2:

Some twenty minutes later, having rejected two slightly sketchy diners, Lawrence and Adam stepped into a half-restaurant, half-diner ten blocks from Adam's apartment. It had been an awkward walk over, as Adam felt inclined to slow his step so he wouldn't walk too far ahead of Lawrence, who had a distinctive, slow limp to his gait. In turn, Adam would trip over his own feet and embarrass himself every block or two. By the time they reached the diner Adam was considering moving to the country and never walking anywhere again. A cold wind blew through the half open door and Adam tugged his flannel over-shirt around himself tightly. He barely remembered putting it on, but he was glad for it. They settled themselves into a booth in the corner. Adam's eyes were continually dancing around the room, searching for dangers. He had grown increasingly paranoid over the past year. Occasionally, his face would twitch as pain shot through his chest and he would cringe. He was trying his best to hide it, but not doing so well.

"So." Lawrence began awkwardly. "This girlfriend of yours... does she live with you?" He wished he knew how to make better small talk.

Adam scoffed and said, "No, thank god." He looked over his shoulder briefly before continuing. "But if she wanted to she would."

"What do you mean?" Adam hated this conversation already. He hated talking about his girlfriend. If it were up to him she wouldn't be anywhere near him.

"No matter what I say or do, she does whatever the hell she wants. I can't stop her." He felt like such a pussy. Adam wanted to this conversation to end as soon as possible. Lawrence opened his mouth to say something, just as a waitress in a red apron walked up to them. Adam sighed in relief.

"What can I get you boys?" She was pretty, with long, dark wavy hair and dark eyes. Adam's expression changed almost instantly. His glum exterior was replaced by a vibrant, smiling young man that Lawrence had never met. Lawrence stifled a grin; Adam was obviously considering trying to flirt with her. She smiled at them openly, but it looked fake, forced.

"Can I smoke in here?" Adam asked. The waitress smiled and nodded and handed them menus. She asked for drink orders. Lawrence ordered a beer, and Adam asked for an iced tea. The waitress nodded again and walked off. Lawrence stared at Adam with a questioning gaze. In turn, Adam leaned against the table on one elbow and fumbled with a pack of cigarettes with his other hand. He eventually freed one and leaned back from the table to retrieve his lighter. Like everything Adam owned, it was cheap and worn. It took him three tries to get it to light. Relaxing against the vinyl of the booth's seat, Adam lit his cigarette and took a long drag. A long moment passed and then Lawrence asked, curiously, "Iced tea?" Adam exhaled with a laugh.

"I thought you were gonna ask about my smoking." He leaned forward against the table again. He had been concerned that Lawrence would jump down his throat about smoking, seeing as he was a doctor, a fucking oncologist, after all.

"No." Lawrence stared him down coolly, awaiting an answer.

"Well," He said after a long moment, taking another deep pull off his cigarette. "One of us has to be the designated driver." Lawrence laughed; Adam smirked, feeling clever. The waitress returned bearing drinks. She winked at Adam, who blushed on cue. Allowing his cigarette to dangle haphazardly from his lips, Adam reached across the table and plucked up four sugar packets. He poured the sugar into his tea two at a time, stirring quickly and keeping his eyes locked on the whirlpool that he was creating.

He had tried quitting after the bathroom. He had really tried to drop all his vices. He stopped drinking, stopped smoking, stopped taking pictures for money. He had gone cold-turkey on all of them, only to find himself shivering and puking his way through withdrawal a week later and lacking the funds to buy even a bottle of Aspirin. It was at this point that he began to put everything important to him next to his bed. The phone was a mere half foot away. His camera and film were all right there. During those few days of withdrawal he had wasted an entire roll of film on photos of his ceiling and bedroom. The few books he owned and liked to read migrated under the outer rim of his bed. Mostly they were trashy novels (mostly Michael Crichton; he somehow owned four copies of Jurassic Park), but there were two classics: a copy of Moby Dick that he had never read and Oscar Wilde's The Picture of Dorian Gray that he wasn't sure how he'd acquired it. There was a Nietzsche book under there too, but he never touched it. He had bought it to seem smart and intellectual, but it turned out that the kind of people he associated himself with didn't care whether he owned Nietzsche or not. There were piles of pictures and scraps of paper littered around the room. Being confined to his bed had encouraged him to consolidate everything he owned. However, he quickly became sick of being sick and had started smoking again, at which point his careful organization of important objects lost its necessity. His first cigarette had felt heaven sent. Next of his vices to return were his 10 a.m. visits to bars where he would order a pitcher of Miller High Life, the champagne of beers, and drink himself sick. The bartenders all watched him with scrutinizing eyes. No bartender wanted an alcohol-poisoned dead kid on their hands. They led to annoying police investigations and questions and all that, Adam figured, hampered business.

Finally, after exhausting all other options, Adam began answering the calls for his voyeur services again. He wasn't proud of it, he never had been, but he did it anyway.

"That's a lot of sugar." Lawrence said awkwardly.

"I like it sweet." Adam replied dryly. He continued to avoid looking at Lawrence by looking everywhere else in the restaurant. There was a couple sitting at a table by the window, leaning close into each other and talking, laughing. The woman smiled coyly too often for Adam's comfort. "I haven't eaten in a place with waiters in a while."

"Really?"

"Yea." Still holding the cigarette in his mouth, Adam exhaled. Over the years, he had become exceptionally skilled at smoking. At age fourteen, he had smoked his first cigarette. One of his older friends had bought a pack for him and Adam had waited until both of his parents were out of the house to open his bathroom window, lean out, and light up. He'd smoked it hesitantly, determined not to cough even once on the smoke. And so began an on and off fourteen year smoking habit. He slowly flipped through the menu, glancing over everything. His chest and stomach still hurt, so he really wasn't in the mood for eating anything at all. Nothing looked good. Here he was, being treated to a meal, and he was in one of those moods where he just didn't feel like eating, even though he was hungry. He silently berated himself for it.

"Get whatever you want, okay?" Lawrence said abruptly. Adam stared at him. There was a long pause as Lawrence groped for words. He wanted to say that it didn't look like Adam ate enough, but didn't want to be that blunt.

"Sure." It reminded him of his second night back with his girlfriend. She had arrived unexpectedly bearing Chinese food, and though he'd been grateful for the meal, the rest of the evening had been uncomfortable for him. She had talked at him as he sat across from her not really listening, but listening close enough that he couldn't really let his mind wander. It had been miserable, but he was a little worried that if she caught him not listening she would punch him in what she considered a joking manner and break his arm. At least that evening had ended in sex, however painful it had been. Adam wondered if she would show up at his apartment tonight.

"Have you talked to your parents?" Adam jumped at the question. It came out of left field and he wasn't sure how to respond.

"When?"

"Lately. Since... you know." Since a year ago. Adam chewed at the inside of his cheek for a moment.

"No."

"Not for the past year?" Lawrence was aghast. Adam tapped the ashes off the end of his cigarette and took a couple more deep draws off it.

"On my birthday. My mom called." Adam was reluctant to talk about his family. He hadn't called them after the incident in the bathroom. He wasn't even sure they knew about it. They probably knew about Jigsaw, an interesting killer like that didn't stay out of the national news, but they might not know he was involved. He hadn't told them because the last thing he wanted was his mother and sister and maybe father flying out and trying to comfort him. He didn't need them hassling him about his shitty apartment or meeting his girlfriend and saying what a nice girl she was or asking him about his work. If they did know though, he was glad they were following his lead and not mentioning it. When his mother phoned on his birthday, mid-January, a good five months after the bathroom, they chatted for a few minutes. The phone was passed to his sister who was home from her first year at college. She was so much younger than him. They had never had anything in common, and their clipped conversation proved it. His mother was on the phone again, talking about home and how she was sorry his father wasn't around to wish him a Happy 28th, but he'd been so busy lately.

Eventually, the conversation had lulled into a comfortable silence and then his mother asked, softly and with concern, "Adam, honey, are you all right?" It sounded like an 'are you feeling all right, emotionally?' sort of question. Adam laughed it off and responded with a quick, "yes." She pushed him for a moment, "are you sure?" He had felt so old. It was because he could remember being younger. He could remember the playful innocence of ten, or the angsty, too-cool-for-life attitude of fifteen. He clearly remembered the freedom of college at eighteen. The feeling of wasted years when he graduated with a degree in the arts (subset photography) and a minor in English at twenty-one. The arrogance of living alone at twenty-two. The loneliness of being alone at twenty-three. The blur of the next five years that had brought him to this point. Most prominent of his vague memories of the past five years had been the crystal clear ones of those fourteen hours. Twenty-eight... too old for his mother to be asking if he was alright. Almost too old to be in contact with his mother at all. It was so strange speaking with her. Adam had purposefully left home and disconnected himself from it as much as possible. Going back in anyway felt wrong and made him feel shaky and uncomfortable. Most of all, he hated explaining his messed-up life to his mother who only wanted the best for him. Finally, he had assured her that he was alright and encouraged her to say hello to his dad for him. She had hung up first. Click. Dial tone. That evening, he had curled up on his bed and cried.

"You didn't call before that?" Adam knew what Lawrence was referring to, and ignored it.

"No." For emphasis, Adam ground out his cigarette. He hadn't quite been finished with it though, and found himself regretting his action. With a sigh, he resisted the urge to light another one.

The rest of dinner passed without another word being spoken. It was awkward. Adam thought about starting a new conversation multiple times but never said anything. He didn't know what to say. Hundreds of questions went through his mind about Lawrence's family and his life now and why he hadn't called or written or anything over the past year. Two or three times Lawrence looked like he was about to say something, but didn't. They walked back to Adam's apartment building, up the three flights of stairs and down the hallway to his apartment. Lawrence waited patiently as Adam unlocked his door and stepped beyond the threshold.

"Well, uh," Adam stumbled over his words. "Thanks for dinner."

"Yea, sure. Anytime." Adam nodded.

"Great. I'll see you around, maybe?" Fumbling with the door knob, Adam idly swung the door wide open and then half closed. Lawrence smiled at this, nodding with a grin at Adams inability to stay still. In the ensuing silence, Adam ruffled his hair, rubbed at his chest, glanced over his shoulder into the darkness of his apartment. Neither knew how to finish this encounter. Finally, Lawrence turned to walk away. He was halfway down the hall when Adam spoke. "Lawrence," He called out before he even knew he was talking. Lawrence stopped with a slight stumble and turned back around. "Why... why did you just leave me like that?" He said softly, feeling weak and tired. Lawrence stared at him for a long moment.

"I wanted to just forget about it. I'm sorry, but I couldn't..." His words trailed off, but Adam knew what he meant. "I just couldn't." With that, he turned on his heel and strode off. Adam watched him go, staring after him. The creaking quiet of the hallway quickly sent shivers down his spine though, and he shut the door tightly and threw the deadbolt. For a long moment, he leaned against the coolness of the door, leaning his forehead against it and trying to calm himself. He felt on the verge of tears, like he had all day. His only hope was that his girlfriend wouldn't decide to come over. Moving towards his bedroom, he decided that if she started knocking, he wouldn't answer the door. He couldn't remember if she had a key or not.

--

The next morning Adam awoke feeling stiff and irritable. He'd fallen asleep upside down again, he realized, with his head at the foot of the bed, which explained the stiffness. His mouth felt dry and tasted awful. Like he'd vomited and forgotten about it. Thinking back, he hadn't brushed his teeth since yesterday morning, and he had vomited in the time in-between. The thought of this made him sick and he stumbled into his bathroom only to find himself heaving the contents of his stomach into the toilet. His eyes hurt. Adam brushed his teeth numbly, only to puke up stomach acid a minute later. After brushing his teeth one more time, Adam collapsed back onto his bed and slept most of the day away.

Two-thirds of the time he was half-conscious. A few times he considered going down to the bar across the street, but that would involve moving and there wasn't enough strength in his body for that. So he just slept. By the evening, the building had grown practically silent. Adam was lying on his bed, upside down again, listening to his own breathing. He was so aware of his inhales and exhales that when he stopped forcing himself to breathe, he stopped breathing all together and it scared him. This happened to him occasionally. He would become so aware of his breathing that he had to control it or else he'd suffocate. The sound of a door creaking open shook him violently awake. It was his door, he knew it. Holding his breath, Adam listened carefully, straining for a voice. His girlfriend always called out when she came in, so it couldn't be her. There was no sound. Someone else was in his apartment and Adam could feel himself panicking, beginning to loose control of his fear. He leapt off his bed quietly and snuck towards the door. He could hear the person moving around in the kitchen. His heart was pounding in his ears. On his way, but without stopping, Adam glanced around for a weapon of any sort. There was nothing. Lying on his battered coffee table was a kitchen knife, and he snatched it up, tucking it up against his wrist. He knew it would be useless in a struggle, but having it comforted him. A voice in his head convinced him that he could stab it between a persons ribs into their lungs if he had to. After years of being unsure, Adam knew now that he could kill a man if he was forced too. He'd done it before.

Sneaking around the corner into the kitchen, Adam braced himself for the worst possible thing he could imagine. Taking a deep breath, he leapt around the corner only to be confronted with his tall and overbearing girlfriend calmly unpacking groceries. He fell back with an audible sound of relief. His heart was pounding so hard. She didn't even noticed as he stumbled back against the wall and dropped the knife with a clatter. He closed his eyes, taking slow breaths and trying to slow his heartbeat. Finally, his girlfriend turned around to see him.

"Oh! Adam! There you are. I thought you were sleeping." He stared at her, shaking. "I didn't want to wake you up." She moved around the kitchen quickly and efficiently, her dyed, dark hair swishing gracefully. "Wow, you're pale." She laughed at him pleasantly, still unpacking.

"I...I thought I was being robbed." He mumbled numbly. He felt far away, distant, an observer. "Or kidnapped." He whispered. She didn't hear him.

"You're so funny, Adam." She giggled and punched him in the shoulder, too hard for his taste. He cringed but forced a smile.

"Sure."

"Are you hungry?" Adam's stomach churned just thinking about it. He shook his head. His girlfriend just shrugged. "Aren't you going to thank me for shopping for you?" In all honestly, Adam hated it when she shopped for him, because she never bought anything he liked or wanted. No meats, no sugars. It was terrible. He forced himself to thank her. "Feeling better?"

"Huh?" She giggled and punched him again.

"I asked if you were feeling better." Adam stared at her questioningly. His mind was still fuzzy from sleeping so much. He'd also just expelled the contents of his stomach, which seemed self-explanatory to him. Then he remembered she hadn't been around when he'd puked. He wondered about her reaction if he said he was still feeling shitty. Option one, the shitty option, was that she would insist on coddling him and would hang around for days. Option two, the preferred one, was that she would say she didn't want to catch whatever he had and she would desert him for days. He'd have to risk it.

"Not really." He groaned, putting on the same sick act he'd used in high school. He drooped his eyelids as if the light hurt his eyes (which it did), slouched and looked generally pathetic.

"Oh, poor baby!" She rushed over to him and hugged him and ran her hands through his hair. Looked like he was out of luck for tonight.

"I'm just really tired."

"Maybe it's mono!" She exclaimed, beginning to jostle him back towards his bedroom. On the way, she told a long and arduous story about her friend or cousin or something that got mono and was in bed for a week.

"No, I'm just... stressed and tired. It's... You know..." He'd never used his traumatic experience to get pity or financial help or anything, but here he was, on the path towards using it towards getting her out of his apartment for the night. "It's that time of year." He said quietly. He hated himself for it already.

"Oh... of course..." she said, nodding knowingly. Adam wanted to just run at that moment, just turn around and sprint out the door. But he didn't. He felt desperate to be out in the fresh air and away from his girlfriend and maybe vomiting some more. He felt sick again. "I'm so sorry. I forgot." He shrugged. His whole life, Adam had been a fantastic liar. This was no exception. He wasn't this torn up about it, but she was buying it. Lying was how he avoided the police. When he was seventeen he avoided being expelled by saying the kid he had assaulted and viciously beaten (broken nose, broken ribs, some deep scratches, a concussion and some fierce bruising) had been abusing him for years and that the fight was self-defense. He had tearfully explained to the principal and rent-a-cop at his school that the kid had even stabbed him once. He showed them the scar from when Scott Tibbs had stuck him with a nail. They gasped and shook their heads. He quietly explained that he thought maybe there was abuse in that family that carried over into the child's social life. In truth, Adam had just gotten frustrated and pissed off at this kid for almost no reason and with no history of prior abuse at all. One wrong comment and Adam had leapt on him like a hyena, complete with ripping and tearing. He was not a fighter; everyone who observed the fight said that while it was pretty nasty, Adam looked like a wuss beating his kid up. But he got away with it because the administrators believed the word of poor, sniffling Adam Faulkner over pouty, previous-record-of-bad-behavior kid. Adam left high school with a clean slate. The real police hadn't even been involved that time.

His mother had said they would get him a therapist to deal with his 'anger issue', but she never got around to it. He was glad. To Adam, getting a psychiatrist meant you were crazy, which he didn't think he was.

His girlfriend led him to his bed and he leaned back onto it. She sat down next to him, running her fingers along his sternum. He tasted bile in the back of his throat.

"Did you throw up in here?" She asked. Adam groaned and rolled over. He quickly dozed off and barely noticed when his girlfriend turned off the lights and kissed him on the forehead and left. It was uncharacteristically sweet of her.

That night, he dreamt that he was walking through a series of connected rooms, but the floor kept changing directions on him. Sometimes it was above him, sometimes off to the left. This kept him constantly off balance. He found it almost impossible to keep his eyes open as he worked his way from room to room. He kept falling down and loosing his way and getting upended. He felt like there was something urgent he needed to get to, but couldn't remember what.

It was unsettling enough that he woke up in a cold sweat. His room looked bleak. His girlfriend had left a note on his bedside table that read, "Hope you're feeling better. There's a protest downtown I want us to check out Wed. Don't make plans! Love you! Ciao! -April" in curly, frivolous handwriting. She wasn't so angry lately, Adam thought. He read the note again fondly. For all the times he hated her, he actually kind of liked her when she wasn't around. Too bad he wasn't going to any damn protest and there was no way she would be able to talk him into. She would probably end up beating the shit out of him until he agreed to go, but for now he could refuse stubbornly because she wasn't around to treat him badly.

He pried himself from bed, feeling sticky. His head hurt, but he couldn't imagine why. He shuffled to the kitchen. He had slept in his jeans again, and they felt filthy against his skin. Adam searched through his refrigerator for anything to eat. Nothing looked even half appetizing. He noted that his fridge wasn't getting very cold anymore. He cursed excessively about it. He felt like shit and had already decided that today was going to be another shitty day where he sat at home and moped. If he was feeling the least bit productive he would consider finally opening the door to his dark room. He never opened it, but could imagine what it would be like when he finally pulled together the nerve to turn that fucking handle and open it up again. When he finally pried the door open, there would be an overwhelming rush of chemical smell. They would have all evaporated and so he would have to wait a little while before he could go in without coughing or getting cancer. All of the pictures he had taken of Lawrence would still be there, hanging by clothes pins. He imagined himself taking them down one by one and putting them in an envelope and mailing them to Lawrence. Maybe he'd keep a couple of the better ones for himself. He would have to spend hours washing out the basins and then he'd probably need to buy more chemicals. It would be a rewarding experience to clean out his dark room, but for now it was still too dark and too creepy and too fear-inducing to want to attempt going in.

In an act of adult rebellion, Adam found himself eating ice cream from the carton for breakfast. He was almost grinning by the time he went to check the mail. Adam only owned one clock that resided on his bedside table and somehow was always an hour fast or slow, which meant he was usually late for the rare plans that he had. He had neglected to check it this morning, so he was checking his mail just to have something to do. There might not anything there anyway. Adam never got mail except for the occasional bill. Tucking his house key into his pocket, he stepped out into the hallway, locked the door, and ambled down the stairs to the front of the building. He waved and nodded to the occasional neighbor he passed. He even smiled at the pretty single mother who lived a floor below him. He liked her; she was usually kind for this part of town and helped him out when he needed it. Her kid was even okay, quiet and reserved, which Adam thought was the best kind of kid.

He was surprised to see that his mailbox finally had his name on it. For the longest time it had just had his apartment number, but now, in blue embossing tape, it said, "FAULKNER, adam" and then his apartment number. He smiled. Ice cream for breakfast and his name on a mailbox... today had started out pretty good.

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So, this chapter is a lot longer than I'd expected. It also came a lot faster than I would've expected, but I'm pretty pleased with it. More to come soon. Honestly. (Please review)