Categories > Theatre > Rent > Cutting Room Floor
Author's Notes: I don't own emotion-nor do I own RENT. Everything you'll read here is technically property of Jonathan Larson, may he rest in peace.
Next, this isn't your typical work of fan-fiction. Cutting Room Floor is meant to be read as a series of vignettes from the time before RENT, through that fateful year, and after it. As I update, the scenes will come in chronological order. Bear in mind, then, that what was Chapter Five last time you read it may now be Chapter Seven.
On the whole, the chapters shouldn't contain material above PG-13. I'll note in the chapter title if it goes above that.
Thanks in advance for reading!
The place was disgusting. There simply was no other way to describe it. Dingy walls and dust-carpeted floors were all it had to offer, but at least this one had a roof.
Hopefully, it didn't leak...
Mark set down the last of his boxes and collapsed onto the moth-eaten couch. Welcome home, he thought, looking back at the tracks he'd left in the filth.
"Where's that mop?" he asked himself, standing and pushing some of the boxes aside.
It didn't take him long to find the mop. The problem would be getting anything accomplished alone.
Still, putting it off would get even less done, so.
Pushing his glasses up, Mark collected the bucket and made his way to the kitchen sink. He turned the water on and waited for it to warm up.
It didn't.
Thinking that, perhaps, he'd just turned the knob the wrong way, he twiddled it back to the left a bit and kept waiting.
Nothing happened.
No hot water, then, he made a note. I can deal with that.
He put the bucket under the faucet and turned his back on it to find the cleaning solution. With hardly three steps in between him and the sink, he heard a great gurgling, sputtering sound from behind him.
What the hell-?
The water had stopped. Completely.
Mark groaned and returned to the sink. Twiddling with the knob some more produced no water, so he just turned it off and hefted out the half-filled pail. The landlord would be hearing about this!
He set the bucket down, wet the mop and passed it over the floor. A thin grey film remained, stuck defiantly between Mark and what appeared to be a decent hardwood floor. Another pass didn't remove the layer, nor did the next three.
What next..?
Abandoning the mop, Mark knelt and dipped his scrub brush in the pail of water. He then yelped and yanked his hand back out-it was like liquid nitrogen!
It took several seconds of flexing his fingers to regain feeling in his hand. Maybe he should just wait for the water to reach room temperature? Shouldn't take long in the summer heat and, in the meantime, the windows needed cleaning-he could do that much.
Mark sprayed the nearest window with the glass cleaner and let it sit for a moment as he dug a rag out of the pile of junk. Then he wiped the solution away and tried to look down at the street. He was rewarded with a dim, streaked picture, but it was a start. After spraying and wiping the window again, the world-well, his little corner of it-brightened.
Finally. Something was going right.
The rest of the windows came clean just as easily, leaving just the skylight. That, he'd decided, looking up at the window two stories above him, would be best dealt with on the roof.
Mark would be the first person to admit that he was anything but brave. The way he tested the stairs to the roof before climbing them was testimony to that fact. Nor was he stupid, he reminded himself when a step halfway up gave way under his foot.
Wonderful. One more thing to be fixed.
Next, this isn't your typical work of fan-fiction. Cutting Room Floor is meant to be read as a series of vignettes from the time before RENT, through that fateful year, and after it. As I update, the scenes will come in chronological order. Bear in mind, then, that what was Chapter Five last time you read it may now be Chapter Seven.
On the whole, the chapters shouldn't contain material above PG-13. I'll note in the chapter title if it goes above that.
Thanks in advance for reading!
The place was disgusting. There simply was no other way to describe it. Dingy walls and dust-carpeted floors were all it had to offer, but at least this one had a roof.
Hopefully, it didn't leak...
Mark set down the last of his boxes and collapsed onto the moth-eaten couch. Welcome home, he thought, looking back at the tracks he'd left in the filth.
"Where's that mop?" he asked himself, standing and pushing some of the boxes aside.
It didn't take him long to find the mop. The problem would be getting anything accomplished alone.
Still, putting it off would get even less done, so.
Pushing his glasses up, Mark collected the bucket and made his way to the kitchen sink. He turned the water on and waited for it to warm up.
It didn't.
Thinking that, perhaps, he'd just turned the knob the wrong way, he twiddled it back to the left a bit and kept waiting.
Nothing happened.
No hot water, then, he made a note. I can deal with that.
He put the bucket under the faucet and turned his back on it to find the cleaning solution. With hardly three steps in between him and the sink, he heard a great gurgling, sputtering sound from behind him.
What the hell-?
The water had stopped. Completely.
Mark groaned and returned to the sink. Twiddling with the knob some more produced no water, so he just turned it off and hefted out the half-filled pail. The landlord would be hearing about this!
He set the bucket down, wet the mop and passed it over the floor. A thin grey film remained, stuck defiantly between Mark and what appeared to be a decent hardwood floor. Another pass didn't remove the layer, nor did the next three.
What next..?
Abandoning the mop, Mark knelt and dipped his scrub brush in the pail of water. He then yelped and yanked his hand back out-it was like liquid nitrogen!
It took several seconds of flexing his fingers to regain feeling in his hand. Maybe he should just wait for the water to reach room temperature? Shouldn't take long in the summer heat and, in the meantime, the windows needed cleaning-he could do that much.
Mark sprayed the nearest window with the glass cleaner and let it sit for a moment as he dug a rag out of the pile of junk. Then he wiped the solution away and tried to look down at the street. He was rewarded with a dim, streaked picture, but it was a start. After spraying and wiping the window again, the world-well, his little corner of it-brightened.
Finally. Something was going right.
The rest of the windows came clean just as easily, leaving just the skylight. That, he'd decided, looking up at the window two stories above him, would be best dealt with on the roof.
Mark would be the first person to admit that he was anything but brave. The way he tested the stairs to the roof before climbing them was testimony to that fact. Nor was he stupid, he reminded himself when a step halfway up gave way under his foot.
Wonderful. One more thing to be fixed.
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