He wastes an absurd amount of time staring at his once-chained ankle. His mind is empty for a while. He wonders if it has blocked itself in order not to break. But there is no answer, of course.

And then he turns.

There is a trail of blood on the floor. It starts from the severed foot that's slowly rotting in a corner, abandonned and naked. A piece of dead flesh that once belonged to Lawrence's body. Lawrence had to get rid of it, Adam recalls. Images of the hacksaw cutting into flesh, memories of blood gushing from the wound, of bone exposed, torn bits of skin, the movements of the hacksaw – back and forth – tearing, ripping. Lawrence is gone. Somewhere. And all that is left now is that useless piece of him.

Lawrence is gone, but now the door is open and Adam can follow.

He could follow.

He could move, despite the pain. Fight his way out.

Adam wastes more time staring at Lawrence's foot, still chained. At the floor, covered in blood – some of it poisoned.

And at the door.

The huge, square door leading to nothing. The outside is dark, opaque, like a black screen. But in the room, there is light. Reassuring light. He can see everything. Every corner. No place for danger to hide. He could just curl up under the safe neons, and go to sleep.

He's so tired.

Adam knows he cannot survive, anyway. He knows he will lose himself in the dark, and die knowing he has lost the one chance the killer has given him. Die hating himself. But if he decides to stay in the room, there will be no place for hatred or regrets. No energy for that. Just lie down, and sleep. Just sleep. So easy. It will all be easy. He's waited for this, so long…

What is there outside that he truly needs, anyway? What could he possibly need more than rest, more than peace…?

Lawrence. Perhaps Lawrence has survived. Perhaps he's found his way out, and he was saved. And he's alive, somewhere, not lost, not dead, not alone, somewhere in the light, surrounded with –

But…

But if Lawrence has survived, why hasn't he come back? What about his promise?

I wouldn't lie to you.

Doctors always lie.

Adam doesn't realize he's started shaking again. It doesn't matter now that he is alone.

I'll bring someone back. I promise.

It would be better if Lawrence was dead.

He doesn't want to think of getting out and meeting him again, knowing he's been fooled, abandonned, betrayed – having to hate Lawrence – no, no, no – he doesn't want to see him again if it's not to hold him and tell him that it's over, that they're alive, that they made it.

He remembers imagining it. Some time earlier. He remembers imagining it when Lawrence was still in the room with him.

He remembers the scene he'd made up back then, Lawrence and him, together, crawling towards daylight, helping each other, urging each other on, reaching the door, falling out of the dark and into the forgotten heat of the sun, face raised, eyes closed, welcoming the light, clinging to each other in joy, lying down on the ground under the vast, open sky. Laughing weakly.

It is all gone now. Even if he gets out. All is lost. All hope.

He could just lie down here. Lie down right here. Fall asleep. He turns again, ready to curl up on the floor, looking for the right position to die in.

And he sees Zep.

Zep's body has been decaying for days. Now there is movement in the hole that was his face. Adam crawls closer and sees maggots feeding off human flesh for the first time.

Are you going to watch yourself die today, Adam?

He sees his own body dead next to Zep's, rotting. He sees the maggots digging into his own face.

You might be in the room that you die in.

Something like instinct screams inside his mind. It screams against insanity. An animal wouldn't lie down and die. An animal would be wiser. Like Lawrence, gnawing its leg out of the trap. Like Lawrence.

He decides to try and get out.

Breathing hard, almost crying out at every move he makes, he crawls towards the bathtub. A hysterical mix of terror and nausea has gotten hold of him and he is fighting not to throw up, knowing it would drain him of his last remnants of strength. He grabs the edge of the bathtub and tries to stand up, using only the left side of his body. The right side, down to his waist, is paralysed with infection.

At first it seems useless. He tries to pull himself up, tries with all his might, muscles tensed until they ache, until his blood burns. And he rests for a second, in order not to faint. With every effort, he cries louder. At one point it becomes screams. Screaming makes him stronger, he discovers. So he screams with despair, with fury, with rage.

It takes him almost half an hour to stand up.

He hasn't been in that position for endless days.

He staggers up to the closest wall and leans against it, sobbing with exhaustion, Alexa's voice suddenly springing from the depth of his memory – why don't you do something with your life?

You can't be pissed off all the time.

I love you.

Why is he thinking of her? Why now? Adam closes his eyes, breathes in deeply and remembers.

He remembers how she let him understand, subtly, that it took effort not to leave him. That he was only a good deed to her, a poor little creature she had decided to help, like the cats and dogs and monkeys from the laboratories that she used to set free with her straight edge friends. They had so much fun together, in their little make-believe commando missions, and he kept saying it was ridiculous, and he wouldn't even quit smoking for her. What a jerk, her feminist friends would say to her behind his back, why do you stay with that jerk?

The thought of her makes his anger more powerful. He can feed on it. He must. His anger gives him strength. He must use it for his own survival.

He remembers her caresses, the way she looked at him, worried, condescending. But, Adam – you can't be pissed off all the time. He remembers her feminist treaty about the political meaning of sexual penetration. He remembers what it was like to make love to her, not knowing if this was how she truly felt about it – man is incapable of empathy, only domination, and his penis is his weapon – bullshit. Grotesque, pompous bullshit. But still.

He remembers guilt.

He remembers seeing her with her friends, laughing, delicate, beautiful. He remembers feeling like an error in her life, a stain – and he remembers the complete absence of pain when she'd finally left him.

Just another natural conclusion.

Now he is walking, still using the wall for balance, crushing his dead shoulder against it, grabbing at anything on the smooth surface to support himself – his legs are shaking, his knees so weak, his face contorted and drowned in tears of effort. He must forget all about the present, lose himself in his memories – as long as he can concentrate on what makes him angry, he won't feel the physical struggle. Rage will carry him through.

So he lets it all out. After years of keeping the memories locked, harmless, he lets them out again. Disappointment with reality. Humiliation. Fear. Pain.

Anger.

He remembers his father, always silent, always gone – he remembers his mother trying to hide her own frustrations – he remembers them both, taking it out on him and his sister – he remembers his vague awareness that it was all ordinary middle-class issues, that there was no complaining about something every single family in America was going through.

His hands slip on the remnants of the broken two-way mirror. He doesn't turn to see his face. He's too afraid, too afraid, if he gets out, to see this image of him for the rest of his life, drawn over that of his reflection – dark circles around the eyes, skin encrusted with tears and blood, lips blue, face hollow as a skull – and he's almost there, almost at the door – the corner – he's careful not to step on Lawrence's severed foot – he hardly sees it, it's a mere obstacle, he doesn't know what it is, doesn't know where he is – he's deep inside himself again, face to face with his own rage. Fighting, for the first time, to stay alive.

He remembers the ordinary humiliations of school. He remembers his fear of other people's eyes on him, remembers making jokes to hide his own terror and hatred, he remembers the girls he couldn't have, the boys he couldn't want, he remembers jerking off, remembers coming with a moan just as his mother walked into his room, and fourteen years later the shame of it still burns him –

He's at the door.

Is it the fever or the pain of the memories making his hands shake? Has he gone too far?

He clings to the doorframe, trying not to fall. The trail of Lawrence's blood disappears in a dark passage. There are pipes on the wall – pipes that can help him stand up. He breathes in, and realizes he's still sobbing. It doesn't matter.

The killer was right –

Are you going to watch yourself die –

He's not going to watch himself suffer today. He's not going to watch himself die. He's cut the paradox in two. He's given up on apathy. He's going with anger, just anger.

With a sob that sounds almost like a scream, Adam forces his body on, and steps forward into the dark.