Snap, Snap Snap, Snap, Snap, Snap-
"Hey, you even listening to me?" The blunt voice of the musician broke through Adam's day-dream, his acid tone partnered with obnoxious finger snapping right in the young photographer's face. In the seat across from him, Scott Tibbs had been ranting and raving and as usual, while Adam had decided to zone his nonsense out. The cramped and cluttered house was Scott's squat; the paint on the dark, musty moss coloured walls seemed to absorb any and all light and the dirty carpeted floor was stained with god-knows what from god-knows where. Despite that, the scene was rather lively. It wasn't unusual for Scott's place to have people coming and going, some of them known to Adam and some strangers. Over the last few weeks, there'd been a lot more new faces hanging around, with the room they were sat in occupied by maybe four or so other people; Scott's bandmates and roadies. The wild haired musician's pupils were bright and wide, like two shiny golf balls glowering away in Adam's face. Scott' face was all eyes and all mouth, like some sort of offensive-looking hand puppet. The messy, smudged pencil eyeliner resting on pillows of purple flesh only made the frontman's eyes look bigger, and it appeared that Adam had gotten lost in their beady gaze whilst Scott was talking.
"What?" Adam huffed back indignantly as he blinked the world back into view.
"Asshole." Scott grit, those golf balls rolling back into his skull.
The musician was the same age as him, and it felt as though Adam had known him all of his life. Unfortunately. They had lived on the same block, gone to the same school, and even moved to the same city when they decided that the small town life wasn't for them. When they were kids, Adam had regarded him as his best friend, and in Scott's belief they still were. Though truthfully, their relationship was strained at best, turbulent at worst. Tibbs had always been the bigger guy, the louder guy; giving far too much of a shit about everything while Adam cared for none of it. The musician was loud, abrasive, and practically obscene. The photographer just didn't have the energy, nor the stamina to indulge him anymore.
But when he moved to New Jersey from their sleepy land-locked state, Adam didn't know anyone else in the area. So, that meant that trailing around in the immaculate blackness of Scott Tibbs' shadow once more. The photographer was just a collection of star dust clambering behind the tail-end of a comet.
He felt lucky, however. For how alone the photographer could feel at times, at least there were others to waste his weekends with. The company wasn't the best, but it wasn't like Adam felt he was worth anyone else's time. He'd probably enjoy his time with Scott's friends, if Scott wasn't there.
"Like I've even got time for your bullshit. Do you know how busy I am? Hey!" He spoke, with further accented snaps when he saw that Adam's attention was slipping again.
"Cut it, I'm listening, I'm listening!" Adam spat, batting away his fingers with a limp hand. He shook his head, looking down at the cigarette that had almost burnt out between his fingers. He stole the last drag before discarding the butt to the ground, stamping it out with his boot. The carpet had seen far worse damage over time. "At least look like you're listening then. Jesus, Adam." Scott breathed out an exhausted sigh, trying to regain some of that energy that he had been rolling with before. "What's with you recently? You're going soft in the fucking head." That snapping hand transformed into a violent finger poking the dark-haired man square in the temple before it found its place curled around a beer can.
There wasn't any concern in the guitarist's voice, just a bitter frustration with the other in front of him. Ever since Adam's girlfriend had dumped him the month prior, he had been hanging out with Scott almost every day. He didn't mind too much; it was always good for Scott to have someone more pathetic than himself at his heel to look better in comparison. Adam used to be kind of fun to have around. Now he just killed the vibe.
"It's just a basement gig, " Adam spoke, recalling the topic of conversation, "We're in your basement now. What does it matter that you're playing in some other shithole? Besides, you've played bigg-"
"Just a basement gig, do you hear yourself?" Scott Tibbs spoke, eyes wide with passionate fury. "This isn't just any basement gig." The man, donned in his faded, ripped jeans rose from his seat to add to the theatrics. "It's our first gig since we finished the album. Which means it's a big deal."
"A big deal." Adam snorted back, rolling his eyes as he watched the other stand. Despite the noise Scott was making, no one else in the room seemed to look up. Usual Scott Tibbs behaviour.
"A big deal." The musician echoed, with all the fire and fury of a viking funeral.
"It would be if anyone actually listened to your shit."
"Oh fuck you!" Scott exploded, his own sneakers crashing into the empty chair between them that he'd been using as a footstool. The chair flew back, toppling over as it smashed into a stack of yellow pages being used as a makeshift stay for a dingy lamp, which too fell to the floor. The bald, rather large man who had been sat next to it flipped Scott off and decided to take his guitar-tuning upstairs.
The photographer had jumped at his outburst, and retorted in a hasty defence; rage borne of frustration as opposed to fear. No one else seemed to be exactly surprised at the musician's turbulence; Scott was just a child with a pack of cheap firecrackers.
"What?! Fuck you! I'm just telling the truth, like what do you want me to say?" He shouted back, voice half tailing off into an incredulous huff of laughter. But Tibbs was in no mood to play.
"What do you want me to say? I don't know, how about some words of support? Why don't you try giving a shit about something other than yourself for once? I've been carrying your ass for the last month, you should be more fucking grateful."
"Jesus Christ, why does everything gotta come back to that? I've already told you like a hundred times I'm paying you back when work picks up again."
"You're so full of shit. And what- you're finding work when you're sat jerking off at home everyday?" Scott shouted back, ever eager hand gracefully demonstrating the habit in tandem. He moved over to the mini fridge hiding in the corner amongst all the clutter, ignoring the fallen lamp crunching under his feet as he retrieved a beer. "Fuck, you just don't stop complaining."
"Oh yeah, because you're doing so much work right now." Adam snarked, folding his arms as he watched the other with disdain. "Jesus, you sound like Natalie." The name escaped him, dirty and disgusted. Even just the mention of his now ex-girlfriend brought a bitter taste to his tongue.
That roaring blaze of anger that had sparked between them was extinguished as fast as it had set alight. Scott huffed, cracked open a can, and paused for a moment before retrieving a second one and throwing it onto Adam's lap. An involuntary "Fuck!" escaped the photographer as the unexpected can came hurtling square onto the man's folded arms; fumbling hands trying to catch it before it was banished to the sticky carpet below.
"It's a grind. It's the grind." Scott spoke, no longer shouting, but still with that gruff bitter aftertaste riding on his tongue. He flopped down into his seat, the movement sacrificing the erupted foam from his beer which pattered onto his shirt. He didn't care. "And it's a fucking rush, man." He drowned his own words by gulping back half of the can's contents, giving Adam time to play idly with his own tab- not quite opening it yet.
"The Wrath of the Gods are gonna make it to the fuckin' top." He spoke with conviction, that same, intense stare flashing him with his headlight eyes. "And you're either with us, or you're a fucking pussy. At least I'm tryin' something." The elegance of his vocabulary was only heightened by the pointed belch at the end of his words. "Ride or die, man."
Scott had always been like this. For as long as Adam could remember, Tibbs had always been so passionate about everything. It didn't matter what it was; whether it was playing make-believe in the back-yard, hawking spit-balls in the classroom, starting his band, or even escaping the suburbia that souls like him were always destined to outgrow. If it hadn't been for Scott, Adam didn't think he would have had the balls to finally leave his hometown. In a way, Adam felt jealous. He wished he could give enough of a shit about anything. To have even a fraction of the passion that Scott possessed, to have a lust for anything at all; maybe Adam would be able to do something with his life. As a child, he thought he might have wanted to be a vet. But when it came to the actual effort one would have to put into their work to achieve the grades you'd need, he realised he could never achieve it. Then came art. It was of the only subjects Adam ever did well in, discovering a passion for photography after a school trip to a gallery. He was even offered the chance to go to college to further his studies— but then again, that would require him to give a shit, right? And whilst Adam enjoyed his craft, he never felt the want or need to better himself in it.
Underneath the thin, cheap metal of the can Adam could feel the bubbles fizzing. A tempest of carbonated chaos still brewing away inside. For a second, he mused over the small sensation. It was almost like Scott. Just the smallest shake and he erupted all over the place. Adam's soft, green hues finally looked over at the musician, a look of defeat etching onto his pale face. His eyes shifted to the scattered, empty hard plastic cases at Scott's feet and tried to muster at least an ember to hold up to Scott's flame. Though the guitarist was a loser, he had managed to put together an album, regardless of how shit it was. The local rock scene loved 'The Wrath of the Gods'.
"I…alright," he started, "I'm an asshole. I know that, you know that. I can't pay you back right now, but what if I do you a…favour or something. You still don't have anything for your album art, right? What if I shoot you guys a cover?"
If it would get Scott off his back about the money for a little while longer, it wouldn't hurt. The universe was cruel when your best friend was a dealer, and you wanted to kick a habit. This was the only thing Adam had to offer for now. For what he lacked in everything, the young man was a pretty decent at his work. His make-shift developing studiot that hung his bathroom was almost a point of pride for him. The musician's lips pursed in thought as those big eyes squinted doubtfully. Adam had to fight the urge to roll his own eyes again. The man was like a cartoon character. Scott kept his gaze on him, as if he had x-ray vision, and brought the beer to his lips. After a moment of apparent contemplation, he finally replied. "You shoot the album art, and you hand out fliers to our show. You do that- I forget about the fifty bucks you owe me." That sounded like the worst. Scott was really squeezing him for all his worth. Adam felt his very soul leave him at the idea of hanging around outside all day giving out papers like an asshole, but he owed Scott that at the very least. It beat his other recent jobs too. He'd been hired a few times now by some sketchy folk looking for someone to stalk and take photos of their cheating spouses. It was amazing the type of work you could find on the darker depths of the early internet.
After a brief moment of quiet between the two of them, the photographer quirked his brow and opened his beer with a flat smile. The can exploded to life, the sticky foam splurging out over the rim of the container and dowsing itself all over Adam's hand and lap. Wordlessly, he held it up to the other, who butted into it with his own finished can. An agreement. "Ride or die." Adam echoed back at him, voice rich with sarcasm before finally necking back the awful amber.
"That's what I'm fucking talking about!" Scott grinned, having apparently gained back the fire and passion he had just moments before.
"…. Please? I'm not mad. I just—- I just want to talk, sweetheart. Call me. I love you."
He couldn't feel anything anymore, but the weight remained. It wasn't painful, and no longer crushing. Whatever awful anchor had dragged him down to the depths of hell had faded back into the black. He was left alone, untethered, but lost. This was something different. Adam tried to reach out at the world around him, tried to grasp onto something tangible but it was like trying to catch smoke. There was a buzz, a faint and dull rumble through his body that informed him that he was not dead yet, at the very least.
Though his legs ere reduced to marble, he felt safe in this lull of sleep. He felt drowned in comfort, swathed in care. A sweetness filled all other senses when touch and sight were sensations no longer afforded to him. What was that? ….lavender? That had been the go-to choice of fragrance for his mother when Adam was a child. The smell was so familiar and reassuring. No matter if it was a car air-freshener, fabric softener, or deodorant, his mother couldn't get enough of the stuff. Birthday's and Christmases became an easy affair to purchase for. But he couldn't remember the last time he had bought his mother something, or even the last time he had spoken to her. But he could remember the last voicemail, haunting in its collected crescendo.
"Hey…., it's me. Mom," A nervous exhale of laughter, a cautious tone so similar to his own, "I don't know if you've changed your phone — or if this is the right number or— what. Just, call me back. Please? I'm not mad. I just—- I just want to talk. Call me. I love you."
How much had changed since he had last seen that woman, or any of the family he had left behind in that sleepy suburbia. Adam was glad for it.
The fog was thick, but it wasn't hard to breath. What a relief that was. Never did he feel so grateful for such basic sensation of the rise and fall of his chest. Rise, and fall. Rise, and fall. As the days would go by, that same thick fog would begin to clear away, his head feeling less weighted with each day. Until finally, the man would stir.
The light in the room was graciously dim, the white, plastic shutters of the roman blinds tucked away in their own night's hibernation. Adam awoke in the early hours of the morning, far away from the terrors of the trap he had been entombed in. He didn't know quite where he was, but he knew that he was comfy. Finally, those tired pale green hues cast themselves open, his throat dry in his new day's soft light.
He could hear someone moving, though the world still rolled past him groggily. The nurse turned her attention to the patient when she saw him stir, moving to call for a doctor to come in and check Adam over. He was in hospital. He was out. How had he gotten here? What was going to happen to him now? What had happened to Lawrence? To the Jigsaw Killer? All those thoughts thundered in his skull at once, only further agitating the physical pains and aches that had been somewhat numbed through medical relief.
His hand, weak and trembling and attached to a number of wires and tubes moved to his head, an empty and thoughtless gesture to comfort his brain from the barrage of words tumbling inside. The sensation was strange. Scratchy and sore. A deep gash had leeched itself onto Adam's skin, running its nasty visage all across the top of his skull. His hair had been buzzed short to make way for the required medical treatment, his tufty dark mane now sitting in a dumpster somewhere.
Even his mouth felt numb, his tongue rolling along the inside of his dry mouth, only to feel that not only one, but two of his teeth were missing. Had the fray in the bathroom been that intense? Had he truly been so frenzied with his actions to survive?
But the worst of it was his shoulder. He hadn't even turned his head to look at it yet, though the entire side of his body was numb beyond recognition. There came that heaviness again, that call to the dark that felt so much more benevolent this time. The survivor didn't have time to truly worry yet about where he had ended up, where he had been, what was to happen next. Now was a time for rest. Real rest. He had managed to stay awake long enough to see the coat tails of a lab coat flurry into the small, private room, but anything other than that would slip from his mind. As he too slipped back to sleep. There would be time to face the consequences tomorrow. For now, the universe let the poor bastard rest.