Whenever I tried to sleep I would hear Roger cry out in my dreams. His voice would be yelling at me. Well, his voice of last year. Now he doesn't have a voice. He doesn't have a sound but pain. When you look at Roger you see life gone. Life that was there. Life that once was. His eyes are deep pools of hurt and sorrow, and he can hardly move. He doesn't walk around the house singing crap songs anymore. He sits on his bed and cries or screams or just sits. He's hot one moment and cold the next. And the worst thing is, I don't know how to help him. I can't help him at all, and that scares me shitless. I'm afraid he'll die because of me. Roger will get up in the middle of the night and go wretch up nothing into the toilet. Then he'll come back in and beat me up, tell me I killed April, and yell that he wants his smack back. People see me the next day; they say I'm in danger. They say he'll kill me. The truth is, I wouldn't mind. I want to die a bit every day, and I want Roger to be happy. If he's this mad at me, I want to disappear.

Roger dreams dreams of hurt, of lives gone, of death and of betrayal. He dreams these because that's his life. When I watch him sleep I can see his dreams: in his face, in his position, in his screams. My dreams are those of better times. I dream of waking up to a smiling Roger jumping and singing and laughing. Having love and being happy. Writing again. Being Roger. I miss that. I dream of that. I want my dreams to come true. Roger's dreams are true. Roger can't escape in his dreams. Roger's dreams are of loneliness, and that is his life right now. I can't tell if he sees me, if he feels me soothing him, if he hears me telling him things will be all right. That's a dream too. I don't know if things will be all right. I don't know if Roger will get out of this.

Dreams, dreams, dreams. False hopes, false ideas, false. FALSE! The world is full of lies. You're brought up thinking that the world is beautiful. By 13 you know that kids are doing drugs. At 16 kids are having sex. When you move out you meet these kids, you become friends, and you watch them die.

Roger lived a real life, a true life. He faced these things and overcame them. Then he started drugs, hardcore drugs. His life became that dream state again. He was high all the time, and nothing mattered. When he quit he was brought crashing down, back into real life. Love was lost and hope was gone. Dreams turned horrible. His hopes left him. His imagination turned on him.

I did nothing. I sat and watched this happen. I watched Roger try to kill himself and stopped him as though in a dream. I watched him beat the fuck out of me. I watched his spirit fucking die before my eyes.

People tried to help, but they didn't get it. This wasn't real to them. Roger wasn't in their face all the time, babbling shit about April and suicide and what he wanted and glory, no glory, he wasn't as fucked up to them as he was to me.

They say he'll kill me. He'll kill me and take himself down, too. He'll probably start singing as he does it. That'd be ironic.

Mark stood up and walked towards the shared bedroom. Roger was on the floor a razor in his hands. He grabbed Mark and pulled him down next to him. "I wrote it." He says. "What?" "My song." And he sings it to Mark. During the last note he reaches over and puts Marks hands and his in a line, then slowly draws the blade across their wrists.

I woke up with a start. I looked down at my wrists. I slapped my face. What had woken me up? Then I heard it again. Was that a voice other than my own? I raced ot the bedroom. Roger was curled on his bed, looking horrible, sweat-soaked and there was a pool of vomit next to him, but he was humming. Roger was fucking humming.