Some time later, he realizes he's slipping away. The dark and the stillness, the exhaustion – his thoughts have escaped, he cannot control them now. He cannot play the Lawrence game anymore, cannot summon the memories at will. They come and go. He watches. Powerless now even in his own mind.
He remembers sitting in a sunny living room. Remembers eating dirty snow and scratching at a mosquito bite until it went bloody. Remembers the first time he felt guilt.
Somehow his memories grow darker as they get more recent. Rare experiences of happiness always occured in his beloved darkroom. The first thing he did when he moved to his own apartment. Installing it. His little black nest.
He loved it. Loved hiding in dark corners – the dark was the best place to hide. Alone in the dark. He loved it.
Obscurity has grown on his life, eating it – this is a logical conclusion. It all makes such perfect sense that, for a moment, he almost feels peaceful.
He's no longer fighting. He's letting it happen, vaguely aware of the fact that the little memory dance and the sudden clarity are supposedly signs of imminent death – at last. He remembers screaming that he wanted to live, something he'd never thought he would hear himself say, he remembers begging – I'm begging you – begging to stay alive?
How strange.
He remembers his sister, taller and darker than him. Summers and school. A habit of permanent fear growing with adolescence. He remembers trying to fall in love. Trying. But he's never been any good at living. Watching was his thing – watching and remembering.
He used to be good at spotting beauty, too. And capturing it was easy – his camera could capture anything, make anything obvious, make a detail striking, with the right focus – but people were more interested in ugliness, and it's ugliness that has paid off. Nobody ever cared about beauty. No-one has ever paid him for beauty.
At times, real life, his situation – everything comes back. Full conscience – fear and sickness, despair – and Adam quickly dives back into half-sleep, dreams and memories, wondering why it's taking so long. He's able to think now. He's able to wait for death.
Hours go by.
And reality's little visits become rare. He doesn't know that he's shaking. He's not aware of the infection, not aware of the fever making him sweat and burn and accelerating the dehydration process.
He's almost there.
And then a noise roars through his brain and neon lights burn his eyes.
His body tenses in a painful reflex. His throat feels raw when he breathes, his chest aches like he's taking air in for the first time, and he wonders how long it's been, wonders if he was dead, just then, for a moment. He cannot open his eyes. There's nothing but a blinding white blur.
He's awake now. Panic is the first feeling that comes back. And the cold. He's so cold.
The light is on.
There is someone in the room. He cannot see who it is, he cannot move. Cannot turn to see if the door is open. It's too painful, too difficult. It's been too long – he needs more time.
Is it Lawrence? Has Lawrence come back?
Gathering his strength, Adam tries to call – his mouth is dry, his tongue – he chokes out a strangled noise, tries again, a few shaky half-sobs, a cough – "Lawrence?"
He must move. He must see. His mind screams hope and danger all at the same time, he must see who turned the neons back on. Why isn't there any sound?
His shoulder is heavy like a stone, his arm a dead weight on his side. Eyes still tight shut against the blinding light, he presses his left arm down on the floor and tries to sit up – his body doesn't understand why he wants to make it move now, after days of sleepy agony, of silence and peace – it hurts. But he goes on. Tries. Tries again. Why isn't Lawrence saying anything?
Finally, pushing on his arm with desperate sobs of exhaustion and pain, he succeeds.
He's sitting. He hasn't tried to move his legs. One thing at a time.
Nothing has broken the silence. Except his own breathing, and his attempts to speak – any words, anything. His lucidity is trying to fight its way back. He needs language, articulate thoughts, to return to the world of the living.
Now he must open his eyes. Slowly, slowly – it takes effort and pain.
Zep is the first thing he sees, faceless and decaying, and before Adam's mind can register disgust, something inside him contracts with nausea. The colors are back. Grimacing in pain, he twists his neck in absurd curiosity to see his own wound, see what it looks like now.
His eyes fill with tears at the sight. All the colors are back. The fabric of his t-shirt is sticking to the skin. Dried blood? Or has it started to rot as well, caught in the infection?
"Congratulations."
A voice behind him. Adam turns – too quickly, and the pain, the searing pain at every move he makes, distorts his face once more. He lets out a small cry. A man is standing at the door – the door is wide open, the door is open – a man, nothing but a silhouette in Adam's unfocused, blurry sight.
But he knows the voice.
"You're still alive."