My Glory -------------------------------------------------------------------- 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. -------------------------------------------------------------------- I sat on the table, running my hands over the guitar strings. He plucked these just last week, as he lay prone on his hospital bed. He had plucked a chord and looked up at me, pulling one of my curls and saying over and over that the song was coming. The song that would change our lives, he said. It would come, he'd get some money, and we would have real heat in the apartment. And we'd be happy, with real heat and a real song. What could he write that would be better than the song that brought me back to him? I was so near to losing him forever. Or maybe he was close to losing me? I have no idea. Mark, as usual, had his camera turned on me. I lowered my eyes to the neck of the guitar. "Turn the damn thing off, Mark." "Mimi, some things need to be recorded." "This is not one of those things," I shot back, laying the guitar aside. He shut off the camera, but I knew that image would come back in his next film. The broken ex-junkie, her body riddled with death, cradling the guitar of the man she loved. It was too damn poetic for Mark to just let it go. Damn him. "He's been gone before," I began, stil not meeting Mark's penetrating gaze. "He's been gone for months. We'll survive." I looked up, but was only able to stare at the top of Mark's head. Of all the odd things to remember, I recall how much gel Mark used. Maureen once said it was like he poured wood glue on his head. But Maureen was gone, too. "He can't come back, Mimi," Mark told me, fiddling with some buttons on his camera. "Why not? I did, didn't I? I came back!" "Angel didn't come back. Maureen din't come back. You're the exception." "Roger will come back." Mark sighed in desperation, and gave me a look I despised. A look of pity. "You shouldn't be here, Mimi. You're only twenty-one. You shouldn't be here, you shouldn't have to see this." "Bull shit. I've seen a lot worse." "When I was 21, someone told me they never wanted to get older. That he just wanted to live in his crappy flat forever and never get any old, and never change. And then everything exploded." "Roger said that," I told him, before I thought. That stupid comment rated up there with what I said about April, that night when I first met Roger. I saw a tear spring to the filmmaker's eye, but he blinked it back and turned his damn box back on. "C'mon, Mimers, tell your adoring public what you really want from life." He crawled up on the table with me, as I had seen him do so many times with Roger. He pulled the camera up, too, zooming in on some remote part of my face. An eye, a freckle, a pore. I wiped the sweat from my brow and looked straight into the camera, wherever it was pointing. "I want Roger back." He flicked off the camera and set it between us, next to Roger's guitar. That was a bit of symbolism that, for once, Mark was not getting on film. I was oddly grateful. "Me too," he said, reaching for my hand, which I pulled away, shaking my head. Physical contact with Mark was fine, but not when I was dying. "You always said you'd outlive him. Why are you upset?" Swallowing again, Mark choked back what must have been a sob. "Because, Mimi, saying something and doing something are very different." "I know," I whispered, a tear rolling down my cheek. "I didn't want him to die, Mark, I didn't." "None of us did." He choked back another sob and enfolded me in his strong arms. "And none of us wanted to lose Maureen or Angel." "Why?" It was a rather stupid thing to ask, but it was all I could choke out between the oppressive waves of emotion washing over me. "We don't want to lose them because we love them. We love them because they loved us. We lose them because we can't control anything in this damned world. And if we could, it wouldn't be nearly as much fun to live." I felt his hands gently rubbing my back as he spoke, but I ignored the comforting sensations. "Roger said he was sick of fighting," I said, needing more than anything to tell Mark everything. "he said he had been fighting all his life, and he was ready to go." "Roger went through a lot, even before you knew him. His dad died when he was twelve, all the other children his mom tried to have were miscarriages, and with April, Angel and Maureen all going in five years, he was ready to go. He couldn't fight life anymore, so he let life win." "Since when is dying letting life win?" I asked, pulling out of his embrace and wiping away my tears with the back of my hand. "Since Roger decided the it had to be the end," he answered. "What a crappy end." I closed my eyes, and sighed. "Mark, turn on that damn box of yours." He did as he was told and lifted it to his eye. "Zoom out to get the whole of me." I watched him climb backwards off the table, never taking the camera from my face. He gave me the thumbs up, and I picked up the guitar again. "Roger, baby, you once played a song. You played a song to a fever-riddled body, already ravaged by a disease that you shared. You sang it to someone you loved, and that person came back because she loved you, too. So where the hell is the song I get to sing to you? I had a tough life, too. But I didn't go giving up just when I found someone to love. And then you, you prick, had to leave me. And I would hate you, if I could. But I can't and I love you. And I can't sing, or play the guitar. I tried writing you poetry, but it was all drivel. I tried writing a performance piece, and I tried blowing up some virtual realty equipment, but none of it made you better or brought you back. So, I'm making Mark film this. I love you Roger. I love you. You picked me up out of hell, and made me into someone who was loved and loved in return. And, Roger, baby, you didn't have to do any of that. You never had to love me or bring me back to life or give me a reason to continue to live. And now I'm sure I won't last much longer, and maybe I'll be with you again, but in case I'm not, I'll say it now. You always have been, and you always will be the man I care about." I sighed gently, and let the tears overtake my tired body as I sunk sobbing to the table. "Mimi-" Mark began, pulling himself onto the table and putting my head into his lap. "Mimi, that was perfect. That was your song. You are beautiful." "I am empty," I said, looking up through my blurry eyes, and choking down another sob. "I am empty." --------------------------------------------------------------------