FicWad

Everyone thinks that he was the first one to find April.

Everyone would be wrong.

He didn't find her, his beautiful, brilliant April. He was there all along.

He remembers.

"I can't do it, baby. I can't. I can't die like that. I don't wanna get sick." She looked at him with pleading eyes, clutched the front of his jacket, and what could he do?

"There's the AZT. And they'll come out with something better soon enough. You'll live through this. You will." His hands went to her hair, stroking it gently.

"I don't want AZT! Don't you know what that shit does? It's poison! Either the virus is going to kill me or the treatment will!" She shoved him away, furious.

Brilliant April, who had once wanted to be a doctor before she dropped out and started shooting smack and writing poetry. Who knew more than any of them about what the disease could do, and what her chances were.

"So then what?" he shouted, "What the hell do we do?"

And she told him.

They argued about it for three weeks. No one else knew.

He couldn't live without her. She couldn't live. It was simple.

"We've got AIDS." Simple. Explained everything anyone else needed to know.

Her, in the bathtub. Him, kneeling next to her with his sleeves rolled up. Simple.

And she knew just how to do it, knew where and how to cut. Her first. Then him.

So. Fucking. Simple.

Until she picked up the razor and her hands started shaking.

"I can't do it, baby. I can't." The same words. "I'm gonna mess it up."

He took her hand in his. "You don't have to do this. It'll be okay..."

"I do!" She started to cry, the razor still in her other hand. "You don't understand, but I do..." She swallowed and looked up at him. "Help me."

"What?"

"Look, it's easy. I'll still show you how. Just hold my hands steady, help me push down, okay? Please?" She looked at him, scared and desperate and /hurting/, and he couldn't say no to her. He never could, when all she had to do was look at him...

He held her hand steady.

"That's it baby. Right there. Push just a little... Now, just follow the vein up..."

It was simple. He did the other wrist himself.

And then he just held her, listened to the soft pained noises she made. He didn't dare to ask how much it hurt, but she told him anyway.

"It's not that bad. Hurts, yeah, but I don't care anymore."

"It won't hurt at all in a little bit," he promised her. Watched her die. Listened to her last words.

"Thanks, baby."

Whispered into her hair, "I'll see you soon."

And he picked up the razor. Held it to his wrist. It was simple. He'd done it for her. But his hands were shaking, just like hers had. Some survival instinct he didn't know he had. He couldn't press down, though he'd promised her. He'd promised her.

They found him there, hours later, holding her and crying, the note in her handwriting. They made their assumptions.

Everyone thinks he gave up the smack because of what it did to her, what it did to both of them.

Everyone would be wrong.

He killed her. He killed his beautiful, brilliant, perfect April. And he couldn't even kill himself like he promised. He wonders if she's still waiting.

There's only one thing in the world that ever made him feel like she made him feel. And he doesn't deserve it. Because when he's on smack, he can forget, he can feel happy again.

He's a coward and a murderer. He doesn't deserve happiness.

It's simple.