He's lying on his back now. Next to the other one. Slowly, he turns his head. It's like sharing his bed with somebody. So close. But there should be heat. There's no heat coming from Zep.
It's been long enough. Days? Adam is used to the smell of decay. Doesn't notice it anymore.
If he squints, he can guess the form of Zep's smashed skull, his face a shapeless hole, remains of jaw and nose, some teeth scattered around. He's broken everything.
Through exhaustion, Adam remembers the rage coursing through him, worse than the pain – what pain? He'd forgotten it then, nothing mattered, just this face, this face, this man who'd tried to hurt Lawrence, tried to hurt them both. This man who'd almost killed Lawrence. His face. Gone. Strike and strike, harder, smash it, erase it. The blinding anger.
And Lawrence stopping him.
Even then. Lawrence had crawled, even then, half dead already, sick with pain, blood running endlessly from his body, Lawrence had taken the time, taken the energy to crawl towards him and stop him and reassure him – you're gonna be alright – soothe him – trembling fingers on his temple, blue eyes – I just wounded you – and he was back, back, sweet, calm, logical, the doctor – if I don't get help, I'm going to bleed to death – cause and consequence. The doctor.
And Adam sobbing.
He's lying on his back now, clinging to faint memories of Lawrence's voice. He can't move anymore. His arm is turning to stone. His veins are solid, paralysed, all around his wound and down to his elbow. Solid acid-like blood eating away at his muscles. He tries not to think about what it must look like. But he does. It must be filled with pus. Green. Black? All sorts of colors. He realized a few hours ago that if he dies in the dark (he is dying in the dark) he won't ever see colors again.
Just grey, blurry shadows like an old TV. All in grey. Like his pictures.
Even the disgusting colors of his infected wound, even those of Zep's rotting flesh – he misses them. He wonders how he could spend twenty-seven years getting up every morning without crying with the joy of being able to see colors.
The little, ironic red eye of the camera went away long ago. A noise, silence, more noises. The silhouette of a man behind the glass. And the camera was gone.
Adam feels all dry now. The skin of his lips breaks when he breathes. His stomach has stopped making funny noises. Now it just feels like an aching void under his lungs. He had no idea hunger could cause such physical pain.
Lawrence is slipping away.
Adam catches himself wondering if death really exists. Maybe it doesn't. Maybe your body stops living, but your mind doesn't, your mind stays inside it, active and alive, and maybe you're still there as you rot, feeling every minute of it, still conscious as you turn to –
And he fights the thought away.
Remember every word Lawrence has said. From the beginning to the end. That's a game. A little game Adam plays. Remember Lawrence's words. How he's explained he wouldn't have another kid because it was hard enough to concentrate on one. How he screamed at times. How he tried to shoot Zep with his empty gun – I'll fucking kill you, you fucking bastard, I'll fucking kill you – how he broke.
Fuck this shit.
He'd like death to come upon him like sleep, in the middle of a fantasy – take him away while Lawrence is on his mind. That would be a good way to end it.
His eyelids feel heavy.
He remembers how he pretended to die. With that stupid 'poisonous cigarette'. Lawrence whispering to him. I need you to play along with me on this…
He can't move his fingers now.
He remembers Lawrence's first words. The first words he heard from him. Before he even saw him. All wet, coughing, choking, water in his throat, the chains, calling, panic, and the voice in the dark.
The distant voice of the doctor, stating a simple fact.
You're not dead.