April's Fool (Roger/Jehanne)

[ROGER DAVIS]

It always rained.

The rain came down in thick, giant drops, soaking New York City in wetness that most people were used to. Most people ducked and rushed and ran to get out of the rain, but Roger walked, hands stuffed in his pockets, scarf tight around his neck, and he shivered, walking into the cemetery. The plot was simple; April's parents had fought and fought to get April buried back in New York, but Mark had managed to convince her parents that she had been happy here. She had been happy before drugs had taken a hold of her life. Before everything had spiraled out of control. So, for the past two years, he had been coming to the cemetery every April 1st. When they had buried April, he hadn't cried. He hadn't even blinked, because he had been wanting a hit of heroin so much that he couldn't think of anything else. It was only two months after, when he was clean and sober, that he had gone to the grave with Mark and cried into his best friend's shoulder. A few months after he had met Mimi, he had came to April's grave on her birthday, and told her about Mimi. Told her how happy he was and how much he hated that he was happy. It had rained the last time he had been here.

However, now, it was starting to get colder, as if the heaven and earth knew that Roger's heart, his very soul was cold this day. Swallowing, he walked to the tombstone, feeling himself sigh. "...Hi, baby."

For the next hour, he sat on the wet, cold ground, telling how much he hated her. How much he missed her. How much he wished she was here and now much he loved Mimi. The rain started to turn into snow, falling on his head and neck and he shivered more and as if the world hated him, the snow started to come down harder, and Roger looked anywhere, at any place for a comfort from the bone-chilling cold.

The church wasn't exactly the first place he'd figure going into; the last time he had been in a church, Angel had died, he had left Mimi, and his world had collapsed. Sure, things had gotten better with Mimi, but still, he knew that at any moment, things could go south. Mimi could get sick. Mimi could go back on drugs. Hell, he could go back on drugs, even though he had sworn to himself, to Mark and to everyone that he'd stay clean.

The door to the church was large and heavy, and he moved, pushing it open with a sigh. The tears stuck cold on his face, not even the hot warmth from his tears could warm his face. He brought a hand up, pressing it against his cold cheek with a frown, looking at the large cross at the alter. A scoff escaped his lips as he moved into the back pew with a sigh.

He'd be here until the storm calms down, he told himself. He'd be here until then and only then, and as much as he wanted to stay calm, the loud clap of thunder made him jerk violently, his eyes clenching tightly with a harsh frown.

[JEHANNE MARIE D'ARC]

Jehanne darted through the wet, crowded streets, stumbling over her shoes and water laden skirt. She stepped into a puddle, yelping as the water splashed into her face. Pulling her hood up over her head, she trudged on, eyeing doorways as she passed. Best not to stop. Would not want to be chased off.. Some of the people were starting to recognize her—especially the shop keepers. They do not want me here.. She flinched as she recalled the way they’d shouted at her, threatening to call the police. Uncharitable wretches. She threw a glare over her shoulder as she rounded the corner.


Jehanne’s wanderings eventually brought her to an enormous fenced in area. Peering through the wrought iron, Jehanne stared at the graves beyond. They had a cemetery like this back home, but theirs was much smaller. Tugging open the gate, she stepped through. If this is as the cemetery at home, there should be…Aha.. She headed for the church as quickly as she could, lifting her skirt and jumping over the puddles that filled the grass.


At last she reached the small building. Tugging open the door, she stepped inside, shivering in the warm air that washed over her. Her shoes squeaked on the wooden floor and she squinted in the dim light. Small round globes hung from the ceiling, but only three or four of them were lit. How unlike the strangle candles in the stores here. They are so long and bright. I wonder who makes them? All other light in the church—such as there was—came from the candles near from the front.


She removed her cloak and dipped her fingers in the small font. Crossing herself, she shed her cloak, draping it over a back bench, and knelt beneath the crucifix hanging above the tabernacle. The scent of incense washed over her. The church was quiet, with only a few other people about. Hopefully no one will pay me any mind if my Voices should come. Clasping her hands, she bowed her head and began to pray.

[ROGER DAVIS]

For a second, it was almost like he was the only person in the entire church. Well, except the big giant Jesus that was hanging on the cross, but it didn't look like Jesus was in a talking mood. With that thought, Roger found himself scoffing slightly, digging into his pocket for his cigarettes. Of course, he was sure that smoking wasn't allowed in churches, but it wasn't like he was going to go back outside into the rain or snow or whatever was out there. He was already uncomfortable enough being in the church, so much so that he wished he had just said screw it and walked back home. So, he would have been a little freezing, he might've lost a few fingers or toes, but he'd be home.

And not in a church.

He flicked the lighter, and winced at how loud the damn thing was in the silence of the church. A older woman looked back and glared at him, which first made him frown, and then slouch down into the pew. He took a deep drag in and tried to count the amount of splits in the woodgrain of the pew in front of him and not think of the last time he had been a church.

You always said how lucky you were that we were all friends. But it was us, baby. We were the lucky ones.

He could feel the hot sting of tears against his eyes, and for a second, he looked towards the ceiling, a breath escaping his lips surprisingly loud against the silence. He brought his knees up to his chest, sucking in another drag from the cigarette before a sob escaped his lips, one that he tried to silence and stop, but failed. There was so much death. So much death around him that really, honestly, it shouldn't have affected him as much as it should have because in the end, he saw it every single day. He should have been numb to it by now, he should have...not been as affected by it as he was, because he saw it every day. His friends were dying or dead and it wasn't getting better.

That's the part that he didn't understand. He didn't understand it at all because in reality, life should have gotten better. And maybe, sure, it had gotten a little better but in the end, it was never going to be okay again. And it was all because of her.

It was disgusting the full range of emotions that she could bring. On one hand, he could hate her with a passion that he'd never felt. He could be glad that she was dead and could even curse her name. On the other hand, he cried at night, even though he had Mimi he still cried all of the time because he missed her. He hated that he missed her, but couldn't for a second deny the fact that it was there. It was that twisting and strange range of emotions that brought the tears to his eyes.

It'd never get perfect. It would hardly get better again. In the end, life would just...go on and he was lucky if he got more good days than bad, and that one simple fact, made him sick.

[JEHANNE MARIE D'ARC]

Time seemed to still as Jehanne knelt in prayer. As her clothes slowly dried, the warmth, dim light, and incense lulled her until she could almost imagine she was in her church back home. It was small, about the size of this one, with just enough room to hold its members. At times it was crowded, but during the week, when everyone else was away working, it seemed almost cavernous. Jehanne closed her eyes and allowed herself to be pretend she was back home. Pere Matthieu would be coming to send her home soon. Doubtless, Mama and Papa wonder where I am—or at least if I am ever coming back.


Her father used to say that she was more often at the church than she was in her own house. Jehanne smiled to herself. He speaks the truth. She had, on more than one occasion, fallen asleep in the middle of her prayers and not woken up till the next morning. Papa would get so angry at me. “Devotion is wonderful, my girl, but using that as an excuse for dreaming and idleness is wicked,” he used to say. Still, Mama usually calmed him down. Her friends took to looking in the church first when they wanted to find her. ”Why do you not wish to do anything but pray?” they had asked after her Voices came. How could I tell them/ They would not have believed me.


A noise from the back of the church brought Jehanne back to the present. She jumped and looked up at the sound of anguish that came from the back of the church. She turned her head and squinted, searching for the lost soul. Poor fellow—it sounded like a man—I wonder what is troubling him.. At last she saw him, curled up in the pew near the back. Pushing herself to her feet, she made her way toward him. What shall I say? No words came into her head. Back home, she had a reputation for giving advice whether it was wanted or not. Her friends had even teased her about being too religious. As if such a thing were possible. Jehanne shook her head. Sometimes people make no sense.


She found the bench the man was sitting on and sat down beside him. Out of habit, she pulled out the kneeler and knelt, clasping her hands. Now that she was here, she could not think of anything to say. Surely he would not want me to ask him what is the matter. It was obvous something was troubling him. But what? She wrinkled her nose at the smell of cigarette smoke. Does he not know better than to smoke in a church? Still, she had seen many odd things since her arrival here. Perhaps he simply does not know any better. She cleared her throat. “Monsieur? What is troubling you?” She kept her gaze on her clasped hands as she spoke, a faint blush rising to her cheeks. It is still so odd to speak to strangers. I hope he does not think I am being forward.

[ROGER DAVIS]

He wanted to leave. Just leave, he told his brain, but his brain reminded him that it was freezing outside. At least in the church, it'd be warm. He wouldn't freeze or run the risk of getting sick. Getting sick like Angel had. He continued to count, though his thoughts were slowly taking over the simple task, until the sound of metal thunking hit his ears. His eyes snapped over, looking to the woman that was knelt to the side of him, her head bowed in prayer, and he wanted to tell her to go away. He wanted to lash out even though he didn't even know the young girl, and tell her to leave him alone. He had a personal bubble, dammit, and she was close to popping it.

Monsieur? What is troubling you?

It took a moment for Roger to realise that the girl was speaking to him. Her voice was whispered and hushed, almost timid, and his throat felt too thick to even speak. His eyes were slightly wide, tears clinging to the bottom lids before he tried to speak, though his voice was scratchy and broken. "What isn't troubling me." And that was the truth. Where did he start? The fact that he was twenty five and near death every day? The fact that he should have been at home with his stripper girlfriend instead of out in a cemetery crying about his dead girlfriend? That he was getting sicker by the day and that in the back of his mind, all he wanted was for one hit of heroin to ease the pain, though it would only make things worse in the end?

Yeah. The girl was kneeling with her hand clasped in prayer. That would be the perfect thing to say; tell her tales about strippers and drugs and cell-destroying diseases. Yeah, that would be perfect. He cleared his thick throat, and brought the cigarette up to his lips, sucking in a drag before he blew it out in a thin line above his head.

"Look you look like a sweet girl and I'm sure you've got like, good intentions and stuff but I don't need the divine talk right now. I'm surprised the soles of my shoes didn't start burning the moment I stepped into this damn place." God had to know where those shoes had taken him, where the shoes had lead his body down and down until he wasn't sure how to get out. Of course, he had managed to make it out, make it back onto solid, sober ground but how long? How long could he keep it up?

[JEHANNE MARIE D'ARC]

Jehanne narrowed her eyes at the man before her. “Really, monsieur, you should not swear. If my intentions are as good as you say they are, why not let me help? Or I could fetch the priest if you would feel better talking to him.” Perhaps it is because I am a woman and he fears upsetting me. She returned to her spot on the bench, tucking her feet up beside her. Poor fellow. He seems so sad. I would that he would let me do something for him. Turning her gaze back to the young man, she added, “ Eh, monsieur, you should not speak so of God. If anything, monsieur, I am quite certain He is happy to see you here. Forgive me for saying it but you look as if you could do with a bit of divine help.”


She dropped her gaze then, studying her hands clasped in her lap. A faint blush rose to her cheeks. Have I said too much? Pere Mathieu [b[was[/b]always scolding me for my sharp tongue “Jehanne, my child, I fear your desire to be proven right often outweighs your desire to help those around you,” he often said.[/i] “Please, forgive me. I often speak out of turn. I hope I have not offended you too greatly. I only wish to help, truly.”


Jehanne played with a loose thread in her blouse, avoiding his gaze. Perhaps it would be best if she simply left. Doubtless I have upset him with my harsh words, though I only spoke the truth. It would not be the first time she had unwittingly offended someone since coming here. Several of the clerks—and a good many people on the streets—now gave her cross looks when she saw them. [i[It is not my fault they do not know how to behave themselves, and swear and dress immodestly. If no one has ever told them, how can they know? I simply wish to help.[/i]


But her help was not always appreciated. Biting back a sigh, Jehanne got to her feet. Perhaps she could make it home without becoming completely soaked. “Excuse me, monsieur, but I should be going. Doubtless I have troubled you enough.” A loud clap of thunder shook the church as lightening flashed across the sky. Rain poured down, drumming on the roof and running in streams down the windows. Well, now I suppose I must stay here.. Keeping her gaze on the floor, Jehanne returned to the pew. She kept her head down as she sat. Perhaps if I do not say anything, he shall not be as angry.

[ROGER DAVIS]

Or I could fetch the priest if you would feel better talking to him.

"I didn't come here to talk."

The priest. What could would a man sitting in a confessional do? If anything, Mark was his priest, the fact ironic to him given that Mark was a Jew (though, Roger had gotten on his best friend hundreds of times for doing things in a very anti-Jew way, he remembered). She continued, saying that God was happy to see him here, and he found himself laughing. Laughing though nothing, absolutely nothing was funny, and he drew a drag in from the cigarette before blowing it out in a thin line above him. He glanced down and saw a puddle near where the girl had been kneeling. He leaned over and stubbed his cigarette out in the small puddle before stuffing it in his pocket.

"God knows he'll probably see me soon enough."

It still stung every time. Sure, sometimes he could ignore it, or make light of it as a very sick joke, but every once in a while, it hit him. It hit him and he realised that he was dying. And not in the way that others were dying; he was dying a little every day, and he had no control of it.

And then, she was moving to stand, saying that she was sorry that she spoke out of turn, and that she only wished to help, and then she was moving towards the door. Roger let a breath escape his lips until he jerked slightly at the thunder, watching as the stained glass windows lit up in bright colours, marked by the water running down them, and he realised that the girl had sat next to him once again.

He wanted to tell her that he wasn't as mean as he put out. That he wasn't as heartless and he wasn't as cold, but would she believe it? "You want to help?" Roger asked, not looking at her. "Tell me why...God lets things happen to people who don't deserve it. Sure, they made a few bad mistakes. Sure, they might have indulged on a few Deadly Sins here and there," That was a complete lie; he hadn't indulged on a few of the Deadly Sins, he had taken a hold of them, held them close and tried to feel every single one until exhaustion took hold. "but in the end, they were good people who made a few bad choices and for that? They're damned. They'll never have a full life or a family or anything really worthwhile. Isn't there second chances in the bible somewhere? What about all this love and happiness and just that God's supposed to be? Forgive me if I don't feel the lovely religious glow."

He realised he had started to ramble to a girl who probably didn't know what she was getting into. He was instantly reminded of the clergy at Angel's funeral. The one who hadn't been a man of god at all, but had basically spit on them when he found out they didn't have the money for the church. He remembered the people outside of the funeral, the ones that had heard about Angel, ones that claimed to be men and women of god, but cursed them as they walked out. Said that they were sinners and deserved the sickness that god had put upon them. Addicts and faggots and bohemian scum.

All of them had claimed to be men and women of God, Roger realised, but this girl...she looked sweet. And she hadn't spit on him yet, or cursed his name and told him that he was a sinner.

"Oh, and just so you know, I'm sick. The kinda sick that everything thinks they can get from being in the same area. If you're going to go on that you're scum and God's ashamed of you bit, save it. I think I do enough self hated for the both of us."

[JEHANNE MARIE D'ARC]

Jehanne’s head jerked up as the man spoke of God seeing him very soon. Oh, the poor fellow! Little wonder he seems so ad! However, before she could think of anything to say in reply, the man spoke again, bombarding her with questions. She wasn’t surprised. I have often wondered the same and I have not been through whatever this poor man has. She frowned, thinking. How to answer? She was quiet for awhile, turning the words over inside her head. Father Matthieu and I often talked of this. I should remember enough to be of some help.


At last she looked up at the man again. “Well, monsieur, I have asked myself that a good many times, and my priest back home would discuss it with me. I believe it is this way: sometimes bad things happen to people because of their own choices. Sometimes they happen because of the bad choices of other people. And sometimes it is no one’s fault at all—which to me is the hardest to understand. The world has fallen, because of man’s sin, and is no longer the perfect place it was—that God created it to be. Death—in all its forms—is here and it seems to me that a better question to ask is not why does God let it happen but what does He do to help us get through it? And He does a good deal. There are people to talk to, to help share the burden and the chance that you will see those you love again in heaven.”


Her eyes narrowed as he mentioned his sickness again, and how he hated himself. “If you are as sick as you say, perhaps you should not be out in this weather. I am certain that whoever you came here to see would not wish that. As for God’s being ashamed of you, I would not pretend to know the mind of the Lord, monsieur, but I know from what Father Matthieu has told me that God loves everyone and wishes them all to come to Him. He may not like your actions, monsieur—I do not know what you have done or not done—but He loves you. I am certain He does not think you are scum, and neither do I.” She paused for breath and added, “I am called Jehanne, by the way.” She smiled up at him. Mayhap some of what I have said has helped. I hope so.

[ROGER DAVIS]

to help share the burden and the chance that you will see those you love in heaven.

Roger curled his knees to his chest, keeping his eyes trained on the wooden pew in front of him. "God doesn't like people who kill themselves." Roger stated after a moment, glancing over at the woman. "I'm not much of a religious person, but my mom was. I went to church a few times. I know that much is true. You can't do that and expect to walk that pearly path to heaven. It just doesn't happen that way." Of course, he knew that when he had tried to do the same thing April had, but he had wondered; if he hadn't gotten into heaven, would he had least have been put where April was? Where ever all of those people ended up, would he had found her there?

He listened to the woman continue, and he pursed his lips. "God doesn't like people who kill themselves, right? So what happens...when people end up killing themselves without realising it? Surely God's a little more than pissed off that I decided to..." He wasn't sure how to continue; the girl seemed like a serious god-fearing woman, and even though he wasn't feeling in the mood to talk, he did partly wonder if he'd shock or offend her at some point.

"What I did...I killed myself. I ended up killing myself even though I'm still alive." he paused as she stated that she was sure that god didn't think he was scum and neither did she. "You don't even know me." Roger said, scoffing slightly. But the people at Life Support was just the same. They didn't know anything, yet they understood it all.

"My name's Roger."

[JEHANNE MARIE D'ARC]

Jehanne shook her head at the man—Roger’s—words. “It is wrong to take your own life, monsieur, but if you did not mean to…” She cocked her head and studied him. “What did you do? Did whoever you are here to see, did they kill themselves?” Jehanne ducked her head as her cheeks flushed. Perhaps I should not have asked that. He may not wish to speak of it. “Forgive me, monsieur, I do not mean to pry.” She added, “I would not pretend to speak for God, monsieur. All I know is what my priest has told me.” Jehanne twisted a loose thread around her finger, staring at her hands. Please do not let him be angry with me. He seems so lost and I would help him if I could. Poor fellow. Is this my mission? Is this what my Voices wish me to do? Though her heart raced at the thought, her Voices did not come. Ah well, I must wait and see then.



Resting her head against the pew, she said, “And you are still alive. If it was not your intent to take your life, then you simply were careless. If it was, well, you are not dead, so you could still repent.” She lifted her head at his next words. “Indeed, I do not know you, but I try not to judge people based upon how they look. You seem to be a kind enough man to me.” A faint smile flickered across her face. “I believe the rain has stopped, monsieur.” Still she was in no hurry to leave the church. It was quiet and dry here. And I am safe. “Do you come here often? Do you see many people when you come?” Perhaps if the church was empty often enough, Jehanne could come in and pray when she liked. The others made her nervous. Suppose they heard me speaking with my Voices? No, that would certainly not be good.

[ROGER DAVIS]

(OOC: First person, 'cause that's what I'm feelin' rn <3)

What did you do? Did whoever you are here to see, did they kill themselves?

What didn't I do? I didn't everything and anything, I wanted to tell her. I did uppers, I did downers. I tripped balls on Acid and floated on white puffy clouds of Heroin. I slept with any girl that smiled at me nice or told me I looked good. I loved and lived to feel. Emotions were my drug. So what didn't I do? Absolutely nothing. I then thought of what she had asked. "Yes."

Sometimes, it was easier to lie. To my mother, April had left me. Ran off back to California with some guy. It was easier to say that she had left me because she'd still be alive if she had left me. I couldn't tell my mother she died. I almost wanted her to have left me because it wouldn't have left this scarred hole inside of me. "...she slit her wrists." The words had been repeated over and over again, and yet they still stung as they passed my lips. "When she found out we were both sick. She woke up one morning, drew a bath, and killed herself."

It sounded so simple when I explained it and yet the explanation was anything but simple. It was violent. Disgusting. The smell had been horrible and the sight even more so, and I could still recall all of it two years later. The woman--Jehanne--continued and I felt my tongue dart out to lick dry lips. "I'm still alive." I echoed with a slight scoff. "Depending on what day you see me, baby, is whether I'm alive or not. Today? I'm not." Was it melodramatic? Sure, but melodramatic or not, it was the truth. Sometimes, I was alive. Smiling and happy and alive and other days, like today, I felt dead inside.

Do you come here often? Do you see many people here?

"I was here three weeks ago for a friend...who died." Sue had died. I remember Paul at Life Support telling us that Sue was in the hospital, that she was so sick that she couldn't receive visitors and then the next week, he had been holding back tears when he said she had passed away in the hospital. We ate at the Life Cafe but it hadn't been the same. It was another reminder. We were next.

"There wasn't alot of people at her service."

The rain had stopped, she said, and I looked towards the stained glass windows. "I don't really want to go home right now. And I'm not always kind. I'm sort of a jerk."

[JEHANNE MARIE D'ARC]

“Oh!” Jehanne’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, I am so sorry.” Without really thinking about it, she reached out and took Roger’s hand. How terrible! Little wonder he seemed so sad and troubled! She shook her head as he spoke of his friend who had just died. “I am sorry. What a terrible burden for you.” So much death. Did this friend have the same illness Roger has? Jehanne kept the question to herself. He is so wretched, I certainly do not wish to trouble him further.


Her brow arched as he spoke of not being alive on certain days. Yet I see him sitting here before me. Perhaps he means he does not feel alive. Metaphors make my head hurt. Back home, everyone spoke plainly. Or so it seemed to me. Jehanne had received enough strange looks since coming here to guess that perhaps her speech was not as easily understood as she believed it was. Yet how else can I say what I would? I grew up learning to speak thus. It was not only that the words sounded different—and that people here often swore, something almost no one did back home—but the words used were different. Shorter. As if the words were somehow compressed. Jehanne shook her head. I can make no sense out of it at all.


Her eyes filled with tears and her fingers tightened around Roger’s hand at his final words. She swallowed the lump that had risen in her throat. “I shall stay with you, if you like, and we may visit awhile.” Jehanne ducked her head and studied her feet. “To tell you the truth, I am not always kind either. Father Matthieu, my priest at home, often scolded me for my sharp tongue and Papa says I am fonder of speaking than I am listening, so if I say something which offends you, please forgive me. It is not my intent to do so, I simply do not always think before I speak.”

[ROGER DAVIS]

Her hand touched mine and for a brief second, I wanted to pull away. I used to be such a touchy guy. What a terrible burden for you. See, that's what April didn't realise. That while she had gotten to leave, take the easy way out, she left so much shit behind. So much heartache. So much pain. So many questions. And hell, maybe she knew that, too. I don't know. It wasn't like I could ask her.

Her fingers tightened around mind and I wanted to pull away, but the girl spoke again and I looked over at the woman as she spoke. I simply do not always think before I speak. A watery sort of chuckle left my throat, and I felt myself nod slightly. "My best friend say that I don't think before I say something. I've...hurt alot of people by not thinking before I say something." That was the truth. So many times I had lashed out at Mark, at Collins, at Mimi. All because my brain thought it'd be awesome to bypass that little filter.

"People don't think I listen to them. Or that I notice things around me. But I do. Sometimes...sometimes people think that I'm not paying attention, but in reality, I just don't know how to say what I should say." The entire seven months after April had died. I saw Mark and Maureen's relationship crumble around me and I wanted to say something. I really did and yet, I didn't know how to say it. I didn't know how to make Mark leave or bring Maureen back and I said things a little too late.

Story of my fucking life, I swear.

"You don't offend me..." I found myself saying after a moment. "Believe me...if you knew me...not much offends me." I actually found a small ghost of a smirk hit my lips before I realised it and it vanished.

"I just...don't like churches."

[JEHANNE MARIE D'ARC]

Jehanne nodded in response to Roger's words. "Yes, I have often heard the same from others." She smiled up at him. "I am glad that I do not offend you. You seem like a kind man in spite of what you say." Perhaps she was sent here to help him? Maybe her Voices would tell her soon. I hope that they will.

She tipped her head back, staring up at Roger. "Oh, monsieur, how can you say that?" she exclaimed. "How can you not like churches?" Jehanne shook her head. What could ever possess someone to say such a thing? Churches were beautiful and peaceful. Even if he did not believe--and it did not seem that he did--how could he fail to notice the beauty around him? Such a thing was beyond Jehanne's understanding.

[ROGER DAVIS]

Oh, Monsieur, how can you say that? How can you not like churches?

Churches, for most people, were something that, I figured, were a happy place. People liked churches. I wasn't religious by any means; thankfully (or un-thankfully, depending on who you talked to) my mother had spared me of a forced religious background. Where we lived, you were either a Jew or a Catholic. That was just who was around the neighbourhood. My mother was on the Catholic side of things. My dad, I think, was a Jew, but she hadn't pressured me. I wondered then what would I could have been like if I had gone to church. Gone by the good way. I certainly wouldn't have tried to inject or snort to swallow every drug I came in contact with, that was for sure. I wouldn't have tried to fuck anything with tits and a vagina. I wouldn't have drank myself half to death as much as I had in the past.

God, even now when I thought of it, that life sounded so...boring. There were people that said that God was just as intoxicating as any drug, but I've had some wicked powerful drugs in my time. But at any rate, the thought of churches had never bothered me before April. Before I got sick. "What do you feel when you come in here?" I found myself asking. "Joy? Happiness? The overwhelming feeling of...Jesus or whatever shining his Jesus-light down on you?" I felt myself swallow. "Every time I come in here...I have look at a picture of someone. Hear people cry about how their aunts or brothers or sisters or best friends were the best people on the planet and god damn that AIDS for taking them down. I had to listen two weeks ago as a little girl, not any older than seven years old, told a bunch of people that she missed her big sister and she didn't understand why she had to leave. Everyone around here, they're dropping like flies. One by one. Bam. Bam. Bam." I snapped my fingers at every word. "Dropping dead. Hell, just two days ago one girl, sweet as apple-fucking-pie, dropped dead in her living room. Because why? Because her bloodcells betrayed her. Every time I come in here, it's because someone died. And you know what? Every time I come in here, I'm thinking that tomarrow? All that's left of me will be a picture on that alter and a pine box six feet under. It's not cool. It's not fun. It sucks. That's why I hate churches."