La Fin Des Bohèmes

Roger Davis’ death was inevitable.

He had accepted that there was no cure for the virus. He knew that the AZT would only slow down the speed at which death approached him.

He had already seen one of his friends suffer the excruciating indignity of the stark hospital ward, but nothing prepared him for what it would be like for himself.

The disinfected whiteness was such a contrast to the smoke-filled bars in which he had spent nights fulfilling his childhood wish.

Roger Davis died with his best friend and his guitar by his bedside, remnants of a lost dream.