Chapter 2 - Kubler-Ross: Stage One
Sorry this took so long, my internet's been out for a week. And I wasn't happy with this chapter so I spent a lot of time poking at it. I'm still not satisfied, but if I don't leave it alone I'll never progress, so, here it be. Thank you all very much for reviewing! I'm thrilled to see that so many of you are interested in my little re-write here. It's sort of the version I wanted to write. The other one was long, boring, and too in-the-moment and chaotic. And long. Enjoy, please!
He's knows he's going to say no. Who in their right mind would move in with a total stranger? With a ten year difference between them and nothing in common at that. On top of which the man clearly has issues to say the least. And if there's anything Adam is bad at, it's trying to deal with emotional problems. He could never even sort out his own and he is not about to deal with someone else's. If he has any sense he'll tear up that card and hope good old Doctor Gordon forgets his address. Because he's going to say no, and he wants to stop feeling bad about that fact.
It seems like every day's the same
And I'm left to discover on my own
Part of him—most of him, actually—hates Lawrence for traipsing back into his life and making things the way they are. Now, instead of a zombified, trudging crawl of existence in which he feels nothing, he has to stop and figure out some way so as not to feel guilty. Not that he knows why he should feel that way at all. It's not his responsibility, and wouldn't anyone opt for being alone as opposed to being with someone who looks like they could fall apart on you at any moment? It makes sense. But he still feels guilty, which only frustrates him more. Lawrence Gordon is a rich, handsome, charming, sickeningly perfect socialite—who is he to come barging in and ask something of a man who has comparatively nothing? He thinks he's angry at him for that, but in reality he just hates the man for breaking the comfort of his monotony.
It seems like everything is gray
And there's no color to behold
So Adam recants as best he can, trying to find some reason that he should feel fine about his decision. They aren't friends and they never were; they didn't get along that well to begin with the first time they met so what would be the logic in trying to live together? And come to think of it, the man had shot him. Granted, the situation may have warranted drastic measures, but the fact is that there is currently a bullet wound scar in Adam's shoulder and he doesn't feel entirely comfortable with that. So what is there to feel so bad about? If it weren't for Lawrence, Adam probably would have never been kidnapped in the first place. But just thinking that stings his conscience so bad he can taste bile in the back of his throat. Why did the stupid fuck have to save his life? Adam sighs a deep, irritable sigh and lights another cigarette, dropping the old butt in yet another emptied beer bottle.
But on another level, he doesn't want to see Lawrence again because he just wants to leave it alone. He doesn't want to be reminded of the ordeal every day, he doesn't want to think about Jigsaw's little game of coyote ugly every time he looks at Lawrence's face. Never mind the fact that he's already reminded by his own. But that's no reason to admit that while the ordeal hasn't reduced him to a terrified, neurotic crybaby, it has consumed his life.
They say it's over and I'm fine again—yeah
Try to stay sober, feels like I'm dying here
Adam's day is different than usual. He doesn't stare out the window and smoke, or stare at the TV and smoke, or walk down to the nearest convenience store to buy some smokes. Something seems to prod him in his scarred shoulder and remind him that he is, in actuality, a tangible part of his world. He sits and turns on the TV and flips through the channels only to find that barely any of them are working. After various attempts to fix the set—most of them including his fist—he realizes that he hasn't paid his cable bill since he came home from the hospital. His stomach growls and he gazes into his refrigerator in muted surprise once he sees the only things in it are a carton of eggs, a jar of jam, and a gallon of milk three weeks expired. His cupboards share equal destitution. So with no other option, Adam grabs his coat and ventures farther out of his apartment than he's been in months in search of something to eat.
Even though he hasn't been beyond the gas station half a block from his complex since he got home, he doesn't feel like going much farther. His lethargic subconscious is still pulling at his limbs, trying to keep him home and if it can't do that, keep him as close to it as it can. Adam sits down at some shitty nearby diner—he hates that word, it sounds so old-timey—and orders a chaotic combination of a sandwich and fries, a plate of French toast, and a side of mashed potatoes with a Coke. He eats like his life depends on it, and halfway into his meal he thinks that maybe some of his irritability towards life can be attributed purely to hunger. For the first time in months, smoking is not the indulgence he's focusing on. When he's done he walks home and climbs the walls.
His brain is alive now, and it's eating at his steady resolve like fly puke on butter. He's aware of everything his robotic demeanor has been blinding him too since he's been home. On his way to the bathroom his eye catches the forgotten photograph of his ex girlfriend sticking out from underneath his bed and he picks it up, crumpling it into his fist and tossing it in the trash. Adam paces now instead of sitting listlessly on his couch. He also picks up the strange habit of talking to himself every time he turns around. He verbally labels the things he's picking up or using in a sing-song tone and makes sarcastic comments at the television as if someone will appreciate them. He calls the cable company to reactivate his service and draws out the conversation for an exceptionally long period of time, and when it threatens to come to a close, he makes up some story in a bizarre moment about how he tried to call earlier only to be chewed out by a staff member who was obscenely rude. Twenty minutes and one manager intervention later, Adam receives an apology and HBO free of charge.
He wonders if maybe Lawrence Gordon wants to live with him just so he'll have someone to talk to. He has to admit, having someone there might distract his mind from devouring itself. At least it would keep him from talking to himself. But what's the difference? He's going to say no.
And I am aware now
Of how everything's gonna be fine one day
Too late, I'm in hell
I am prepared now, seem's everyone's gonna be fine
One day, too late; just as well
He's going to say no because it's still crazy, and he won't concede to crazy. He's not going to be one of those people who succumbs to the crisis mentality by doing something outrageous. He's going to keep on keeping on, live his life and die like a normal fucking human being.
But the problem with life is that it goes on. And on and on and on and on—and
Adam feels like he's already losing it. He's somehow lost his ability to zone out, which is affecting his nerves, his routine, even his job. He feels like a sober addict, and he hates it.
I feel a dream in me expire
And there's no one left to blame it on
I hear you label me a liar
'Cause I can't seem to get this through
He's offered three gigs that week, all of which he turns down, telling himself that he's too tired. It's a pussy-footing lie. If he's really tired it's only because he's pacing the floor day and night, smoking pack after pack of cigarettes, buying cases and cases of beer every time he goes out and not drinking a single one. The last time he brings a case home, he realizes his fridge is full and nonchalantly plops in onto the counter instead, then wanders out to his couch and collapses in front of his cable-renewed television. Old movies. Talk shows. Court TV. There's never any porn on when you need it. The variety of channels annoys Adam just as much as the previous lack of them. He has a brief fantasy of dropping the television out the window just to give into his metastasizing neurosis, but with his luck he'll probably kill some old woman on her way to church. He almost does it anyway. But then he stops on a passing news channel when he's suddenly staring at his own face.
He's angry. He doesn't know why—he's seen that picture of himself a thousand times since the news caught wind of Jigsaw's surviving victims. He's bloody and dazed and has this weird look on his face like the photographer is his mother who's just walked in on him with a bag of weed. "…nately still have no solid leads as to the whereabouts or identity of the Jigsaw killer." Is the phrase he catches. And despite the reporter's rambling continuation, it's clear that it really is the only thing they've brought him up to say at all. Why do they need his photo just to say that? He isn't a poster boy; he doesn't remember signing any kind of release saying that they could use his face to promote some sick story for channel six news. He never asked to be a part of this ordeal in the first place so what god damn right do they have to keep dragging him back to it? Show Doctor Gordon's picture—he's the real story, isn't he? Or is he rich enough to buy his picture from the public view? Fuck that prick! Adam chucks the remote at his bloody, stupid face and the casing of the device shatters, sending bits of black plastic and batteries in all directions.
They say it's over, I can sigh again—yeah
Adam stands and grips at his hair before pacing into the kitchen and throwing the door of the refrigerator wide open. Where the hell did all this beer come from?
Why try to stay sober when I'm dying here
He subsequently chugs down a bottle hard enough to rupture his liver and throws it violently into the trash to reach for another.
And I am aware now
Of how everything's gonna be fine one day
Too late, I'm in hell
I am prepared now, seems everyone's gonna be fine
One day too late; just as well
Beer after beer after beer—silly fucking him for filling up his fridge with all this goddamn booze. It isn't even all the same brand, just whatever was closest to his hand while buying a pack of smokes. Bud, Keystone, Miller, Corona, Sam Adam's, and a lonely single of Guinness. Some of it makes him gag, some of it tastes like piss, but it's there so he might as well drink up. After six beers he grabs two more in hand and stumbles clumsily out into his living room with glazed eyes glaring daggers at the television that has moved on to bigger and better things than him.
And I'm not scared now
I must assure you
If there's anything he hates more than being a huge news story, it's being a footnote.
You're never gonna get away
If there's anything he hates more than having lived an incident, it's being reminded of it.
And I'm not scared now
And I'm not scared now
No…
Two more hours, the sun's gone down, the more his stomach fills the easier drinking becomes. He might as well be drinking salt water—his thirst is never slaked. Alcohol poisoning has to be a joke. He believes concretely that he would throw up before he drank enough to kill himself. That, however, is only a small afterthought halfway through his eighth bottle. The images in his head are getting blurrier and blurrier. Fuck is the only word that processes through the clouds in his head coherently. Fuck the reporters and fuck the TV. Fuck the rumors, fuck the ever-absorbent public. Fuck the Chevron attendee that gives him queer looks every time he buys a carton of cigarettes. Fuck Lawrence Gordon. They can all say whatever they want about him. None of them are even close. None of them have a fucking clue. He is fine.
I am aware now
Of how everything's gonna be fine one day
Too late, I'm in hell
I am prepared now, seems everyone's gonna be fine
One day too late; just as well
Cigarettes. Adam down's the last swig of beer and pretends he doesn't want to vomit. He's been neglecting his best loved habit for too long. Haphazardly dropping his empty bottle onto the carpet, he falls towards his coffee table and ends up on his knees digging through a pile of cartons. Too many fall to the floor and he ends up with nothing. He didn't go out today. He didn't go out yesterday. In fact the only pack of cigarettes he has left are the ones he bought earlier today that are currently sitting on a side table, but he doesn't remember that. Thinking there are still a few packs in his room, he wanders falteringly down a hallway that has grown by a mile since he last traversed it. He pointedly ignores the figure he imagines standing in his closet with a strange, gritty boar mask staring out at him as he pulls by. Twelve feet trail behind him every time he takes a step. A strange, shadowy handprint lingers on the wall every time he rests his hand against it for support. Every sound echoes.
He has no idea if he's moving backwards or forwards so he grips onto the nightstand hard to regain balance. The drawer spills open when he jerks at it. Condoms, Rolaids, painkillers, gum. A receipt for a book he doesn't remember buying. No smokes. He flips over his ashtray as though it's betrayed him. How could this have happened? If there was one thing he could always guarantee himself to find in this apartment—above food, above toothpaste, above toilet paper—it was cigarettes. He can't think anymore. He holds his hands to his eyes and tries to rub the blur from them, but his head—or perhaps the room—keeps turning around and around.
Adam lurches on his way back to the kitchen, angry that his body refuses to cooperate with his bipedal nature. By the time he makes it to his living room he can't remember if he has a reason for being here or if he's just looking for a place to pass out. He grabs a bottle that he neglected to empty and takes a clumsy drink, as by now his hands are already shaking with the lack of nicotine. It streams off his chin and makes him choke, so he puts it down, blinking hard to maintain his vision. For fuck's sake…why doesn't Marlboro deliver? I just…I just need…someone to…designated…driver… He thinks drunkenly. The phone is suddenly in his hands and he's cradling it to his shoulder awkwardly for seemingly no reason. The realization dawns on him and he laughs at himself stupidly as he grabs his beer again and staggers to a side table. The wall collides with him as he does so. That's a good idea. He'll tell Lawrence to fuck off while his inhibitions are down. That way he won't have to worry so much about it. It will be over. He grabs an untouched white card off of its surface and translates the numbers desperately into the phone like he's calling 911.
I am prepared now
Seems everything's gonna be fine for me
For me, for myself
The number dials and the phone rings. Adam takes a drink. Suddenly there's an answer from the other side. "Hello?"
Adam swaggers.
For me, for me, for myself
For me, for me, for myself
There's a pause and the tone changes. "Is someone there? Who is this?
I am prepared now for myself
"I'll do it!" Adam snaps.
"What?"
"I said…" Adam suddenly can't finish his sentence as his eyes land on an unopened carton of cigarettes sitting on the table next to the card. "Son of a bitch…" His knee twists and he collapses to the floor face first like a tone of bricks, out cold.
"Hello? Hello?"
I am prepared now and I am fine…
"…A…Adam?"
Again
Song: "Fine Again" by Seether