...The Fighter Still Remains -------------------------------------------------------------------- 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. If you want to use them, you'll have to talk to someone else -------------------------------------------------------------------- I dreamt of the way that my mom used to slice peaches into her cereal in the mornings. One by one they would get systematically wedged and thrown, bobbing helplessly, into a bowl of Cornflakes and low-fat milk. I dreamt of being one of those thin slices, allowing the milk to soak into my firm orange flesh before the spoon came down, barely missing me. I awoke to Mark's quiet voice muttering with a doctor. "How much longer, Dr. Berdann?" "He's very sick. You don't look so good yourself-" "Look, Doctor, when is he going to die?" "Probably within the week, sir." "Well, fuck you," Mark exclaimed as he stormed into my room. He looked like shit. He had been with me every waking moment, and though I told him to get his pale ass out of the hospital, he refused to let me slip away. How many times had I told him, or Mimi or Joanne to go home? They needed to sleep in their own beds, at home. Sleeping in chairs in a waiting room is bad for the soul. But they insisted on staying to fend off the people coming to see me with flowers and balloons and wishes from people I hadn't seen in years. What is it about dying that makes everyone come out? Is there some huge buzzard that sits in the hospital basement calling people? How do they find out? "Hey," I offered weekly. "Hey. How they treating you?" "Good enough, good enough," I told him. "Marky, is there anyway you could get me some fresh fruit? A peach, an apple, a pear? I need something." I saw the look on Mark's face before I remembered. The tube. My hand went to my nose, where the goddamn thing was eating for me. I wasn't allowed to eat solid food anymore. My system, the doctors said, couldn't handle it. Fuck the doctors. Mark covered his face with his hands and took a deep breath. He hated being here, he hated seeing me. He and I had been friends forever- god knows how he must have felt. I reached out and took his hand. "Don't be scared," I told him, feeling him recoil a bit at my touch. Right, infection. Fuck that. If I was already dying, who cared if I got more infection? Stupid doctors. "Scared? Scared? I'm not scared. There is nothing left to be scared of." "Sure there is. Life. Death. Hate. Love. AIDS." "Oh, fuck that. I've lost three people to it already. You expect I'll worry about losing myself? Fuck that!" "You don't worry about losing me?" "I worry about that the most these days." I held back a tear. Mark and I had met in grade school, where he was the geeky boy who liked to take pictures and I was the kid who beat all the computer games within a week of getting them. No one else liked us, so we gravitated to each other. He taught me about art, and I taught him about pong. It was a beautiful friendship. It had gome on like that for years- Mark and Tommy, the class losers. By the time we got to High School, talking to us was basically a social death sentence. But who cared what a bunch of doped up assoles thought of us? And now I was dying. I knew it, he knew it, and Mimi and Joanne knew it. A wave of dizziness overtook me, and I closed my eyes. When I opened them again, Mark was still peering down anxiously, my hand clenched tightly in his. "Marky," I whispered, causing him to lean closer. "Remember that Christmas? The one before we met Angel? The one where we just settled around the bush you and I had stolen from central park with Roger, April, and Maureen and talked about what we would give if we could? And then April came in with that huge plate of cookies that she got at the bakery where she worked? And we all ate them, but they crumbled in our hands, and we were covered with cookie crumbs and laughing and making horrid puns about having an crummy Christmas?" He nodded slowly, a sad smile spreading across his face. "How could I forget? And then Benny came in with actual presents. That was the best Christmas ever." I nodded and reached over to the bedside table, where Mimi had placed a small box. "This is for you, Mark. It's what he gave me that day. You need it now." I watched as he opened it slowly, and pulled out the ornate pocket watch. Gently he flipped over the inscription on the inside. "Because time is measured in more than seconds." Well, someone had to remind him. Mark's time was growing short, and he still hadn't found what he needed. Mark let a tear trace its path down his cheek and put the watch into the pocket of his old cords. "Keep it in health," I told him. "Forever." And with that, I sank back on my pillow, surrounded by machines that counted my heartbeats and monitored my brain activity. And there, nestled in my safe, digital haven, I closed my eyes and I wept. -------------------------------------------------------------------- A note on the title: I bought a CD that I haven't stopped listening to. As I was finishing this story, a song came on, and that's where the title comes from. The context? Look below. In the clearing stands a boxer And a fighter by his trade And he carries a reminder Of every glove That laid him down or cut him 'Til he cried out In his anger and his shame "I am leaving, I am leaving" But the fighter still remains. ~Simon and Garfunkle, The Boxer (copyright 1968) -------------------------------------------------------------------- Thanks to Emily and Rachael who beta'd this one. You guys are great! --------------------------------------------------------------------