Chapter 1: Same Old Smoke and Mirrors
Author's Note: I did it. I wrote it. Another one, because—don't resent me for this—I hated the last one. So this is Saw Adam/Lawrence slash take two. Completely unrelated to the first. Redux. As of yet unfinished. And it's all SONGFIC STYLE!
Smoke.
Breathe it in and breathe it out
Cloud. Veil. Haze.
i.e., something you couldn't see through. Twenty-twenty vision doesn't do you any good when you can only see as far as two inches of cigarette.
And pass it on, it's almost out
There once was a lunatic who captured a man named Adam Faulkner and put him in a cage to see if he would die. Adam only draws that parallel because he remembers the look on a child's face when they drop a mouse into their snake terrarium. The intent is for the snake to eat the mouse so that the child can observe a brutal act of nature. To see snake fangs spearing down on an oblivious animal, jaws crushing its bones, swallowing it down alive, and digesting it slowly. Because the snake only has two choices, really. Eat the mouse, or starve. Any creature confined similarly would act similarly. Aside from that, it's no fun if the snake doesn't bite. Then what are you supposed to do with the mouse?
Of course, Jigsaw's puzzle had been a little more evolved than that. Same brain, human element. Same schematics with the guise of some pseudo-philosophic, bullshit reasoning invented by a man who somehow managed to retain that sociopathic sliver of inhumanity that children are supposed to have grown apart from as they mature. A man who didn't like to get his hands dirty. And you have to be brilliant to keep your hands clean when it comes to death. He could be equated to a monster, but he wasn't. Adam won't call him a monster because monsters have power, and Jigsaw really had none. All he had was what he considered to be a novel idea. That's what he wanted the papers to say, wasn't it? What an original thinker. What an extraordinary human being.
We're so creative, so much more
We're high above, but on the floor
What a crock of shit.
Not that Adam has anything to boast about himself. He isn't original. He isn't unique. He's never been an extraordinary anything. Anyone—a monkey—could run his life just as easily as he. A monkey that smokes its weight in nicotine every day, but a monkey.
These days Adam gets out of bed, looks in the mirror, and says to his reflection, "Adam, you're a fraud." And then he lights up another stick, because he's been itching to since he opened his eyes.
It's not a habit, it's cool, I feel alive
If you don't have it you're on the other side
Adam isn't entirely certain whether or not his ordeal qualifies as a 'near death experience', whatever the hell that means. It wasn't like he was bled within an inch of his life. Someone said they were going to kill him. Wasn't that all? Once Adam accidentally jerked his elbow too hard and hit a friend in the face, who promptly replied, "Adam, I'm gonna fucking kill you for that!" Adam didn't consider that to be a near death experience either. Of course, in that instance, there hadn't been a chain around his ankle or a tape monotonously explaining to him why he deserved to die.
Adam thinks back to something he saw on TV one night about a free-range skier who got caught in an avalanche and was trapped for days under eighteen feet of snow. He lost six fingers and three toes to frostbite, but other than mild dehydration he had been fine. Later, on some interview about his incident, the man—Adam remembers an enthusiastic crackpot with a sun burnt face and dark sunglasses—raved to the camera about how much the whole thing changed his life for the better.
"I mean it was just some average day out in the snow, but suddenly there's eighteen feet of death sitting on top of me and I feel like a corpse. And the blood's rushing to your face and you arms and legs and you just wanna…just scream but no one's gonna hear you! It's insane, it's like a rush, but you're dying, and I was just thinkin' 'Man, is this it?' You make your peace with the man upstairs and everything, but then—then someone's diggin' you out of your grave…And I tell ya, realizing that you're alive after you thought you were dead already—it's like being high, it's like a drug." he then leaned very close to the camera, his sunglasses gone and his eyes wide with a psychotic half-smile on his face. "A drug."
The deeper you stick it in your vein
The deeper the thoughts, there's no more pain
I'm in Heaven, I'm a god
I'm everywhere I feel so hot
Adam had blown smoke at the screen in turn for the smoke being blown up his ass and changed the channel to watch some big-titted broad lounge by a pool in some D-grade action movie. Life is a drug? When was the high supposed to kick in?
It's not a habit, it's cool, I feel alive
If you don't have it you're on the other side
I'm not an addict—maybe that's a lie
Adam has moved on. He still does gigs—works three or four nights a week making a hundred or two a pop. Taking pictures of sleazy man-whores and corrupt business associates was really all he knew. He doesn't have any kind of phobia of taking pictures or holding his camera. He uses the bathroom every day and never makes the association, because when a he's gotta piss, he's gotta piss. He doesn't wake up with nightmares and think he's still chained to rusty, shit-covered pipes. He isn't afraid of the dark, or his apartment, or even his hall closet. There are few to no lingering voices. It's almost as though the whole ordeal hasn't made the slightest impact on his life.
Except that it has. Adam feels emptier now than ever before.
It's over now, I'm cold, alone
I'm just a person on my own
Nothing means a thing to me
There once was a lunatic who captured a man named Adam Faulkner, and tested him to see if he was worthy of the life he had abused. Adam hadn't passed the test, but he was still alive. Now what?
These days Adam gets out of bed, looks in the mirror, and asks his reflection, "Is this what I was supposed to be grateful for?" And then he takes another drag, because he's already smoking a cigarette.
Oh nothing means a thing to me
Last night he had met with a client who scraped for a whole month just to offer up one seventy-five for a job. Luke Alfred, a not-so-happily married forty-three year-old man who had arranged to meet with Adam in his garage where he was fixing up his truck engine. The moment Adam had stepped into the gritty, cluttered, dirt and oil stained garage, he felt a sick sense of familiarity. It was the first time he felt afraid again. Like maybe he was still being watched. Luke Alfred turned out to be a very normal guy—but so was virtually anyone else Adam did business with. He shook his hand, offered him a beer, and explained his situation to the best of his abilities. "Really," he confessed with shamed blue eyes, "…I just need a reason to divorce her. …I can't live like this anymore."
"Sure." Adam had said. What did he care? As long as he got paid. Luke suddenly launched into his life story from the moment his head was crowning and Adam politely tuned out. Usually all he needed was the name, face, and workplace. And his money, of course. A few weeks later, Luke would have a court case. He drank his beer quietly in the dim light of the dingy garage, his eyes traveling around in boredom at the walls and tabletops lined with tools, spare parts, food wrappers, and just plain shit no one needs but no one has the time to sort through and throw out. It was a little like his apartment, but also a little like…his eyes stopped on a slightly rusted hand saw leaning up on top of a particle board desk.
"Those things'll kill you."
Adam stared blankly into Luke's marginally wrinkled face.
Luke gestured to the cigarette that Adam hadn't realized he'd been lighting.
He looked down at it before putting it between his lips. "They'll have to get in line."
Sure they're not good for him, but what is? It sounds so melodramatic put that way, he thinks, but his personal drama isn't the point. Cigarettes satisfy him, calm his nerves, bring him back down to earth. Anyone who doesn't smoke doesn't understand.
It's not a habit, it's cool, I feel alive
If you don't have it you're on the other side
I'm not an addict—maybe that's a lie
Adam has the pictures stored somewhere in his red room. Luke was right—she was a cheating slut. They usually were. He sits on his bed and thinks about the paint peeling on his walls, because he has nothing else to think about. His brain cycles and rests, cycles and rests, and begs for the occasional smoke. It doesn't fantasize desires or even rue old memories anymore because they just don't seem to matter. After his last girlfriend left him, he had angrily tossed all her pictures into the trash. He only now realizes he missed one as he sees the corner of it poking out from under the bed, but he doesn't care enough anymore to throw it away. There are pictures all over this place anyway. Just because one is of someone he actually knew doesn't seem to make a difference now. And it never occurs to him that for all the hundreds upon hundreds of photographs in this apartment, not a single one is of himself.
"What does a voyeur see when he looks in the mirror?" mutters some voice from the past.
These days Adam gets out of bed, looks into the mirror, and tells his reflection, "Fuck you." Then he puts out what is already his third cigarette of the day.
So Adam is back to his old routine. He smokes, takes pictures, watches TV, sleeps, and smokes. Same old, same old. He doesn't know if picking up along this path again will get him killed—or kidnapped again. But that's mostly because he doesn't think. At this point nothing would surprise him anyway. Not even the sudden knock on the door, despite that fact that he has no idea who that could be. The knock doesn't faze him remotely. But when he shuffles himself to the door and swings it open to see a man he doesn't recognize, something knocks the wind out of him where he stands.
"Adam." Says the man in an earth-shatteringly familiar voice.
Free me, leave me
Watch me as I'm going down
Adam blinks, and stares, and says nothing. Not interested. He wants to say crassly and shut the door, but then he finally realizes who the man at his door is. Fucking Lawrence Gordon. The snake that wouldn't bite. After two months it's hard to recognize someone you only knew for a day, no matter how long you stared at their face or how many times you saw their picture on TV. But Adam hadn't really been paying attention to that anyway. He stares at the dirty blonde beginnings of Lawrence's sprouting beard and almost wants to laugh, but it doesn't really feel like a laugh-out-loud moment. "Oh. Hey." He says, as if he hasn't just been blow away.
Lawrence clears his throat and leans an arm against the doorframe in a casualness that strikes Adam as out of character. "You're not…busy…or anything. Are you?"
"No." Adam replies. He's still too caught up in wondering what's happening to bother to invite him in.
Lawrence doesn't take his eyes off Adam's face, as if something is very wrong with the younger man. It pisses Adam off. He wants Lawrence to explain what the hell he's doing here but he doesn't feel like he should actually have to ask. "What?" he demands.
Lawrence pauses, then shakes his head. "Adam, you…look like shit."
Fuck. Adam averts his eyes to an adjacent wall. How bad must he look that he puts that look on the face of a doctor? "Nice." He responds nonchalantly. "You look like a million fucking dollars."
Lawrence looks mildly embarrassed and self-consciously rubs his face. "Right. Sorry. I didn't mean…"
"What are you doing here?" Adam finally asks, but it sounds much angrier than he really is.
Lawrence swallows. "Sorry. Adam…should I le-leave?" He's behaving strangely. He looks like a wounded animal or something—not in its right mind. Then Adam smells the alcohol. …Fuck… What a mess.
"…" Adam kicks the door open lazily and motions for him to enter.
Lawrence stares for a long while at the door in trepidation before stepping in. "I guess you're probably wondering why I'm here…"
"For starters, yeah." Adam replies as he flops down on his couch and picks up a magazine he's read a thousand times but never looked at. "Your wife kick you out after that drinking binge or something?"
"I've been drinking—I'm not drunk." Lawrence says sternly. He quickly softens up however, probably reminding himself that he's a guest. Like Adam really gives a fuck. "I wanted to see how you were."
Took your sweet time. Adam twitches just slight, then shrugs and continues to pretend he's reading an article.
There's an awkward pause. "Are you? Okay, I mean?"
Adam leers over. "Sure. Perfect." Isn't he okay? He has no problems paying rent. There's no shortage of liars and cheaters out there. He doesn't cry himself to sleep, cut his wrists, or swallow anti-depressants like some angst-ridden teenage attention whore. He moves, breathes, functions. What isn't okay about that? Why does he feel like he's lying?
Free me, see me
Look at me
"Good. That's good." Lawrence says with relief. "I was worried that you…That…well you told me that you lived alone, and I was just—"
"Look, it's a real noble gesture and all, but I don't need your emotional charity." Adam snaps. A long silence passes between them before he shakes his head and grunts. "You wanna sit down instead of standing there? I've got some beer in the fridge, you can tie one on or something…"
Minutes later they're sitting on the couch together drinking cold Corona and staring at a television that Adam thinks about turning on because he isn't sure he really wants to hear what Lawrence came here to say. Did his wife really kick him out? Or is he about to pour out the psychological damage he's been living with for the past two months, because Adam isn't especially eager to hear the problems of a man rich enough to be able to afford a therapist.
"I know it's been some time…" Lawrence starts. Oh goody, here comes the explanation. "And I was looking for you—I really was."
"How did you know I lived here, anyway?" Adam asks, because for some reason, this oddity hasn't occurred to him yet.
Lawrence seems reluctant to answer, so he eases the passage with another swig. "…I remembered…that you were a patient in my hospital." He pauses. "You know…after. So I dug up your file."
Adam shifts uncomfortably and crosses his arms as if he is very cold. "Great. So now you're stalking me."
"I'm not—" Lawrence looks over and catches the sarcasm, so he settles for a glare and shuts his mouth. It's another few minutes of wordless, dead air before Lawrence chances another look over. "Are you sure you're alright? …You look…Adam, when I met you, you looked as though you didn't have an ounce of fat on your body. And now you look like you must've dropped at least fifteen pounds."
Twenty, actually. He can't remember the last time he ate, but smoking kills the majority of his appetite, so it's not like he's hurting any. "What's your point?"
"That you aren't healthy." Lawrence's eyes clearly scan over the vast graveyard of cigarette cartons on the floors, tables, chairs, and furniture.
"Yeah, well, excuse me if I'm skeptical taking the word of a soused doctor." Adam brushes off the remark and grips his own beer violently by the neck.
I'm falling
And I'm falling…
Lawrence just shakes his head and doesn't comment.
He doesn't know how much longer Lawrence is planning to stay, but he hopes that it isn't much and that he finds the balls enough to come to a point. It's obvious that Lawrence is uncomfortable if not repulsed by Adam's cheap, messy living quarters, so what's making him stay here?
"Okay, so you found me." Adam relents back into conversation. "Now what do you want?"
Lawrence defends himself without becoming defensive, a trait Adam finds to be unattainable. "I…just wanted to see how you were doing."
Right. Adam mentally snorts. Same question, same answer. It's only been a matter of minutes, but this will never end if he doesn't end it. "Well as you can see, I'm just peachy. Anything else I can help you with Doc?"
Lawrence either refuses to take the hint or he's just an extremely stubborn man. "Are you seeing anyone?"
"What?"
"…I don't mean to be so personal, I was just wondering."
Adam gives him a long, resentful look and takes a drink. "You see any panties between the cushions?"
"Alright. Well what about pets? Do you have any?"
Adam can't quite find within him a response that expresses his frustration at such an arbitrary question. The answer is no, he's never had pets. He doesn't have the attention span for something that needs as much care as a dog, he would never remember feed something like a goldfish or any caged animal sitting on a desk all day, and he doesn't like cats—or, more aptly really, cats don't like him with his habit of petting things too aggressively. "What the fuck kind of questions are these?"
"I-I was just making small talk, I don't—" Lawrence stands up and begins to pace around with some difficulty on his gimp leg. "I don't know."
Adam meets his urge to yell in the middle with a pissed off smirk. "If you knew you were gonna have a mental breakdown, why did you come here to do it?"
"A mental breakdown? Is that what you think this is?" Lawrence stares down at Adam with panic—actual, real panic—something that he knows a man like Lawrence is not easily pushed to. But it deflates so quickly he almost wonders if he saw it at all. Lawrence chuckles, defeated. "Maybe you're right."
"Great." Adam replies as he sinks down even deeper into the couch. He can't remember ever having wanted a cigarette so bad since…hell, breakfast. But he presumes that he doesn't want to see whatever look on present company's face may come about from lighting one up. On second thought, fuck it. It's his house. Besides, he doesn't have to look at his face. Adam snatches a half empty carton off his table and pounds one out. "There something you're actually looking to say or what?" he grinds out as he cups a hand over the flame of his lighter and brings it to his face.
It is not a habit, it is cool, I feel alive, I feel…
It is not a habit, it is cool, I feel alive
Somehow Adam can actually hear the despairing frown, but whether it's at his statement or his current actions he can't say. He hears an abject thump of hollow prosthetic on the floor and imagines some silent, dramatic sigh. "I've been thinking about the uh…the day we met." He enunciates with morbid sarcasm. "A lot, actually."
"Really." Adam deadpans. He grits his teeth when he can feel Lawrence staring at him. He must be picturing the poor recluse Adam, cowering alone in his apartment with nothing but the nightmares to keep him company.
"In fact, lately it's all I think about. Lately it's…all I think about…" he trails off. Clearly the good doctor isn't quite as eloquent when he's drunk. Scratch that, 'been drinking'. "You were right about Allison."
Adam carefully drags his eyes up to Lawrence's and tries to remember why that should be. "She kicked you out?"
"I don't know if it happened in as much simplicity, but we aren't living together anymore."
The question Lawrence refuses to ask is obviously becoming dire. Adam has a funny feeling that it's going to involve him in some way. "Are you serious? Okay…so what, you need a drinking buddy? Someone to pat you on the shoulder and give you some fish-in-the-sea speech? When are you moving?" Adam's counter-questions are a jumble of thoughts, both frustrated and curious and beginning to suspect that Lawrence is asking him for a place to stay the night.
"I'm already gone." Lawrence mumbles and rubs his brow. "A hotel on 27th. They don't clean the sheets well and their walls are poorly insulated. The price is alright. I suppose."
Previous theory thwarted, Adam remains at a loss. He clears his throat. "Sorry."
"It's fine." Lawrence says mechanically.
If Lawrence is looking for pity, he isn't going to find much, but he has to have known that to begin with. It's clear by his refusal to elaborate that he isn't here to talk about family matters, either. Adam is supremely tired of this guessing game. "If it's fine, what's with the drinking?"
"Is that a joke?" Lawrence asks blankly, like he really doesn't know.
"It's a god damn question. You asked me if I had any pets." Adam flips up a hand and takes a few more neurotic hits.
"Right." Lawrence cracked a fleeting smirk and shook his head, setting down his beer and preparing for more awkward pacing. "I just don't know how to ask this, and I…well I'm pretty sure I already know the answer."
"Not sure enough I guess."
Lawrence's sighs and stares at the wall for a while. "I really admire you Adam. I mean that."
That one floors him. Where did that come from—and why? People have looked on him with a hell of a lot of things before, but admiration has definitely never been one of them. What self-respecting surgeon would deign to value any trait of someone who hadn't even made it through community college?
Lawrence continues whether or not he's making sense, his hands supporting him behind his back against the back of the couch. "You're making it alone. I'm not. I don't think I've ever really been able to, but I know that now, for damn sure, I can't. Maybe you're used to it or maybe you're just braver than I am, but I could really use some of that courage."
Adam feels slightly guilty, because really he's just a shell, and Lawrence doesn't know that. There's nothing in him—sure, no fear, but no courage either. And no empathy. "Oh." He croaks, because he doesn't know what's polite to say back to that and that's as close as he gets.
"I don't…if…I don't know if you ever have trouble paying rent or something. I wouldn't. It's just, um…" and then Lawrence snaps, and falls back into his nature of brutal honesty. "I can't live alone. I've tried. It's not because I'm lonely, it's…I've become a real fucking coward. You know?"
Adam nods, but it's a lie.
"Why am I asking you? Isn't that what you want to know?"
Adam looks around at his walls as if they will assure him that yes, he is currently witnessing crazy, and shrugs.
"Because you're the only person I know." Lawrence responds with an empty drop in his tone. Silence floods the room so fast it feels like a fist to Adam's chest, but he can't break it because his mind won't supply him with the usual snide comment or question. Lawrence shakes his head once he sees this lack of a reply and looks down. "Pretty pathetic, isn't it?"
"What, the being in your forties and having no friends thing? Who fucking cares?" Adam watches ash fall onto his pant leg. "Friends are just people who can make fun of you on a personal level. People are a God damn plague."
"That's a little more bitter way of looking at it, but it's not because of antisocialism that I don't have friends. It's because of self-importance. My own… meaningless self-importance."
Feeling that they're getting to close to the therapy part, Adam rolls his eyes in a purposefully cold gesture. "What is that, a fancy way of saying you're a dick?"
"Pretty much." Lawrence agrees before pausing. "Does that mean you don't have anyone you're close to either?"
"No. Unlike you, I'm not a sad loser." Adam bites back. "I have booze and nicotine. We party all the time."
Lawrence stares so miserably at a beer bottle that Adam suddenly wants to apologize profusely. "Right. Of course. I should…get going."
Adam makes a move to get up, but doesn't follow it through. Even though he's been waiting for Lawrence to leave and get rid of this uncomfortable situation, he somehow doesn't expect to hear him say that. "If you have to." He allows in a small passive voice. "You should drop by again sometime." Which is a stupid thing to say, especially when he hasn't even bothered to confront Lawrence's strange request.
"Okay. So just…think about it, maybe. Maybe not…" Lawrence shakes his head again and reaches for the door. "Thanks for the beer. Here's my card in case you want to talk." He rifles into his pants pocket and places a stiff white card face down onto the nearest surface without looking at it. "I'll see you."
Adam doesn't say goodbye. He's still getting used to the idea of this conversation taking place at all, let alone ending it. But before his brain catches up, Lawrence is gone with nothing but a fancy business card lying slanted on top of a table nearby. His cigarette is almost completely burnt away, and so he reaches for a new one.
It's not a habit, it's cool, I feel alive
If you don't have it you're on the other side
I'm not an addict—maybe that's a lie
These days, Adam gets out of bed and can't bring himself to look into the mirror anymore. And by that time he's already finished his first pack.
I'm not an addict
I'm not an addict
I'm not an addict
Song: "Not an Addict" by K's Choice
