Categories > Theatre > Rent > Cutting Room Floor
AN: I don't own RENT, nor anything connected to it. I'm just a fan.
Mark slammed his bedroom door closed. He heard something shatter in the hall and almost smiled. Maybe someone heard it and would be coming upstairs to check on him.
Nothing.
No shouts, no footsteps. Not a soul bothered to investigate.
On the one hand, he reasoned, throwing his backpack onto the bed, it served his purpose well. If somebody found him before he was done...
Well, he knew what a big deal it would be then. All pats and reassurances, hugs and promises that everything would be fine.
People would see him. Really see him. They'd ask how his day was and could he help them with the geometry homework and good job at the concert, by the way-they didn't know he could hit those notes. And he'd get used to it, start to like the feeling.
Then things would go back to the way they were now.
Only Joey noticed him anymore. And that was only because of the star that hung around his neck, the way his mom thought it was cute to write his name on his lunch in Hebrew.
But on the other hand... nobody would notice. Nobody would honestly notice he was gone. Joey'd find someone new to push around. The choir would give the solo to Hallie. And Roger...
Roger could find a new best friend easily enough. Hell, with Claire around, he probably didn't even need regular friends.
Mark steadied the hand that he now held the knife in, pressed the cutting edge to his throat. One swift jerk, now. Just one quick slash and everything will be over.
But what if someone did notice? What if it was him that was oblivious? What if--no.
No, don't hesitate. If he waited, he'd never do it.
Lowering his hand, Mark took a few deep breaths; composed himself.
Now, do it.
He raised the blade again, swallowed hard. He could feel the way his pulse carried through the knife, back into his hand. He could almost trace his blood-his life-in a circular path. His head, his hand, his heart. The only things that mattered in the world.
The edge of the knife pressed into his flesh and the beat of the pulse changed. It quickened, built to a rush, drowned out his doubts. Mark squeezed his eyes closed and held his breath, silently bidding goodbye to anyone who would be affected, however briefly, by his end.
The phone rang and Mark jerked, dropping the knife. A warm trickle down the side of his neck told him he'd broken the skin.
"Shit!" He grabbed a dirty shirt from his laundry basket and pressed it to the cut before he realized what he was doing.
Let the damned phone ring. What did he care? The dead don't take calls.
Then the answering machine kicked on.
"Mark?"
Roger..?
"Mark... Please, be home... I-I need to talk to you..."
Mark slammed his bedroom door closed. He heard something shatter in the hall and almost smiled. Maybe someone heard it and would be coming upstairs to check on him.
Nothing.
No shouts, no footsteps. Not a soul bothered to investigate.
On the one hand, he reasoned, throwing his backpack onto the bed, it served his purpose well. If somebody found him before he was done...
Well, he knew what a big deal it would be then. All pats and reassurances, hugs and promises that everything would be fine.
People would see him. Really see him. They'd ask how his day was and could he help them with the geometry homework and good job at the concert, by the way-they didn't know he could hit those notes. And he'd get used to it, start to like the feeling.
Then things would go back to the way they were now.
Only Joey noticed him anymore. And that was only because of the star that hung around his neck, the way his mom thought it was cute to write his name on his lunch in Hebrew.
But on the other hand... nobody would notice. Nobody would honestly notice he was gone. Joey'd find someone new to push around. The choir would give the solo to Hallie. And Roger...
Roger could find a new best friend easily enough. Hell, with Claire around, he probably didn't even need regular friends.
Mark steadied the hand that he now held the knife in, pressed the cutting edge to his throat. One swift jerk, now. Just one quick slash and everything will be over.
But what if someone did notice? What if it was him that was oblivious? What if--no.
No, don't hesitate. If he waited, he'd never do it.
Lowering his hand, Mark took a few deep breaths; composed himself.
Now, do it.
He raised the blade again, swallowed hard. He could feel the way his pulse carried through the knife, back into his hand. He could almost trace his blood-his life-in a circular path. His head, his hand, his heart. The only things that mattered in the world.
The edge of the knife pressed into his flesh and the beat of the pulse changed. It quickened, built to a rush, drowned out his doubts. Mark squeezed his eyes closed and held his breath, silently bidding goodbye to anyone who would be affected, however briefly, by his end.
The phone rang and Mark jerked, dropping the knife. A warm trickle down the side of his neck told him he'd broken the skin.
"Shit!" He grabbed a dirty shirt from his laundry basket and pressed it to the cut before he realized what he was doing.
Let the damned phone ring. What did he care? The dead don't take calls.
Then the answering machine kicked on.
"Mark?"
Roger..?
"Mark... Please, be home... I-I need to talk to you..."
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