InsaneJournal

Dying in America
June 3rd/4th 1990, Mimi's apartment.

Warning: Drug use, death, angst...



She got off work, stopped by Jae on the way home. He was waiting in her apartment, sitting at the table staring into space, guitar on his knee. It hurt to see him like this.

"Hey," she said softly, sitting on the table and leaning over to kiss him.

"Hey," he said in response. She could tell he was closed off, upset, kinda remote, but he'd had worse nights. He sniffed curiously.

She sighed, and leaned forward, resting her head on his shoulder. "Some ass spilled his beer all over me," she explained.

"You okay?" he asked, concern and even a bit of anger in his voice. She nodded.

"Yeah he was a jerk, but not a violent one. Just completely wasted."

"Which sounds very tempting right now," she added.

"Definitely," he replied, looking at her expectantly, those eyes full of pain. She smiled, and pulled a little bag from her belt. He kissed her as he took it, some of the pain in his eyes dulling just a bit, as he pulled over the candle he already had burning.

He was using more, since Collins...

There had been nothing they could do. Any of them. It was just his time. It had hurt to see him in pain, so sick, just before the end. But in a way, the end meant he wasn't hurting anymore, and Mimi was glad of that.

He'd been one of Roger's oldest friends, it had hit him hard.

She shook herself. He didn't need her reminding him of all of this. He was dealing, in his own way. Her job was to stop him moping too much, not force him to talk about it.

She kissed him one last time before sliding off the table.

"I'm going to shower first," she said, pulling off her clothes and moving towards the bathroom. "You go ahead, I'll be ten minutes..."

She found the end of the previous days stash in her room. There was enough for one, which is why they hadn't used it yesterday.

Waste not, want not she reasoned, and headed back out to Roger

*****

She woke up the next morning with a groan. It was never nice waking up, the comedown sucked. They'd moved to the bed at some point, and she reached out to find Roger. He was cold, so she blearily reached for the blanket.

It was covering him.

Odd.

She wasn't cold. She ran her hand along his chest, lifting her head to look at him.

She sat bolt upright. Something was wrong. He looked... wrong. She reached for his hand. It was cold.

Cold hands...

Panic began to rise in her, and she could feel her hands shaking.

"Roger," she said, shaking him with her other hand. "Roger, wake up." He didn't move.

"Roger," she said, louder. "Roger! Wake up!"

No response.

'No!" she yelled, staring at his chest. It wasn't moving. He wasn't breathing --

"Roger!" she screamed. "Roger, no. Wake up. Please Roger, please!" She felt tears run down her cheeks.

"MARK!" she screamed at the ceiling. "MARK! I need help!"

"Help," she said again, more quiet, but her voice was strangled. "No, no, no..."

"Mimi?" Mark called from the door. She looked up and saw the look on his face. "What..."

"He's not moving," she sobbed. "He won't answer me, and he's cold..."

Mark was frozen in the doorway, staring at Roger.

"Roger," she repeated, running her hand along his cheek. "Roger, please, please, wake up... WAKE UP!" she yelled. She was crying now, giant sobs, because she knew. He was dead.

"No," she cried. "Roger, please..."

She felt someone's hands on her shoulders and turned around to see Mark pulling her away, his own cheeks wet.

"No," she said. "No, I'm not leaving him-"

"Mimi," he said, but his voice broke, and he just sat on the bed, looking at Roger. Mimi did too, for how long neither of them could be sure.

She pulled him into her lap, and held him, sobbing at the feel of him, so cold and lifeless, and the way his limbs fell limp.

She screamed, in anger, in frustration, in pain.

"Roger..."