I wanted to post this yesterday, but it wasn't finished yet. It still hasn't been beta-ed because my regular beta couldn't read it again. I'm having trouble coping. That's my entire explanation for this fic. It's been a few days and it still hasn't fully hit me. I want to be able to pick up the pieces and move on, but the pieces haven't fallen out of place yet. I'm scared that the longer I wait for this to happen, the smaller they'll be when they do shatter. If that makes any sense.
I haven't lost anyone in this tragedy yet. My Dad and Uncle are both fire fighters. My uncle actually works for FDNY, and the truck from his station was completely buried. He wasn't on shift, but... god. It's scary. They've been helping out with the rescue efforts. But this isn't about that. This is about my inability to connect to this. This was my solution, to try and get my reaction on paper as many ways as possible.
Dedication: Do I even have to say it? Everyone who's lost someone, everyone who's been lost, and everyone who's having trouble coping. This is for the rescue workers, the volunteers, the bushiness and hotels and restaurants making donations. This is for the Red Cross and the people helping out with Disaster Relief. This is for anyone who's donated blood, canned goods, paper plates, money, time, effort, love, and support. This is for America. This is for hope. This is for reassurance that we can overcome this.
Title: Answers
Author: Kait Sudol
Disclaimer: I don't own the boys or anything associated with RENT. Jonathan created them, the Larson family holds the rights, and I do not fit into either of those categories. I certainly have no claim to the events that took place on 9-11-01. I don't think anyone could have penned something that tragic.
Summary: Mark tries to cope.
Rating: PG-13 for real life terror
Answers
"It's been a week." My eyes are closed and I'm curled up in the very corner of the couch. It makes me feel tiny and overlooked. I like that feeling. It's a safe haven for me after all of these years. But she continues to stare at me, that careful, considerate gaze and all hopes of being forgotten are shattered.
"Time means nothing right now," she says, a sort of kind warmth permeating her voice. "A week, a month. It depends on the person." Her yellow legal pad is resting on her knees, which are pulled up to her chest. She sits patiently on the opposite end of the couch, stretched out and taking up at least twice as much space as me. She once mentioned that a person's posture speaks volumes of their personality. Looking between us right now, I can't help but agree that observation is probably true. "Some of the rescue workers have barely thought about it. They won't react until the recovery-"
"Search and rescue," I interrupt firmly. She sighs.
"Mark..." I don't respond, still giving her that stubborn glare, even though I know as well as she does that they won't be finding anyone else in that wreckage. She sighs. "Until the search and rescue is complete and they go back home to their families."
"That's different." There I go, being much too stubborn for my own good. I glance down at my watch. Roger will be here to pick me up soon. Roger helps me to forget about all of this. Roger distracts me and buys me ice cream and draws on my shoulder when he's trying to write songs and holds me and kisses me until my head swims. "Roger's been writing songs about it," I blurt it out without even realizing it. It doesn't catch her by surprise. Little does, it seems. "Yeah, um, he said the other night that it was the biggest surge of inspiration he's gotten since that night we kissed. A lot of songs about the country...I never thought I'd live to see the day of RabidPatrioticRoger, but that's his way of dealing with it. He's sworn this immense allegiance to the US all of a sudden. He wears this red white and blue bandana all the time, he put a flag on our fire escape...." I sigh softly, smiling just slightly. I can't help it. Just thinking of him calms my nerves. "He had a gig last night. At the end, right before their last song, they played 'God Bless America.' I didn't even know he knew all the words but...god, I cried. He cried. Everyone cried."
"Everyone is dealing with it in their own way. That's Roger's solution, and it's working for him." I stare at her for a long time and then close my eyes again. I want to listen to her. I want to take her advice. I want this gnawing in the pit of my stomach to go away. This is driving me crazy. I'm crying over stupid things...dropping a glass, missing a good movie on TV, screwing up a perfect shot... but not the things I should be crying over. Roger has been giving me extra space. It amazes even me, I have to admit. She's staring at me and I know that I have to say something.
"Roger's been...he's been trying to help me out too," I stutter.
"He loves you very much, Mark. He hurts when you hurt. We've been through that." She says it gently, a calm reminder in place of the harsh frustration that could be dripping from those words.
"It's... odd. I'll start to get upset, start to get frustrated and shout at him. But...he won't shout back like he normally does, he'll be quiet and calm and perfect and say things carefully and hold me until I relax and...take care of me, I guess. But he wants to know what's wrong. And I don't know what's wrong. I only know that my brother-in-law was supposed to be there but wasn't and Joanne was supposed to be there but wasn't and everyone I know escaped from harm and I should be mourning the lives lost, the firefighters and police officers and businessmen... but I'm not. I am... but I'm not really reacting. And I don't know why." More silence. I close my eyes again. "Do you think..." I start softly. "That they realized it was their last?"
"What was their last?" she asks, slightly confused.
"Everything," I reply, gesturing vaguely. "That they realize it was their last breakfast, the last time they'd eat oatmeal? The last cup of coffee they'd order, the last time they'd pick out a tie. The last time they'd come up with exact change for their train fare, the last time they'd kiss their kids and pet their dogs and tie their shoes. The last time they'd flirt with the receptionist and the last time they'd complain about their boss? Do you think they knew that they would never tell their husbands and wives they loved them ever again?" I finally open my eyes again. I glance over towards the opposite wall, but look away quickly when my eyes land on the mirror. I don't want to see the scrawny, translucent ghost I've become.
"They didn't, Mark," she says softly, forcing me to look at her again, my eyes and face finally showing the absolute helplessness that I feel. "They didn't know that tragedy would take place. They didn't know anything." More silence. She sighs and finally says what's been on her mind since I walked in. "Mark, part of this has to do with your own psychosis. You bottle things up. You hide your emotions from people. And it's finally backfiring. It's finally coming back to haunt you, Mark, because you can't suddenly take back years of behavior and start acting in another way. You will feel this, Mark. You do feel it. You just don't want to deal with it right now." I am silent. She is silent. My head is swimming in all of this. She's right. It's there. I just have to find it.
We are both startled by the knock at the door. I glance at my watch. It's Roger here to pick me up. She smiles sadly and squeezes my shoulder as she walks towards the door. And I start to think.
It's very hard, as she had said, to get past years and years of seared in behavior. I close my eyes and force my mind past the barriers I've put up, past the security. I try and try, but it won't happen. I finally open my eyes with a sigh and look past Roger and Dr. Santania as they talk quietly about me. I look out into the main room where Lynn, the secretary, is watching the news as she types something up. My eyes linger on the screen as rescue workers sift through the rubble. The picture changes to the initial explosion. I feel my eyes start to water. Vaguely, as I start to break down, I realize that I have broken through that wall.
"This isn't supposed to be happening!" I sob. Because it's not. Oh god, no, it's not supposed to happen here... Roger looks panic-stricken, but the doctor holds a finger to her lips as she urges him over towards me. "This is America! God, this doesn't happen in America! This happens in faraway places that we hear about on the news, on foreign soil with people who will probably never even visit this country! This doesn't happen to Americans! America is too good for this!" I feel Roger scoop me onto his lap and press kisses to my temple as I sob even louder. "This didn't happen! This couldn't have happened! Our country is free and right and we don't even deserve to live here! What have we done for the USA? What have we sacrificed for the United States? Nothing! We've done nothing, Roger, we haven't helped at all! God, we don't even pay rent or taxes! In any other country we would be dead or enslaved or... something! But no, in this country we're allowed to carry on with our lives! No one bothers us!" I bury my face in his shoulder for a minute, unable to squeeze anything else out. I wish that I hadn't done it, hadn't broken through the shield. This feeling is killing me, but at least it is a feeling.
"They were civilians!" I am finally able to choke out. "Normal people! People like my brother in law, people like Joanne! People with families and lives and legacies! People who never ever suspected! And the rescue workers! God, they were trying to help! They were trying to save lives! They were trying to help those people who were dying and dead, to be valiant! They were heroes and they...they just died! All of them at once, along side their coworkers and friends, just crushed and...god, why?! Why wouldn't someone do this to us? Why would someone want to hurt all of those innocent people, people who never hurt them, people who would have given their lives to help those bastards if their house had been on fire or a burglar in their backyard! It doesn't make any sense! This isn't supposed to happen in my country! My city! This is our city, and they made it theirs! They destroyed it and mangled our hopes and dreams and made it their own sick twisted version of America! Why does this have to happen? Why?!" I can't breathe... oh god, I can't breathe...
"Calm down, baby, calm down, breathe... breathe, Mark..." Whispers into my ear, my eyelids, my temples and forehead...everywhere...but no answers. All I want is answers. I just want an explanation, a reasoning, a motive.
But there are no answers. There will never be answers. And that is what hurts most of all. Not that they died...but that they died without reason, without meaning. I can't help but wonder if that was the plan all along.
.end.
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