Honey

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I don't own Rent. I don't even rent Rent. That belongs to Mr. Larson. 
I'm just borrowing his characters for my story.
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"Honey, there's food here, if you want it!" Joanne called, placing the 
plate before the perpetually shut door. The rest of us sat around the 
loft with plates of our own. 

There were four of us now, me, Mimi, Collins and Joanne. We were all 
living in the loft again, if only because Joanne said she couldn't 
bare to be alone, and because Collins said I looked sick. Mark was 
technically in the loft too, but he never came out of his seclusion.

It was the oddest thing, Mark's withdrawal. One day, he had been fine. 
He had been helping Mimi with the funeral preparations, and comforting 
Joanne and talking to us like the Mark we knew. And then, two days 
after the funeral, I came home to find a note on his door. 

"Roge- I'm taping, don't disturb."

I didn't disturb him, but four hours later, Mimi had ventured a knock 
on his door. No reply. We tried to open the door, but it was locked. 
Fearing the worst, we called Collins, who scaled the side of the 
building to find Mark in front of his camera puttering around and 
cursing. That was the last we saw of him, because he drew the shades 
the next day. And that was a month ago.

It was frustrating, to say the least. Every day, we would knock on 
that damn door, but it remained obstinate. We only knew he was alive 
because we could hear him late at night. And, every now and again, we 
would all go out and find the refrigerator supplies had been somewhat 
depleted. Mark was there, he just wasn't going to come out and see us.

I carelessly swirled my fork around in the mashed potatoes, with no 
intention of eating them. My mom always made the best mashed potatoes, 
and Joanne made ours from a box. I couldn't bring myself to touch 
them, no matter how much anyone nagged me. They were gross. When Mark 
and I were able to scrape together enough money, we used to go and 
find some open-air market, and buy fresh vegetables. Then he would 
make pearl onions like Julia Child, I would make mom's potatoes, and 
we would both be sick the next day. It was great.

Collins looked up from where he was poking his baked chicken. "I was 
thinking of making another code, on another ATM," he told us. 
"M-A-U-R-E-E-N on.. oh, how about the one next to the Starbucks?"

A wry smile flitted across Joanne's thin lips. "Starbucks. She would 
have liked that."

I smiled and continued to swirl my mashed potatoes.

When the others were about done, Mimi put down her plate. "We never did 
watch Mark's film," she said, standing and wiping her hands carelessly 
on her pants. "We still could."

I looked towards the projector sitting in the corner, there should be 
cobwebs on it, but with women back in the loft, someone had taken 
to dusting things. I exchanged a long look with Collins, who shrugged. 
"Why not?" he asked. "Maybe Mark will come out when he hears the 
narration."

Placing down my untouched dinner, I began to prepare the projector, as 
Joanne cleared away the plate. She paused when she picked up my plate 
and glared at me." You will eat these, Roger. One day, you'll be too 
hungry to resist." I just nodded my head. One day, sure, I'd eat her 
evil potatoes. But not today.

Just as I was about to throw the switch to being the movie, Mark's 
doorknob rattled. Our attention diverted, we all watched in wonder as 
someone who looked an awful lot like Mark stumbled forward, clutching 
a scarf.

He looked wretched. His glasses were held together by string in most 
places, and hot glue in a few others. His clothing, which he probably 
hadn't changed in a month or so, was ragged and caked with crud. He 
had noticeably lost weight, his skin pulled tight across his bones. The 
worst part was his smell. I wont even go into how rank it was, but he 
had clearly not bathed the entire month he was in his room.

Whimpering a little, he held the scarf out to us, as if expecting us to 
do something. Slowly, Mimi got up and moved to him. "Mark, honey, did 
you hurt your scarf?"

Mark, or what there was of Mark in that wretched shell, nodded, hold 
it out for her to see. "Aw, Mark, that's just a little tear. We can 
fix that right up. Do you want some dinner?"

We all watched in awe as he went to the table, sat down, and waited. 
Finally, Collins had the presence of mind to get himself into the 
kitchen and reheat something. Mark devoured it, barely chewing 
anything. When his hunger had been sated, he looked back at us, 
adjusted his glasses on his nose, and said, "Thanks guys, I feel 
better now."

When none of us moved, he stood up and smiled. "I'm not a ghost and 
I'm not a zombie. I am Mark. I just look like shit. But I'm okay. I'm 
going to be okay." 

Unable to restrain myself any longer, I jumped up and enveloped Mark 
in my arms. "Good to have you back," I whispered, thumping his back 
affectionately.

"Yeah, he replied. "I know."

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