Half-blind, teeth chattering, Adam tries to huddle up against the cold and the fear. But the cold comes from within, it trickles in icy sweat down his body, and the fear won't ever go away now.
The man is wearing a long, black coat, and Adam remembers there had been bloodstains on his face – they're gone now. He is white, immaculate, no eyebrows, almost no face. Just small eyes, two dark stains Adam can barely distinguish – but he doesn't need sight. He doesn't even have to concentrate – the memory of the cruel, sadistic fury in the old man's gaze springs back to his mind without an effort.
He lets out a small noise like a frightened animal, and somewhere in his brain a remnant of shame comes alive. Shame will be his last feeling. With him until the very end.
The man is standing perfectly still. Adam can almost see him now – really see him – his eyes are getting used to the neon lights, used to being open again. Maybe the man is waiting for him to gather what little consciousness he has left. Maybe he's staring at him with a smile. Maybe the rage is gone from his eyes now, maybe there's only contempt.
Contempt and disgust.
The thought awakes anger in Adam's heart, and suddenly the cold turns into burning heat. The fever comes in waves from his wound and cradles him in delirium – he can see the details now. The man isn't smiling. And his eyes are empty.
"I am glad to find you in such a state, Adam. This is precisely what I was hoping for."
Adam feels his fists trying to clench, but he cannot move his right hand. He's still shaking, and somehow, through terror and fury, he knows how vulnerable he looks. So he forces stillness upon himself, stupidly wasting strength – and the pain makes him faint and nauseous. He fights it, stubborn.
Another memory, uncontrollable – old humiliation – his inability to stop crying – the old, rusty, dirty nail had been pushed almost all the way into the tender skin of his forearm – the doctor all in white, smiling indulgently and the enormous metallic claw-like thing to remove it – and his mother's voice – come on, Adam, be brave – you don't want the nice doctor to see you cry, do you?
Adam closes his eyes for a second. The fever burns him and he is freezing cold again. But he won't let the man see him shake like a sick child.
He doesn't dare to ask if Lawrence is still alive.
"Does your injury hurt you when you move, Adam? Is the pain constant, or do you only feel it when you put your body under too much strain?"
"What the fuck do you want, you asshole? You wanna finish me?" Somehow, through the surge of hatred, Adam doesn't feel the effort of speaking. He wishes he could make his voice sound more confident. He wishes he had the guts to look up. To meet the old man's gaze.
"Don't be needlessly rude to me."
He hears the exasperation behind the calculated coldness. The man slowly walks towards him, and Adam tries to move away – the pain stabs through him, almost familiar now, and he lets out a small cry.
"Easy..."
The old man crouches down, close to him, too close, and mocks him with soft, soothing noises – "Easy. I won't hurt you." – like he's some small game caught in a trap, like the old man is God coming down from Heaven, pure and magnificent in his halo of neon lights, like the old man is the doctor telling him it won't hurt and Adam knows he's lying, because the nail is so big and it's going to bleed – but Lawrence said he wouldn't lie to him.
And once more, the room and the memories swirl. Adam closes his eyes again.
"I'm going to let you go, Adam."
His voice is a tender whisper now, but it's all fake – the rage and bitterness are still there, easily perceived.
And then there's a rustling at his ankle, and Adam can't see what the man his doing, but all of a sudden the weight of the chain is gone, and there's the heavy noise of metal against the tiles, and the man has pushed the chain away.
Adam is free.
He looks up, eyes wide and filled with tears – can it be gratitude? But it cannot end this way.
The old man stands up and looks down at him with a sweet smile.
"There, Adam. You're no longer in chains, and the door is wide open. Find your way out. I will leave the main door open for you. If you manage to reach it, you should find a phone booth only one block away. But you should know that this building is an entry to an underground sewer system. There are several miles of galleries in which you may get lost. My advice is, follow the blood trail your companion left behind him."
At the mention of Lawrence, Adam forgets the disbelief, the shock, the pain and the exhaustion – has he left a trail leading to the way out? Does it mean he survived?
But the old man won't answer him. Instead, he turns away to abandon him. And at last – if you manage to reach it – several miles of galleries – Adam understands.
"Wait!" he screams, heart pounding with fear and effort – "I'll never get out of here, you fucker!" – he is sobbing now, and doesn't try to control it. "Why do you do this, you bastard? Why are you doing this to me? What did I fucking do?"
The man turns again, all expression gone from his face. "I want you to experience it, Adam. I want you to know what it feels like to fight against your own body for survival, to feel your own flesh turning against you and becoming your worst enemy. I want you to know that it is no laughing matter. I want you to know that it isn't sweet."
Sweet – the word echoes in Adam's blank mind, and brings back the memory of his own voice, stopping his hysterical sobs – give me that sweet cancer.
That sweet cancer.
Your own flesh turning against you – and Adam sees the man's sallow skin and his absence of hair and eyebrows – fight against your own body – and he remembers the coughing on Lawrence's tape – the only thing left to do...
Give me that sweet cancer.
And he sees the cruel bitterness in the man's eyes. In the sick, old, dying man's eyes.
He opens his mouth to retort. But what can he say? The game is lost. Adam looks down at his ankle, red from the electric shocks, but free from the chain. He tries to move – and the pain blinds him once more, the weight of his dead arm swallows his strength, the fever makes the white room fall and rise and fall around him.
The chain doesn't matter anymore.
He cannot crawl away. Weak, wounded, delirious, starved – he cannot move. He cannot even reach the door.
But he cannot die like this. He cannot die with the lights on, with the chain hanging useless from the pipe, with the door wide open before him, with freedom and survival there, so close.
And as Adam's mind goes to pieces, as tears dry solid on his dirty face, without a sound, the killer walks away.