A/N: Hi guys. I just wanted to explain a little bit about the story: all it really is is stories about important points during Roger's withdrawal (such as Maureen leaving the loft, Collins being away, Mark being the one to take care of him, how Roger's doing with his withdrawal, coping April's suicide, etc.) and things earlier on that made Roger think that he was a murderer (such as this chapter). Also, I know that so far there will be at least one chapter in Mark's point of view. Just wanted to explain! This was kind of a hard chapter to write….very emotional and just…..hard.
Disclaimer: Nada.
"Don't forget: Friday is FATHER/SON DAY! The day when you show your fathers how much you love and respect them by treating them to lunch on your own school campus! This is always a day that the board and the administration looks forward to—"
"Wonder why...cha-ching, bada-bing!" Mark whispered sarcastically into his best friend's ear.
Roger snorted lightly in response, much different from his usual obnoxious laugh. He felt funny. He looked down. His hands were shaking.
"—That will be all for announcements. Have a good afternoon, and remember to remind your fathers about tomorrow!"
The bell rang, shattering the eardrums of most of the students. Roger didn't pay much attention to it though and slipped out as quickly as he could. He exited the school building without packing any books: he knew he wasn't going to do homework.
"So," Mark started, coming up behind him and grabbing his shoulder, "What shall we do on this glorious Thursday afternoon?"
"Don't you have tango lessons to get to?" Roger asked with a Cheshire cat grin, knowing that it made his friend feel inferior.
Mark stared at the ground, trying to hide his shame and embarrassment. "Y-yeah, but I was thinking I'd ditch."
"GASP! You'd ditch tango lessons with NANETTE for ME?! Oh Marky, you're so generous! And I'd never expect it from someone like you—"
"You know what, man: never mind," Mark snapped, hurt, "I don't feel like hanging out with you today anyway."
"Ugh, I'm crushed," Roger retorted sarcastically, putting a hand to his heart and closing his dark green eyes.
His best friend huffed and sped up and away from Roger. Roger flicked him off behind his back.
What's his fucking problem? Can he not take any teasing today? Poor baby, probably ran off to go be a Mama's Boy…
He suddenly found it rather chilly and pulled his forest green sweatshirt tighter around himself and yanked the hood over his dirty blonde head. Good. Now he felt better: secure, warm. Plus, he loved wearing the hood: for some reason, he found it as a great source of entertainment, probably because his father always used to pull it down over Roger's head when he wasn't paying attention. He started tugging mercilessly on the green strings that hung by the neck of the sweatshirt, making the hood fit tighter on his head and almost choking himself.
I'm choking! Help me, please! Help me, Good Lord Jesus, help me! Ah…the agony still stands strong…God, I'm coming, hold on!
He couldn't help but chuckle lowly at his….uniqueness, Roger liked to call it. For some reason, he found the idea of death hilarious. He actually contemplated death a lot. What happens after you die? What do people think about as they are dying? Is there pain as their lives slowly ebb away into sheer darkness? Is it sheer darkness, or do you the light at the end of the tunnel? What is death, and why does it happen?
Why does it happen? Why does death happen? That's funny.
"EMO KID!" a voice shouted, and raucous laughter followed.
Roger knew that the insult was being directed towards him. He wasn't stupid. It wasn't the comment that bothered him as much as the laughter.
The laughter: it seemed as if it permanently rang in his ears, giving the impression that those kids followed him everywhere he went, doing nothing but laughing, laughing, laughing.
He felt funny again, so he took the hood off.
"Are you home, sweetheart?" his mother's voice questioned quietly from the kitchen.
"Yeah," Roger replied, carelessly dropping his backpack on the carpeted floor.
"Are you hungry?"
"No."
Suddenly, his mother made an appearance by the entranceway to the kitchen, catching Roger in the hall. "Honey, you never eat anymore."
"I eat more than you," he pointed out coldly, staring at his mother's sickly thin body.
Mrs. Davis tried to hold back tears. "T-this isn't the time to talk about that."
"Then leave me alone," her son told her bluntly, stomping up the stairs.
She crossed her arms, hugging herself. "Do you want to talk about something else?"
"No."
With that, he slammed the door to his room. He was angry with his mother, for sure. But he was livid with himself: it was his fault, after all.
He trudged straight into the adjoining bathroom: probably the only room besides Roger's bedroom that needed to be cleaned spotless. He immediately snatched a razor from the cabinet next to the mirror and stared at it hard. It wasn't like he hadn't done it before.
He twisted it around in his hands cautiously, studying it precipitously. He knew kids cut because they were depressed and it made them feel better, yada yada yada. But mainly, according to specialists on this type of thing, the cutting actually physically felt great because of emotions crossing over to physicality. But no, it hurt Roger's arm: hell, it felt like flames were rising from his forearm. So why didn't he stop? He was frustrated with himself, enraged. He deserved it, right?
"Roger, sweetie, could you come down here please?"
Shit. The blood flowed freely and wildly, taking over his whole arm quickly like a disease.
"Yeah, I'm coming!" Roger called back down to his mother, searching frantically for a long bandage. He decided to just use a whole bunch of Band-Aids instead and pull his sleeve down.
"Yeah?" he asked as he tromped down the stairs.
"Honey," his mother started off with a big breath, "You know what tomorrow is?"
"I'm assuming you got the invitation the school sends out," Roger told her lazily.
"Right," she sighed, "Would you like me to go with you?"
"No," he answered immediately, "No. Do you know how weird that would be, the kid and his mom at Father/Son Day?"
"I know, sweetie, but it's the best I can do," his mother told him honestly, tears in her brown eyes.
"But it's not good enough," Roger quipped coldly.
Mrs. Davis let out a shaky breath, fighting the urge to sob right then and there. "I'm so sorry, Roger. I'm so sorry….no one means for these things to happen. They just do. You didn't deserve this, and neither did I. Roger, it's not your fault. You do know that, don't you?"
The slamming of the door answered her.
"Hey man," Mark greeted enthusiastically, clapping Roger on the back, "Look, sorry about blowing up at you yesterday. I was just frustrated."
Roger nodded.
"Wanna hang with me and my dad?"
Roger shook his head furiously.
Mark frowned. "Come on, Rog. It'll be fun! You can be my biiiiig brother!"
Before his best friend could shake his head again, Mark's father came up behind them, all smiles.
"Hello, Roger," Mr. Cohen greeted smoothly.
Roger didn't fall for it. He knew Mr. Cohen was just being polite for the sake of keeping up appearances.
"How are you?"
"He feels fine, Dad," Mark jumped in quickly, understanding that Roger wasn't going to talk.
"So what do you want to do on glorious Father/Son Day?"
"The dunking booth. I want to dunk you so bad for grounding me last weekend…" Mark trailed off with an evil smile on his face.
"Son, you and I both know that you can't throw worth anything," Mr. Cohen retorted seriously, "But did you hear about the concert they're giving?"
"No, didn't catch that. Damn, they're going all out!" Mark exclaimed.
"Don't swear," Mr. Cohen warned, "Come on, let's go see it, you too Roger."
Roger opened his mouth to speak, but then remembered he had taken a personal vow of silence and quickly shut it.
"Dad, leave Roger alone. He doesn't want to."
"Come on, kid," Mr. Cohen told Roger, hoisting him up, "I know you love music. Let's go."
He would have punched him. But then he'd lose his best friend. And he'd gain another year in school, just as he was finishing up his years, waiting for the high school diploma impatiently.
A crowd had gathered by a small, black stage that was set up on the front lawn of the school. There stood a girl, a sophomore, at the microphone. Her dad was seated in a chair behind her.
Strumming a guitar.
Roger felt himself go weak. He felt dehydrated, he felt faint, he felt nauseous, he felt dizzy, he felt a searing pain in his chest. Images flashed before him in his mind, a mini-cinema with a wide screen and stadium seating. But he was the only one watching.
A muscular, handsome man with glowing dark green eyes strummed an acoustic guitar fiercely, singing a Beatles tune.
The man suddenly had a kid of about four in his arms, identical to himself. The man pulled a forest green hood over the kid's head, and the boy screamed with delight.
Suddenly, the boy was ten, the man facing him. They each had an acoustic guitar in their grasps. The same Beatles tune was played.
Suddenly, the boy was thirteen. But no man faced him; no man carried him in his arms. He was alone, save for the ambulance technicians in his house, pushing a stretcher covered with a long, white sheet. The only thing that hung out was a needle that was stuck in a fleshy arm. The needle glinted malevolently at the boy, staring him down. It grinned at him maliciously. He loved me more than he loved you. This. Was. All. Your. Fault.
"ROGER!"
"HOLY SHIT KID, SNAP OUT OF IT!"
Mark shook him fiercely, but nothing worked. Roger was still on the ground, sobbing and shaking violently. The crowd of people made a large circle around him, staring at him in wonderment.
It was his fault. Somewhere along the line….he screwed up. Thanks to that, heroin became his father's favorite thing. Before playing the guitar. Before pulling the hood over his son's head. Before his wife. Before Roger. No, Roger was now second-best in his father's heart.
Roger screwed up, and he killed his father.