Hospital Beds (Adrienne)(Casual)

[ROGER DAVIS]

((ooc: Lovely, beautiful, wondering fucking song is HERE! CLICK ME! )

It was times like this that I remembered why I was alive. My mother used to say I had the voice like an angel. Of course, I think all moms are required to say this because of some unspoken mom-rule, but she always used to light up whenever I sang. Again, another mom rule, but I knew it was geniuine. Even when I had a cold but I sang like I didn't and sounded like Kermit the Frog getting gang-raped or something.

There's nothing to do here, some just whine and complain in the bed of the hospital. Coming and going, asleep and awake in bed at the hospital.

I wasn't sure what made me think about it, but like always, once I thought of it, I was stuck. Stuck and fucking depressed. I had wanted to find Mark to have him slap some sense into me. To take me out. Get me drunk. Mimi was sleeping, as she did alot these days, but I was wide awake. Wide. Fucking. Awake. And it didn't help that when I was awake, I was thinking. See, my mind works like a dam. Once opened, the floodgates unleash every single thought I hold in my head. Maybe that's why I did smack for so long. It put fucking superglue on my mind, kept it shut. Kept all those thoughts from passing the floodgates and into my concious.

I've got one friend layin' across from me; I did not choose him and he did not choose me. We have no chance of recovery, laying in a hospital. Joy and Misery.

Maybe it was the fact that I had gotten my test results back from the clinic again before I had gone to Life Support with Angel. Angel had gone with me, lending her support as she always did and to which I always thank her for, though never aloud. We had sat in the exam room for what seemed like hours, waiting for the doctor. When you're in a free clinic, you're lucky if you get back to see a doctor with an appointment, let alone at all. She had tapped out beats on the small metal trashcan, and I managed to make up a song on the spot. We worked best when we were together, she had told me through laughter as she shook her head. I laughed and told her that we should start a stage show. Rocker Horror Junkie Show. The doctor had come in, face sterner and...different than normal, and instantly, both of our faces dropped.

The words hadn't sunk in until we had been walking to Life Support. Angel had her arm looped through mine and told me that it was fine, chico. It was fine. Lower counts don't mean nothin'. Just means it's still there, is all. Shit ain't goin' away.

Don't tell Mimi, I told her. Just don't okay? She nodded silently, and we walked to Life Support.

Life Support was full of people just like me. Some actually worse off than me. Little Pam looked like she had one foot in the grave already, but her smile was large and bright as she talked about the weekend she had at her grandma's and how she had learned how to knit.

Who'd ever thought little things like learning how to knit a fucking scarf could be so important? So beautiful? Things that you take for granted are the most beautiful things on the planet when you realise that you may not be able to do it tomarrow. Breathing becomes an orgasmic experience that you want to treasure. The sound of your own heartbeat in your ears is like the drumming from heaven.

And I knew then that during Life Support, after I had spilled my guts about my counts (after Angel had poked my side for ten minutes until I had finally had enough and spilled) that I thought of her again.

April.

She'd never be able to brush her teeth again. Smile. Bat her eyelashes. Sure, I should have hated her for being so selfish, for taking the easy way out. But I didn't hate her as often as I did. I pitied her.

I missed her.

It was disgusting, but I missed the very thing that nearly distroyed me. I'm a fucking masochistic bastard, I know. I just missed her at that moment. I missed her because I knew that if she had just talked to me. If we had just talked she could have been there. Right there. Listening to some person ramble on about how their life is just as shitty as hers was. About how fucking knitting made their goddamn year.

So instead of wallowing, or even telling anyone about my current mental assult from the ginger that used to be my girlfriend, I came to Central Park, where someone could be the biggest sensation walking on the planet, or easily where someone could escape.

I chose escape, because I didn't want anyone to ask me what was wrong, except for Mark. But the strange thing, is that I knew I would feel better if I simply let it out. So I ignored everyone around me, even the people that managed to throw their change from their extra-large frappachino from Starbucks in my guitar case. I just closed my eyes, took in another breath, and did what came to me almost easier than breathing itself.

I sang.

Joy and Misery. Joy and Misery. Put out the fire boys, don't stop, don't stop, put out the fire on us.

[rocky]

George was the sort of dog that cleared other dog walkers out of the park. He was an enormous tan-coloured Neapolitan Mastiff, and although he was ultimately as thick as two short planks and incredibly friendly, the sight of him -- all 200lbs of him -- usually turned people in the other direction. Adrienne didn't mind the stigma, much -- she didn't like to make small talk with other dog people, they tended to be terrifyingly obsessed with their animals, making baby faces and googly noises as if their puppy were a surrogate child. It was difficult to know where to look.

She was always completely preoccupied with her own thoughts when she was walking him, anyway. Her mind was toying with the idea of the three men in her life -- Frank, who was a constant pestilence, festering at the back of her brain like an infection, Victor, who she had met here, in the park (and blinded, rather violently, with pepper spray), and Reed Armstrong, who had inserted himself so thoroughly into her life that she didn't know what to do about him.

The moment Reed had started making overt gestures in the direction of her office -- sending 1440 roses, for example -- Frank had raised his head and started finding excuses to pop in and visit her. He was trying to ingratiate himself with her again, and she didn't know what to make of it.

It was strumming and the soulful strains of a familiar singing voice that snapped her from her reverie - Roger? Adrienne snapped her fingers idly, to encourage George, who was roaming loose, to follow her, and then crossed the grass to where the busker was playing.

She hadn't seen Roger in ages. Before she had been given her column, and perhaps foolishly after she had started sleeping with Frank, Adrienne had been a field journalist -- that was, they sent her to interview people. It hadn't lasted long, maybe six months at best, but it had been time enough to meet and interview Roger Davies, at the height of his career.

She knew it hadn't gone so well for him since, but she couldn't resist crossing to talk to him. She waited until he'd finished and then applauded to catch his attention, grinning.

"Hello, stranger."

[ROGER DAVIS]

The sound of clapping, to which honestly, out here? I didn't hear enough of. That sound made my eyes open, look up, and see the stark blue hair. That was the first thing I noticed. Blue hair.

My brows narrowed as I looked at her; my memory was complete shit on account of the drugs, but slowly, it came back to me.

Laughing in some dirty bar. Talking in the Life. Her scribbling down things on a notepad and me, smiling.

You know, I could always give you the in depth scoop back at my apartment.

I was such a whore back then. I blinked, tilting my head as a big, giant dog who probably weighed more than me stopped next to her. My mind struggled for a name, and then, with a slight, small smile, I remembered. Adrienne Heart.

"Hey, Heart."

I had to have looked different. Sure, I didn't look completely busted; the disease was at least kind to me that way. I didn't look like Sue or Gordon, skeletons of their former selves with hollowed cheeks and sunken eyes. I looked bad, but I didn't look like I was dying. At least not fully. Not yet.

I did, however, know I looked different. My skin was paler, my weight had dropped. It wasn't like I was a moo-cow to begin with, but anyone who had known me before and saw me now knew that there was something going on besides not being able to eat. I could demolish an entire pizza and the weight wouldn't come back.

"You look good."

[rocky]

"I try too hard."

Adrienne paused. She and Roger had had entirely too much fun together on more than one occasion. It had never been serious. A mutual affection for getting utterly plastered had, one or twice, grown into a mutual affection for substance fuelled one night stands. Adrienne realised guiltily that she had literally never been a good employee at Plush. She had invented the majority of her interview with Roger after they had gotten thoroughly distracted, and every encounter they'd had since had landed them in the same boat. It was little wonder at all that they hadn't kept her on interviewing people, she had never been fully able to turn up anywhere on time and remain focussed on the subject at hand.

The column was better because it was an opinion piece, and she could write about what an irresponsible person she was. Mutually she and Plush editor Miranda Gilbert had reached that agreement -- although she knew Frank had pulled some strings.

She knew Roger was sick. He looked sick. He had fallen foul of addiction, Adrienne had only dabbled here and there. That was where their paths had separated. He looked a little drawn, a little older, and a little wiser, for it. And he sounded better, she thought, musically. Perhaps it was the weight of experience or the clout of serious tragedy, but his voice had changed, even if it was only to make the lyrics all the more poignant.

"You sound good," she told him, choosing not to lie about his appearance. "How are you?"

Oh, that question. She couldn't avoid asking it, but she knew he would probably hate answering it. Sometimes the simplest questions had the most complicated answers. She produced a grubby tennis ball from the pouch of her hoodie and tossed it for George, and then edged up the grassy knoll to stand closer to him.

((let me know if any of this is completely ill-conceived!))

[ROGER DAVIS]

I try too hard.

Her voice was tinted with slight amusement, making me smile only slightly. "You don't need to try. I think it comes naturally to you." I told her honestly, looking up at her from where I sat on the grass. Even though she hadn't spoke, I knew what she was probably thinking. I looked so different. Not that drastic, I knew, but...different. Changed.

Of course, every single aspect of my life had been changed. But Adrienne didn't know that. She couldn't. Pursing my lips for a moment, I offered her an almost thin smile. "Me?" I offered, lifting a shoulder in a shrug. "I'm--" I managed to force my smile to be larger. Less forced. Less thin. "Y'know, I'm cool, baby. Groovy." Groovy. Right. Far from it. I plucked an idle string, hoping that she couldn't pick up on the lie, and tried to quickly shift the topic of conversation to something else.

"That's a fuckin' big dog, baby."

[rocky]

"Well, you know I only like the big ones."

Adrienne kept it light, jamming her hands into her pockets. She crept up beside him and gestured vaguely at the ground, for permission to join him. It was just a gesture, however, as she didn't bother to wait for confirmation of his permission before she did it -- dropping on to the grass and leaning back -- palms braced behind her.

He still had the same eyes. That was what she decided to focus on. It felt almost like this was their morning after. They had a little history between them, but nothing they could remember -- or if they did remember, nothing they intended to own up to. It wasn't often Adrienne felt like a naughty child in detention, but that's what it was like, sitting with Roger.

"So what's new, Roger? Or are we going to make dirty jokes all afternoon?" she looked sideways at him. She would have offered him a cigarette, if it wasn't a civil offence.

[ROGER DAVIS]

"How could I forget?"

Easily, my mind told me as I felt myself smile, though there was something missing from it. I could easily forget because for more than two years, I was in a complete and utter drug fog. For two years, I was completely and utterly shitfaced all the time. I was sure the times I had been sober had been the few seconds before I had taken a hit of anything; heroin, alcohol, pot, sex, life, even.

That was it. That's what people didn't understand. I was a life addict. I was addicted to feeling alive.

What people don't understand now, really, is that I'm addicted to feeling alive because I may not have tomarrow. I looked over at the girl sitting next to me, and I had a vague memory of times together. See, that was the weird thing with me; I remembered certain things. With Mimi, her entire body was memorised as if it was the holy fucking bible. I can rattle off scars like they're scriptures. I can give you complete fucking sermons on why her body is a complete and utter holy temple that would make the toughest preacher, the most bible-loving motherfucker slackjawed and speechless. With April, it was the same way. But every other girl I've slept with in this town...it's different. I remember colours. Smells. The way sheets felt under my cheeks or the amount of time it took me (or her) to dress and walk out the door. The amount of days or weeks or months before we either met again and did that awkward yes, we fucked, but we're not making a big deal out of it or the yes, we fucked, now do I have to get a restraining order? type of thing, or the who are you and your name was Wend--oh that's right, Amanda. You're Amanda. sort of deal that sadly, I was semi famous for in the end.

Heart fell into that catagory. Not the psycho one night stand who thought we were forever and ever type of thing. We simply slept together once or twice, and went on our seperate ways. A meeting of two like-minded individuals. Like a conversation at a coffee shop with two strangers, except with sex.

Maybe it was that simple fact that made me feel...wrong? Was it wrong? It wasn't like I had known. And even if I had, it wasn't like I had been sick before, right? I had gotten tested before, right before I had met April, I had gotten tested. Every single dick-rotting, sex-killer disease, I had gotten tested for. And I had been clean. I had actually prided myself in being clean. Then, April and I had been the only ones who had been sleeping together. I thought she had been clean, too.

It's a fucked up thing, really, in the end. Completely fucked up. So, when she asked me what was new, I actually laughed. It was a sad sort of laugh, and I shook my head.

"God, pick a timeline and I could tell you stories." I stated after a moment, and then finally looked over at her. "And I could do the dirty joke thing all day. I'm just that good."

[rocky]

"Well, if it's any consolation I've continued my disgusting spiral into full-blast commercialism," Ade said, her voice rather flat and cynical. She had been freelancing when she knew Roger, not even on a proper green card yet. Now she was chained to the magazine like it was a live preserver, if she lost the job and didn't find another one she'd be deported, and back to what? Both her parents were dead, and even if they were alive it would have been a worthless endeavour to try to live near them again.

"I work full time at the magazine now. Writing soulless tripe you'd probably hate, so it's a small consolation to know there's no chance you'll ever see it," she joked, although it was a feeble cover. She may have bucked the fashion trend for the young successful Manhattan woman, but she certainly enjoyed the perks and the status. And the money.

Adrienne may have felt a little bitter over the lack of artistic merit in her work, but she did care about what she wrote. She did write it with as much effort as she could pour into it, even as she complained bitterly about how unworthy of her it was. One of her biggest fears was that it wasn't unworthy of her at all. One of her most well-kept secrets was that she was worried she was right where she belonged.

"Are you still with the band?" She posed the question in the sort of bright, carefree way that implied if he wasn't it was no big deal, but it was the kind of poking journalistic question she had long ago been trained to ask. The kind that opened doors for elaboration, to matter which way he chose to answer it. The kind that led him to tell her more than he wanted to.

She was remorseless.

[ROGER DAVIS]

Her tone made me smiled. "You're such a sell out." I teased, and then paused, looking down at the neck of the guitar. I plucked a few random notes, glancing up at her as she spoke once more. "Soulless tripe, huh?" I asked and then smirked wider. "Oh, see, now you've got me interested. I'm going to have to read this now. You must supply me with a copy. I demand it."

She had stated that I wouldn't want to read that, and hell, if anyone told me I automatically wouldn't want to read it, it made me interested instantly.

Are you still with the band?

The words that came out of her mouth next made me stop my idle strumming and purse my lips. Right. There was the question that I hadn't wanted her to ask, second to 'what happened to that redhaired girl' but I had a feeling that quickly, the conversation was going to go that way.

"The band?" I asked, glancing at her before glancing down at the neck of the guitar, strumming out slow notes that Mark had always hated because it sounded like Musetta's Waltz. "The band..." I started, finding myself trailing off memories flooded my brain. The night that my band members cornered me three weeks before April died, saying that it was over. The screaming matches that we had before I left, and the unanswered phone calls and door-knocks. It had only been in Sante Fe that I had talked to the drummer who had been in California. After that, the guitar player when I had gotten back to New York from New Mexico. It had taken many talks, many sit-downs and explaining and sorries to even get back into their good graces.

But the band? I hadn't a fucking clue if the band was getting back together.

"You remember what I was like, right?" I asked, looking at her before pausing, feeling my eyes close. "No, when you knew me...it wasn't that bad. I think you met me before...everything." A sigh escaped my lips as I brought a hand up, pressing it against my eyes for a moment before lowering it. "You remember that girl that was with me the last time you interviewed me? The--" I paused, letting almost a sad smile cross my face. "The girl that was trying to get into my pants the entire interview?"

I paused, removing my hands from the guitar as I rested them on the top of it. "Let's just say she was sorta...the Yoko of my band. Drugs," I clarified after a moment. "Drugs and her were the reason why the band's not around anymore. The drugs and her and me." I added at the end.

"It's just...it's just a lot of fucked up things that happened in the last two years that have lead me to this point."

Right. That was the simple version.

[rocky]

"No!" she said, and laughed. "You can't read it, I forbid it. You'd hate it, anyway. It's all about how much I hate men."

Her eyes had a mischievous glint in them, though, that expressed good nature over the subject. She didn't really mind. She grew more serious, softening as he went on -- she had known Roger just before he was eclipsed by the drugs, and she had only the vaguest of concepts of what had happened to him. She'd tried it, and then stopped. She supposed she had Frank to thank for that, he'd promoted her away from the rock stars before it was too late.

Adrienne didn't remember any of the others in the band, and she would have wagered that was part of the problem, too. Roger had been a sort of commodity, the type of front man everybody wanted a piece of -- and the type of front man that completely eclipsed the rest of the group. She nodded with a degree of sympathy.

"Right. Ouch. You're not with her any more?"

An innocent question. If Adrienne had any concept of the can of worms she was opening she would have kept well clear of asking it. She was sadly unaware of just how badly she was blundering into a sensitive area for discussion.

George brought the tennis ball back and she plucked it between thumb and forefinger, wrinkling her nose. It was soaked, and when she threw it for him again she had to wipe her fingers on her jeans.

[ROGER DAVIS]

"Oh my god, okay, see" I said quickly, scooting a little closer to her as if really excited to tell her something. "I totally like, have to read it now. I hate men, too! Oh!" I forced my face into a serious looking frown. "I-I have something to tell you, baby. Like, something I've kept secret for a long, long time." I took her hand, an over dramatic sigh escaping my lips.

"I--" I took in a breath, as if the very words I was gonna say were like razorblades that escaped my throat, slicing along the way. "I'm a Lesbian. There." I let another over dramatic sigh escape my lips, as if a giant weight had gotten taken off my chest. "There. There, I told you. God, I feel so much better now, you don't even realise."

But then, she asked if I was with April, and the reality of what I had just did, the faux opening up when I really should have been opening up about an entirely different, more viral reason hit me and I pulled my hand from hers, rubbing the palms together slowly. The giant dog came back, slobber and all, and I made a slight face before pursing my lips.

April? April come back to--MARK! MARK, THOMAS GET--GET IN--Baby? Baby, wake up. Open your eyes for me, Baby, please. Please open them.

The smell of the bathroom hit my nose, as it always usually did when I remembered, and my nose scrunched up in a visible look of disgust. "She, uh..."

Memories flowed back. The eerie silence of the church only marked by sounds of sniffles. The sounds of Sunny singing a song that I surprisingly didn't know that April wrote.

Sophia, Sophia, I'm burning, I'm burning, it's a fire, a fire I cannot put out. Sophia, Sophia I'm learning there's some things I can't go without, and one of them is him. Have you ever loved a man like I love him? Do you hurt but still feel alive like never before? Oh, Sophia.

The sound of the piano and the silence and the feeling of Mark's hand squeezing mine as the tears had rolled down my cheeks had sealed it. I got home, shot up, and woke up two days later in a hospital to the red-rimmed eyes of my friends and a doctor who told me, just as April had, that I had AIDS.

How the hell was I supposed to tell Adrienne all of that?

"She died."

My brows narrowed slightly, and my head jerked slightly, as if my body was telling me that wasn't the entire story. Tell. Besides, if she had just died, would I have really been this torn up, even after all these years?

"No, she hadn't--she killed herself."

I pursed my lips, at least somewhat thankful that no longer did I feel the hot sting of tears against the back of my eyes. But still...it hurts. "She slit her wrists in my bathroom and killed herself."

[rocky]

Shit.

Adrienne closed her eyes and grimaced, looking away for a moment. She didn't bother to shift over or make extra space between them, she wasn't shy about physical contact. She put her hand on his arm and gave it a squeeze, exhaling slowly.

"Shit, Roger, I'm sorry -- I didn't know," she said, finding her bank of 'appropriate responses' had run dry, suddenly. She sucked the air through her teeth. God, was there a single moment in life that she wouldn't say completely the wrong thing?

She squirmed uncomfortably, but couldn't find an appropriate way to change the subject without being obvious about it.

"How long ago?"

[ROGER DAVIS]

"Don't," I started, my voice slightly sharp, though I paused, closing my eyes. "Don't say you're sorry. I don't like when people say they're sorry, 'cause they only say that when they don't know what else to say."

Her hand was on my arm, making me frown and look over at it before bringing my knees to my chest. "Three years ago, this March." I felt myself swallow, unsure of how to tell her the most important that I needed to. Simply because we had slept together more than once, but I was sure, no, more than sure that she was fine. I had slept with Maureen and thankfully, Maureen was fine. I would have killed myself if she had gotten sick.

I moved, lowering my knees as I turned to her. "You--You didn't know me. Not the real me. I--I mean, I don't even know who the real me is anymore, but you didn't know whomever I was back then." I said, trying to explain, but I felt like I was in Life Support for the first time.

Hi, my name is Roger. I have AIDS. I haven't slept with any of you, at least that I can remember, so it's easier for me to tell you all of this.

So, naturally, this was fucking hard.

"You--You know I liked to party."

[rocky]

"Well, I don't know what to say. Is there something that you say?" Adrienne said, distressed. "I am sorry. Really. I am."

"You--You didn't know me. Not the real me. I--I mean, I don't even know who the real me is anymore, but you didn't know whomever I was back then."

Adrienne watched him quietly. She didn't quite understand what he was driving at, she had never tried to claim she knew him, had she? He was rambling, and spiralling around a subject like he was circling a drain.

"You--You know I liked to party."

"Yeah. We all did," Adrienne said, although she could sense there was more. She tried to make it as easy as possible for him to go on, but the facts were simple: Adrienne was terrified of needles, she couldn't shoot up, and the one time that she had someone else had to stick it in her. The resulting high was the most terrifying experience she'd ever had -- a blood pumping, glorious high tainted by her abject horror at the sight of the needle in her arm.

She'd never been good at snorting and marijuana only made her sleepy. She had drifted in and out of the scene like a ghost, hardly tainted by it at all, and he had been sucked into it as if it were a whirlpool, from the looks of it.

She tried not to judge him. It was easier said than done, but Adrienne knew what it was to be sneered at, if nothing else, and she knew she was guilty of doing it to other people. People who had addictions, or other problems that she had no business judging them for.

"What is it, Roger?"

[ROGER DAVIS]

Yeah, we all did.

I ignored her comment about saying sorry; I had this conversation with so many people I didn't want to rehash it and then focused on her statement that we all partied. "We all partied.[" I echoed, laughing slightly before bringing a hand up, pressing it against my face. "When I met you, I was maybe doing a little coke here and there. Drinking mostly. Pot was always in the story, but I don't think that's a drug." I stated, and that was truth. I didn't think Pot could even be consitered a drug. But I was getting off topic.

"April and I...we started doing everything we could get our hands on to stay up. Coke. Ex. Speed. We stayed up for what seemed like weeks. And then, we took too much one time, so we needed something to come down. I never liked needles, so I mean, it wasn't really a thing for me, but once I tried it.." I couldn't even finish the sentence.

"Then for a while, we couldn't even afford needles, and the free clinic ran out for a couple weeks. So we just...started sharing them, you know? We didn't think there was any harm in it. I mean, we shared everything."

And now...we shared a disease. Of course, we didn't share it really, because she was dead. But for a few months, maybe? Or at least weeks or even days...we shared it. I couldn't even continue as I watched her face, bracing myself for...what? Her fist? Her verbal assults?

I don't know what I was bracing myself for, but there I was. Braced.