We Would Somehow Not Be Real

. . .

Hello, April. It's me, Roger. It's been…some time, I guess. I've been clean for…three…months now. I know it's not that long – three months, that is – but I guess it's a start. Or maybe it's an ending.

Here, I…brought you some flowers. I didn't know what you liked – it's funny, how we've been together for so long and I didn't even know what type of flowers you liked – so I just got you the standard red rose.

…Not to be mushy or anything – I refuse to be a hopeless romantic. And, anyway, don't you young girls like red roses?

Mark sends his greetings. He's still pretty much the same – you know, withdrawn yet trying to hide it behind his pseudo-friendly façade. He's still very much in love with his camera and doesn't think twice before shoving it into my face.

I honestly do not know what to tell you. I suppose I should begin with…myself— I'm not exactly…having an easy time…without you. I know, I know, it sounds cliché, but…It's been too long since I had inspiration.

My guitar's dying. Yes, that's it. My guitar's dying – and so is the right side of my brain. I'm locked in, April, I'm locked in. And I have no damn idea how to get out.

…Don't laugh at me, April. What? No, I didn't say anything. I just miss you, that's all. It's been – God, it's been so long. Or maybe my watch is broken. Or maybe the calendar has been lying to me the past twelve months.

Or maybe…

No, don't worry about me. Worry about yourself, April. Look what I've done to you. Look what you've done to me. Don't give me that look. Please, just don't. You and I both know we're beyond glares and the cold shoulder.

Listen, April, I'm planning to head out to the west. It's sunny there – and…hopefully not as dead. It's warm and there's not a sliver of cold. I'd ask you to join me, but—I know, you have a life here.

God, I miss you so much, April. Yes, I'm fine. I really am.

I am fine, April!

…Sorry, I didn't mean to scream.

. . .

"She's gone, Roger. You have to accept—"

"Shut up, Mark! Just shut up!"

"I'm…worried about you, Rog. You talk to her like she's still—"

"Don't freaking speak, Mark. Just…don't."

"Look, I know you're upset about—"

"I'm more than upset!"

"…Rog?"

"I'm more than upset, so just shut the hell up!"

"I can help, Rog. I'm your best friend…"

"I don't need your pity, goddamn it, Mark."

"I wasn't—"

"Fine. Fine. God, can you just leave me alone?"

"You're not stable enough—"

"To hell with stability!"

"Can't you just calm down—"

"No, I cannot 'just calm down!'"

"…I'm sorry."

"We already talked about this pity shit, so...I need time, Mark."

. . .

Hi, April. It's me, again. That was just Mark, being his Savior-Self. I don't think he'll ever learn that he can't save everyone. I doubt that he can even save himself from his inner demons.

But, enough about Mark. I'll deal with his Messiah hallucinations later. Right now, it's just me and you – Roger and April, April and Roger. The way things are supposed to be.

I ran out of flowers, so I brought you a guitar pick. It was my first ever guitar pick. Do you like it?

It's almost Christmas and despite Mark's claims of me not being sentimental, I still keep some of your stuff in a rusted metal box underneath the couch.

I still have your note and I won't pretend that I still talk to you. Mark is right. Perhaps some things are better left forgotten – n-no, I won't forget you, April, ever. But I am burning your note and I will forget of all the…bad things that had happened.

I am throwing your razor and your rusted needle and everything else because I do not believe you are dead.

I will never forget you, April, but I will forget about your note and reality and Christmas and my box of memories and the right brain.

There, I said it.

Now, I suppose I should say 'goodbye.'