Title: Eyeing of My Scars
Author:Kait Sudol
Disclaimer: Mark, Roger, Collins, etc belong to Jonathan Larson. No profit equals no lawsuit, right? I don't have much anyway, you wouldn't want any of the junk lying about my room. Plus, I think it's alive, and that could be another drawback. There's an allusion to one of my favorite poems in this fic. If you pick it up, I'll love you forever. (The title comes from the same poem. I (heart) Sylvia Plath.)
Summary: Mark discusses Roger, life, and if love is really enough.
Notes: This could stand alone or roughly take place in the middle of the ten years that pass from the time Roger leaves to the beginning of Letting You Go Free. It doesn't really matter. Anyways, it came in a flash. I wrote it. I don't know if I'm happy with the ending but, eh.

Eyeing of My Scars


"We fought a lot." I pick up the paperweight on the table in front of me and toss it back and forth between my hands. It's smooth and cold...I want to be that way. Small and round and cool and detached a definitely not a part of this.

"You loved him," she says in this cool aloof voice that she always uses when I'm avoiding the truth or being an ass; most often both at the same time, of course. What better way to ignore the truth than to present it in a sarcastic, self-deprecating light? I infuriate her when I do this, and honestly, I infuriate myself as well.

"I did. But he obviously didn't love me as much as he swore he did." I fiddle with the paperweight more, fidgeting in my seat. I hate it when we talk about this. It makes me uncomfortable as hell. I hate bringing him up. I fly through sessions about everything else, but considering everything went downhill after he left, there's not really much else to talk about.

She shifts position, sitting cross-legged on the other side of the couch, with the legal pad on her lap. It's a sort of standoff, I suppose. It means that she's sick of this game, and she's getting information from me if it kills us both. "You don't know that. You've said it yourself – he was sick, he was afraid..."

"I fucking loved him and he left me. That's not a wonderful way to show someone you love them." I roll the paperweight over in my hands watching the stones and glitter sift around in the direction I turn it. I won't look at her again. She sighs.

"It's possibly the best way. He obviously didn't want to hurt you. I'm not saying that it's justified, but in his mind it might have been the only way to ‘save you'." I see her use those little air-quotes and it almost makes me laugh. Almost. I continue swirling the paperweight around, glancing down at my watch. Dammit. I'll never get out of here at this rate. Why can't this session be over already?! Christ, she knows I hate this...

"He's an idiot. I used to tell him that. He would say things like, ‘Why do I always hurt you? Maybe I should just leave you alone so you'll stop hurting...' and I would tell him that he was a moron. That I needed him here, and that's all that kept me happy, having him there with me. Curling up next to someone at night. Not just anyone, him. But we fought a lot. And obviously he couldn't handle that."

"I wouldn't call it fighting."

"I would!" I don't mean to snap at her. I always apologize the next session, apologize for yelling at her. She says I apologize too much, that I do it compulsively and it's not my fault. I'm allowed to get mad once in awhile with no repercussions. But I keep doing it anyway. He used to say the same thing, laugh at me and tweak my nose and tell me that I apologized far too much. That I was being silly, it was his fault anyway, I shouldn't be so quick to please. And when he said it...I almost believed it. He knew my story and he knew why I did it, and he was so patient and kind. He would cover my mouth when I started to say it, cover it with those long, graceful fingers or, even better, his own lips. And I would forget about it and get lost in him. And he would pull me close and whisper into my hair, tell me that I needn't apologize, that he wasn't going to hurt me or belittle me, that he didn't think it was my fault.

"Why would you think that?" she says, ignoring my tone. "I think that it just shows how much you loved each other."

I snort, shaking the paperweight a little angrily. She thinks she knows everything about us. She's almostright. She's the only one who knows the almostwhole story. But she's wrong about this. "They showed we cared. That's what Collins used to say when I would get so angry and cry and call and say that I wanted to hate him and hurt him, but I couldn't. God, that's what Collins would say, ‘you love him, you care about him, he cares about you, that's why you fight!'" I stop, suddenly. "Do you know what it feels like to actually want to hate someone... and then realize that the world could end and you'd still love them? That they could kill you... rape you, beat you, fuck you over and leave you cold on the street...and even then...you would love them..." I bite my lip, holding back tears. I won't cry. I won't cry. I won't cry. I hate crying. I never cry unless I'm talking about him.

"I don't..." she says softly. "But, can you tell me about it?" Dammit, she's getting to me...she's getting to me and I know it... I don't want to do this, I don't want to tell her this, so why is my mouth moving, why am I

"--loved him so much! God, he was my world, and I was his, and we were happy that way. Film and music didn't matter to us anymore! We were happy, we were so happy, god..." I can't stop myself from talking at this point. "Our friends all thought it was perfect, after they got over the shock they wouldn't fucking shut up about how we were made for each other. And we would get into these stupid fights about sickness and death and being together and...we would argue and scream about how bad we were for each other, how much we loved each other, how stupid we were...and then some crawling back to one another, sobbing and holding and kissing and promising. Lots of promising. He would hold me there and tell me, tell me straight out that he wouldn't leave me until he had to. Until he had to. Until he died. But he broke that promise. He fucking left me because...because...GOD! I don't even know why because he didn't have the decency to tell me! And now I'm stuck here with a fucking ‘famous' documentary and droves of interested parties and no friends and in therapy – no offense – for all this shit that he put me through and I want to hate him more than anything! I want to tear out his heart and stomp on it like he did mine! But no! NO! I love him!! I still love him I still. fucking. love. HIM!!"

It breaks.

I don't mean for it to break. I slam it back on the tabletop and the smooth plastic shell cracks and the water and glitter starts to filter out. I stare at it for a long time, and she does too. Then she places her legal pad on the table and gets up, reaching for some tissues.

I stare.

"I love him..." I whisper again. "I want him...why doesn't he want me?" It sounds childish and small, but I don't care. I'm watching the water and sparkles leave the round prison, I'm reaching over and dragging my fingers through the glittering water. I'm a million miles away from where I should be. "I was his. I gave myself to him, all of me. The shell was gone. I was me. Being me made him leave."

"No it didn't," she says softly, squeezing my shoulder. "Being you made him love you more."

"He left me. The only person who ever saw me and he left me. I wanted him to love me. I would have done anything to make him love me."

"He did love you. He did a lot for you. You shouldn't worry about that."

"I had wanted him forever. And I got his attention, he gave it to me and loved me and kissed me and held my hand when he walked and held me and rocked me when I was sad and wrote me love songs and kissed my tears and listened to my dreams and named the stars and took me places...gave me things...he did it all for me. He was supposed to love me."

"What makes you think that he doesn't love you now? Just because he left you?"

"No. Because he's dead." I spit it out without even realizing it. Her eyebrows shoot up and my hands fly to my mouth. "Nonononono..." I murmur over and over again. "He's not dead, he's not, he's coming back..." oh god oh god oh god...

"Mark, you don't know that..." She's trying to be comforting, but I can't hear a word she's saying, it's a blur... god... no... he's not he can't be he's not...

"I still wait for him, but I know it. He's dead. The film... it came out... he loved me... he would have tried to call...he ignored it. The articles in the papers... ignored them too...he loved me..." I lay my head on my knees. I want him to run in and sweep me off my feet again. I want him to be there to hold me. I want him to just be alive... "I wait by the phone at night for them to call. To tell me that I have to claim his body. I have dreams.... dreams that I get a call saying they've found him and I rush to where he is and he's dead. Because...if he were alive he'd be hurting just as much... and he would find me...." I trail off dully and turn my arms over. I can see the stiff outline of the bandages under my sweater.

"You don't need to follow him..." she murmurs gently, rubbing my back, sitting next to me, paperweight forgotten. "You don't even know he's really dead. Collins might not be there next--" I can't take this anymore. I can't.

"Thanks!" I shout. "Thanks for reminding me that my best friend is dying. Thanks for rubbing it in; one dead, one almost dead, and me, the survivor, sitting here with two scars on each arm and bruising from a stomach pump. I bet you think I'm a selfish bastard. I bet you think that I'm a jerk, trying to off myself when all my friends are wilting and dying all around me. I bet you wish that I'd just do it and get it over with already so you can move on to more important cases. I bet you sit here cursing me, the next fucking Lady Lazarus, for getting rescued each time, cursing Maureen and Collins and Benny for finding me, and cursing him for...for...for leaving in the first place!" I curl up and sob. I don't mean it, I don't, I just need to get it out, she hates me, I know she does, she has to....

"It's alright... get it all out..."

"I just wanted to be with him!" I sob wildly. "I just wanted to be able to be his again! To give myself to him and hold him and love him! God...I just wanted to be with him again!"

She hugs me briefly. After a moment I straighten up and take the tissues she offers.

"Do you feel better?"

"I do." And I really do.

"Can I sign you off to go back home?"

"I...I think so." She hugs me again.

"It's good to get it out. Tomorrow morning. I'll call Collins, have him come sign you out."

"Thanks." I start to stand up, taking my coat and heading for the door, knowing an orderly from the hospital is waiting outside, knowing that at least one reporter is snooping around downstairs.

"Oh, and Mark?" I turn back to her, running a hand through my hair and across my tear-stained cheeks.

"Yeah?"

"If I were you...I wouldn't give up on him yet."

-end-

Comments to kait@frowl.org