain drama queen was not happy with that.
"I'm hungry," Maureen complained, poking her stomach with a red-painted fingernail. "See how thin I'm getting?"
April laughed harshly, "Mo, it's been about two hours since you ate. What are you, a hummingbird?" Maureen nodded enthusiastically, getting up to check and see if the fridge was still empty. It was.
"The food fairies disappointed me," Maureen sighed, sitting down next to April on the duct-tape covered couch. "They haven't brought me anything yummy." April rolled her eyes, annoyed with the drama queen's antics.
"You're like a five year old at heart," the rocker-chick grumped, running her fingers through her damaged, dyed hair. Before Maureen could think of a comeback, the phone rang. April leapt off the couch and ran for the phone, crashing into the metal end of their kitchen counter. She rubbed the sore spot and spoke quickly into the telephone.
"Hello? Yes, it is April Ericsson. Wha-what?! Sure. N-no. Bye. . ." April trailed off, her pale skin turning a sickly, milky white. She almost seemed to glow in the dim light.
"Calendar?" Maureen asked, using April's least favorite nickname. "You okay?"
"Yeah." April didn't seem to hear her as she walked, zombie-like, to the bathroom. "I'll be fine. . . ."
"Just tell me if you need anything, okay?" There was no response. Maureen shrugged--if April wanted to talk, she would. Maureen had gotten used to her weird moods early on, so the drama queen closed her eyes and went to sleep; stretching out lazily in the sun.
She awoke to the feeling of a rude hand, shaking her shoulder. "Wha'?" She said sleepily.
"Maureen, this is no time to sleep!" Mark's face was drawn; grim-looking.
"Is it April Fools's already?" She asked, confused by his bleak look. Mark's face fell.
"April, well. . . April is. . .dead." He said, looking green.
"She . . . killed herself." Mark stared straight ahead. "I can't get Roger out of the bathroom; I think he's in shock." Under normal circumstances, Maureen would have laughed. Roger, in shock? But there was no laughter in Mark's eyes; only sadness . . . and worry?
"What do you think we should do?" Maureen whispered, sitting up and covering her mouth with her hands.
"Can you get Roger out of the bathroom while I call 911?" Mark stood up and walked to the phone, oblivious to the world around him. Maureen sat shock-still for a minute before slowly walking to the bathroom. How could this have happened?
The priest went on and on about April--her life, her message, and some other bullshit like that. Maureen sat numbly in the front pew, one hand placed platonically on Roger's thigh. The once-confident man was hunched over; head in his hands. Mark sat on Roger's other side, his arm around his best friend's shoulders.
Maureen's head was still spinning. Everything had happened so fast! One minute April was there, the next . . . she wasn't. Mark had accompanied Roger to the hospital, leaving Maureen alone--in the very place where April had killed herself. It was creepy and dark there. The loft seemed to creak and shudder, as though it knew what had happened there. Mark and Roger had bought food, but Maureen didn't have an appetite for anything. She had seen the message scribbled on the mirror in the bathroom--'Roger, we have AIDS. -April'--and heard Roger's accusations that she could have prevented this. . . She had seen the blood on the bathroom floor, and had thrown up in the kitchen sink shortly after. It was horrible, so horrible. Maureen shuddered, shifting around on the hard wooden pew. Did they try to make these benches so uncomfortable? She could remember her grandmother taking her to religious functions; Maureen had always hidden in the bathroom to escape the boredom. But now . . . now there was no escape.
The day after April's funeral, Mark forced Roger to go to the hospital with him to confirm the diagnosis and get a prescription for AZT. Again, Maureen was left alone in the loft. She huddled on the couch, watching shadows move with wide eyes. She called Collins, but he didn't answer his phone.
For weeks, Roger continued to mope around the loft, getting high late at night and sleeping through most of the day. Mark seemed to effortlessly balance filming and watching out for Roger, but he had no time for his drama queen. Maureen felt like a fifth wheel--unneeded. After about a month, Mark found out Roger was still using, which had resulted in an almost week-long fight. The loft was no longer a safe haven; it was a battleground.
And Maureen was not happy, not a bit.