Rebirth – Chapter 12: Back Into the World

-Notes-

Merry-2004: Thanks! Guh…Dialogue is sometimes the easiest thing in the world…but usually it's the hardest. Oh the romance will be…spicy. :D

AngelGardian666: Yes! You've uncovered it! Adam's a man-whore! --sob-- Oh where did he go wrong? Oh well. I don't think Larry would like that very much! Either that or he'd be paying Adam's salary coughcough.

Bell pie: Oh just you wait. ANGST STARTS NOW! Ahahahaha--…yeah.

I must confess…Angst is fun to write. So…read on.

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Cluttered. Poorly lit. Badly unkempt. Exactly as it was the moment that Adam left it. His apartment reflected himself: complete disarray. He wasn't sure why he stood there at the door for so long, eyes falling over the mess of magazines and old photographs scattered on tables and chairs. Back where you belong. Said something in the air. He didn't know if that thought was reassuring or the most depressing thing he'd ever heard. Judging by his luck lately, it was probably the latter.

He finally stepped in, shoving his keys back into his pocket and shutting the door behind him. It felt like home, in the most unnerving way. He'd always hated this place, but now, he also feared it in a strange sense. After all, if it was so easily broken into by one maniac, why not another? He was just a scared little kid again, worried that the boogie man lived in his closet. To his mild horror, things were still in a mess from where he remembered being attacked in the hallway…His camera even still sat dropped on the floor, a small chip broken from it and lying a rough foot away. It made him feel sick to think about what was on that film. This shouldn't shock him. No one had been here since it happened, why shouldn't everything be the same?

God, this place is such a fucking mess. Adam thought to himself. He'd always known this, but repeating it seemed to give him the small assurance that he wasn't just a slob—he knew it was disasterous. He arbitrarily scooped up some strewn out papers from the floor and crumpled them into a nearby garbage can without bothering to see what they were. Maybe he would actually get around to cleaning this place one day. It wasn't so bad…was it? It's not like he just threw food on the floor or never took out the trash or refused to do his laundry—it was just that he…kept everything. But something could be said for the pettiness of just that.

He litterally lived in his work. Everywhere he turned, everywhere he moved to sit or look there were stacks and mussed piles of photographs. He had a passion for photography, there was no doubt about that. But the nature of the images surrounding him was far from beauty and placidness. No. They all portrayed something of a far more dark nature. Men and woman alike, leaving their houses, getting into their cars. Meeting their secret lovers or conducting their forbidden affairs. Proof that none of them were who they said they were. All the faces of strangers, gathered around Adam's equally dark apartment. He didn't know any of them. He didn't care. They were just selfish, cheating, liars. Easy to judge. He found them, took their pictures, and accepted whatever money he could. His job was to prove that these people were as awful as he judged them, just for one action.

He leaned back a little to peer into his darkroom, which still was littered with pictures hanging on the line and some half-developed and ruined. This was the most familiar part of his home. He'd spent enough time in there to be seeing red permenantly, staring hard into the blackness of a photograph until at last an image surfaced. One little image that would throw someone's wretched life completely out into the open. He didn't care. They did something wrong. It wasn't his problem. But as he slowly trudged back into the room, flipping on the crimson light that made an eerie glow across his skin, it felt different. His profession. A true paradox. Exposing people for all that they were, for all their sins, when he himself kept his alone and secret. That dark shadow in the corner, profitting off of the problems of others.

Looking up just a little to his right, the last photos of his work hung dry and finished, obliviously waiting for his return. He reached up methodically, plucking the first down to bring it closer. …Lawrence…Adam stared down at the picture as though it outright accused him of exactly what he knew himself to be guilty of. This had been another picture of a man he could have cared less about. Just some scandalous letch looking for a good time that he was getting paid to tail. The photos were finished. He shivered at the knowledge of how close he'd come to doing something with them, tracing a finger gently over the surface. He'd come so close to stringing Lawrence up for all to see, to kicking the shaking leg of his foundation and watching as it crumbled. And he wouldn't have even cared.

"I never cheated on my wife!"

The words echoed slightly in his head. He shakily clutched the picture, eyes wandering up to scan over the rest of the collection. I'm sorry…he dropped the photograph with a growl and gathered the rest as quickly as he could, ripping them all down from the line and taking them out of the room, where he crushed them down into the trash angrily. He had no right. Even knowing what Adam had been set out to do, Lawrence had still…done so much for him…

He painfully leaned down over a desk with a sigh, his head hurting. He was so pathetic…The very thing he had unconsciously accused all the men and woman he had been photographing of having been. At least they had lives to ruin. A small, distinct flash of red light made him jump instantly, eyes searching over the desk in front of him until he found his phone. Messages. Someone had actually called while he was out.

He lifted up from the table, slightly terrified. What voice would be on the other end of that message? He knew it was paranoid to believe that it could be…that voice he would remember and fear for the rest of his life…but even still…He took a breath and steadied himself, touching the 'replay' switch and staring intently at his answering machine.

"Hey, Adam, where the fuck are you? It's Eric." The voice started.

Eric. Yeah. He met Eric a few weeks ago in a bar. He was the one to offer him a new gig. Eric Fisher, convinced that his wife was sleeping around with what she'd been claiming to be just a cousin of some sort. A sick case, really. Most of them were.

"You said you'd be here…well fuck, call me back, okay?" there was a click, and a beep, signifying the beginning of another message.

"Man—" Eric again. "—fuck you. You gave me a specific time to call, and well, here I am. Unless your sitting in a bathtub of ice somewhere with your kidney missing, I'm not taking any fucking excuses." Adam felt the vomit crawling up his throat. Get a grip, just get a grip… "You said you were always home. Fucking call me back or you can find a new client."

After that there were no messages. That one had been received two days prior. So much for the new job…Not that he could say he was so dissapointed.

With a slight moan, Adam turned, walking back to the frontal region of his home. He came to his bed, plopping down onto it and brushing off a few magazines. His head was pounding and his shoulder ached, along with the burning in his ankle and the soreness of his fingers. Putting his head down into his hands, he closed his eyes, ashamed, conflicted…and ultimately…alone.