Disclaimers: I don't own Saw or any of the characters.
Other: Hey, guys. So, I'm starting another Adam/Lawrence fic. This one is going to be darker than my other one. There won't be as many emotional scenes, and 'AWWW' moments. Diana will probably not be included until a lot later. Adam will be very...different from how he was in my other fic. I don't know how to explain it, other than simply saying that this one is darker. I have no idea where I'm going with this, what's going to happen, what it's basically about, or anything. It's nearly one in the morning, and I suddenly felt motivated to write this. I'm not dropping my other fic. I'm just going to be working on two stories now.
Hm. Well, I hope this doesn't crash and burn. Reviews are greatly appreciated. I hope you enjoy reading this. :) It's rather thrown together, but...-shrug- It'll do for now. Not too shabby for random work at this hour.
Nothing matters when you're alone. There's no denying it. You could pick up a cold, shiny razor and introduce it to your wrist. Let the warm blood stream down your numb arm as you crumple to the ground in a near-lifeless heap. Lie there, alone in the emptiness of your apartment, the life draining from your glassy eyes, all thought escaping your fuzzy mind, all muscles slowly relaxing. And does it really matter to anyone? Of course not; you're alone. Nobody's there to watch you suffer, to realize how terribly and truly alone you've been, to see how your heart has been aching and begging for attention, for care and love, important things that every human being craves and thrives on. Why do people seem so surprised when they walk into the scene of a suicide like this? Do they not look around at the place? Are they so blind and stupid as to ignore the shit you've been dealing with, the pain you've been strongly enduring, the sheer loneliness that ended up destroying you? It doesn't matter. You were alone. That's why it doesn't matter. Nobody loves you, nobody gives a fuck about you. If someone had, you wouldn't have been alone, you wouldn't have been dead and lying on that cold, hard, bloody tiled floor of your dirty bathroom in your empty apartment. That's why nothing matters when you're alone. Someone cleans up the mess you've made, and then you're gone from existence. That's all, folks. A couple of polite, old neighbors with no lives attend your funeral, discuss it for three days, and then they move on and forget about you within a week, while you rot in your grave. It doesn't matter, though. You were alone, and you always have been, so who cares if you're alone even when you die? Eternal darkness, warmness, and simple nothingness don't seem so bad when your life has been as shitty as it had been. The neighbors are fucking. I can hear her squealing like a baby pig while her beefy boyfriend rams in and out, moaning in a rather gay style. I wonder when her husband comes home. I'm gonna go snap a couple pictures of this hot affair, and sell them to her husband. I'm running low on cigarettes and alcohol. Maybe I'll browse the razor section. Peace out.
Adam closed the notebook, shoving it under his mattress. He's really low on money. He just managed to scrape together enough money to pay off this month's rent and paid it off yesterday. It's been two years since he'd been rescued from Jigsaw's Bathroom of Hell, and he'd been too traumatized to do much work. His apartment was as shitty as it had always been, with the peeling paint, roach infestation, no heat, and crappy lighting. Each room only had what was necessary. The kitchen had basic appliances, such as a cheap refrigerator, a microwave, and a couple of counters. There was no stove. What was the point? He didn't know how to cook. The bathroom…Well, if you aren't retarded, you'll know what's in there. Just take a peek into your own bathroom, decrease the size by five, subtract your fancy towels and toiletries, throw in a couple of roaches and rust stains, and you've got it about right. Then there was the living room; a.k.a, extra space that held a couch, a small TV, and a lamp. The bedroom held a bare mattress with a couple of pillows and a heavy blanket, and a dresser in the far end corner. Lastly was the darkroom, where most of his money had gone.
The young man – sickly pale with a body of lean muscle, a stubborn jaw, and large, child-like eyes the color of a foaming ocean – stood up and took an absent minded glance in the dirty mirror hanging on the wall. His soft black hair was disheveled, there were deep, dark bags beneath his eyes, and his cotton gray hoodie was ten sizes too big. He was practically drowning in it, and it made him look even more vulnerable. Tugging up his low-cut jeans, Adam pulled out a slightly crushed pack of cigarettes from his back pocket, shaking loose the last one, and tossed the now empty carton onto the floor. He placed it between his lips, lit it up, and took a deep draw.
Now that his nerves were calmed slightly, Adam grabbed his camera, his baby, his prized possession, and hung it around his neck via strap, shuffling over to the front door, exhaling a cloud of smoke. It was time to make quick thousand or so dollars. The money was needed badly. He hadn't eaten in a couple of days, and had been surviving on beer, really, given to him by the crazy drunk living across the hall from him.
Adam swung the door open and walked on out. Only to immediately slam into a tall, solid body smelling of clean aftershave and dry laundry. It was a very pleasant smell. Too bad he was too busy choking on smoke to really enjoy it. The impact was strong enough to send him sprawling across the dirty cement hallway. The crunch of his camera from beneath his chest was enough to stop time. A large hand grabbed his bicep and yanked him up to his feet. Adam immediately swung his arm, satisfaction coursing through his veins as his fist connected with a face, and a startled yelp met his ears. The young man's face was twisted in a furious snarl.
"Hey, listen up, asshole. You just fucking broke my two thousand dollar camera, and you'd better pay for it. Why the fuck were you chillin' in front of my door, you creep?" Adam shouted, glaring up at the tall man before him. The man looked rich, wearing black dress pants and shoes and a baby blue silk button-down shirt. His blonde hair was combed neatly, and his deep blue eyes looked surprised and concerned.
"I…I'm so sorry, of course I'll pay for it. Are you alright?" he said, reaching out and touching Adam's scraped jaw. Adam smacked his hand away.
"Back off, man!" he snapped, stepping away. Then he really looked at the man, and realization washed over him painfully cold and fast. He swayed on his feet, horror etching onto his face. He lost his vision, and his knees buckled. He would've hit that hard, dirty ground if the handsome man hadn't lunged forward and caught him.
"Adam!" the man exclaimed.
As Adam lost consciousness, the man's name flashed across his mind.
Dr. Lawrence Gordon; the man who'd been chained in the bathroom with him. The man who had shot him in the shoulder, leaving him a nasty scar. The man who had left him alone for four days in that torturous bathroom.
Lawrence was here. He'd found him.
Thanks for reading! :) Please review and let me know what you think. I plan on this story being a lot different from my other one, though it's rather early to tell right now. It's kind of short, I know. -_- But yeah...Enough rambling for now. Good night, guys! :) Hope you enjoyed it!