Welcome, Anthony Rapp! — Page 284

Because I AM a dork.

And if you REALLY wanna see the kinda stuff I write... *sigh* Here's my intro post:

Shiver.

It was cold.

But then again, in the winter, it was always cold. Heat was difficult to afford, and there was no wood to throw into the illegal stove in the corner. Never mind the fact that the electricity had been cut for the night. That was a whole other problem to deal with.

There was no sound save for a slow, steady drip-drip-drip that echoed about the dark, empty loft, a sort of homage to the pitiful conditions in the East Village. Hell, there was no heat, there was no electricity and not even the faucets could take a reprieve from their constant leaking. The late evening snowfall did wonders to muffle the hustle and bustle of traffic and city life.

Roger struck a match and huddled cross-legged around his single remaining candle, trembling as he carefully lowered the flame to the wick. He was alone in the loft that night. Mark had gone out to document something or other for his new film, and quite honestly, Roger had no interest in helping his friend out. Not that he had interest in much of anything, anymore. All he cared about was his music. It was all he had left to care about, especially since…

Roger shook out the match and held his hands over the candle flame, hoping that its minimal heat would be enough to thaw out the impending frostbite.

"Sh!t," Roger murmured to himself, flexing the joints in his fingers as the flame danced in a small, drafty breeze. Hell if he knew where that came from. Mark and he had attempted countless times to decipher the source, but they were never able to fully eradicate it. With a rustle and a heaving sigh, Roger turned away from the candle, coughed hoarsely and scooped up his old, tattered acoustic, preparing to whittle away the cold with a little warm-up. Come to think of it, Roger hadn’t seriously played music for… a long time. A year, maybe—ever since he entered rehab. He hunched over the strings, awkwardly strumming a few chords with a grimace.

The damn thing was out of tune.

Well, no real surprise. At least it hadn’t rotted to pieces in the year he neglected to touch it.

Roger paused to zip up his old leather jacket and set to work twisting the guitar’s tuners, plucking a note here and there, testing the sound. He had a feeling that it would cause him far more aggravation than he was in the mood for. Ah, well… it wasn’t like he had anything else to do with his time.

Not that he wanted to do anything more with his time than write a song. Whatever time Roger had left.

And what a small amount of time it was.

Roger strummed away. Happy holidays, indeed.

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