Categories > Theatre > Rent
If you asked someone about Roger's lost loves, they would mention two. April, pretty junkie with a sweet smile, creamy skin, and more ways to get him high, get him hard, get him off, than any one girl should know. A pale corpse in a sea of red water, scent of rotting copper and of patchouli, a tear-splattered note by the bathroom mirror. Mimi, another pretty (and eventually ex-) junkie, warm brown eyes, skin like cream and coffee, with more ways to make him smile, make him scream, make him cry, than he'd ever thought possible. An ashen abstraction of jutting bone and wasted flesh in a hospital bed, tears and antiseptic, a bony hand clutching his as the body shuddered through one final breath. Beautiful and tragic, both of them, leaving him shattered and aching in a way that was pure and almost right, his devotion written in every painful word and motion in the days after they left him.
But there was a third. Heroin, those tempting packets of white powder, Lucifer himself in a needle, warmth and sunlight and the sweetness of letting go, the sweetness of absolute damnation. And when it was gone, there was only cold and pain, sweat and shit and vomit, and he would never be warm again, despite sex and drinking and endless cups of coffee, couldn't be warm again until he had his fix, just one more, just one to make everything okay for a little while again. The ache left by that void lingered shamefully in the wake of the others, leaving him broken and pathetic and dirty, the cold creeping into everything.
And rage, rage was hot, the hottest thing he knew, and it still did nothing. Not really. Yet still, better to lash out. Better to take his cream-and-coffee love by the shoulders and scream when he found her in the alley with another packet of powder in her hand, because he still remembered sunlight, and it was better to scream than to remember that he could always go back, let go and be free again, that he was dying anyway.
Heroin murdered April and, he suspects, Mimi. It's murdered him, though his death is taking longer. And he still remembers how it felt. He still feels cold.
And it's still his lost love.
This was written for a challenge on the speed_rent community on LiveJournal. I'd like to extend thanks to Xia, for helping me find the right words, and to Goo, for his constant support. Much love to you both.
But there was a third. Heroin, those tempting packets of white powder, Lucifer himself in a needle, warmth and sunlight and the sweetness of letting go, the sweetness of absolute damnation. And when it was gone, there was only cold and pain, sweat and shit and vomit, and he would never be warm again, despite sex and drinking and endless cups of coffee, couldn't be warm again until he had his fix, just one more, just one to make everything okay for a little while again. The ache left by that void lingered shamefully in the wake of the others, leaving him broken and pathetic and dirty, the cold creeping into everything.
And rage, rage was hot, the hottest thing he knew, and it still did nothing. Not really. Yet still, better to lash out. Better to take his cream-and-coffee love by the shoulders and scream when he found her in the alley with another packet of powder in her hand, because he still remembered sunlight, and it was better to scream than to remember that he could always go back, let go and be free again, that he was dying anyway.
Heroin murdered April and, he suspects, Mimi. It's murdered him, though his death is taking longer. And he still remembers how it felt. He still feels cold.
And it's still his lost love.
This was written for a challenge on the speed_rent community on LiveJournal. I'd like to extend thanks to Xia, for helping me find the right words, and to Goo, for his constant support. Much love to you both.
Sign up to rate and review this story