Adam sat on the dreary stairwell in the foyer, eyes raking over the room again and again. The steps perfectly complimented the decrepit walls of the house.
The same house he may very well die in.
He buried his head in his palms. His labored breath warmed them, and soon, would make them clammy.
He played the words over and over in his head, memorizing every syllable.
"I need a stronger anesthetic."
The kind person, the doctor as that other guy had called him, spoke with this familiar clarity. His deep, raspy voice echoed in Adam's ears, replaying over and over again and—
Lawrence.
Adam clenched his jaw.
Lawrence had been there, hovering over Adam. Despite it all, despite everything that had happened to them, the doctor had kept his promise. He had found him, taken care of him. Lawrence had never, ever…
Adam slammed his fist against the stairs. The wooden floorboards shrieked. "Fuck!" Adam spat to the empty room.
Lawrence had kept his promise, and now Adam didn't have a fucking clue where he was or if he was okay.
The things he had said about Lawrence in that bathroom. In the endless dark. The threats, the cursing, the anger…
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
The person who spoke to Lawrence sounded familiar. The mysterious man had left Adam to rot in the bathroom. Jigsaw — at least, that's what Lawrence had called him — had put them there, Adam had no doubts about that one. And that same raspy, aged voice had echoed its words throughout the room, somehow managing to overshadow Adam's screams.
There was no mistaking it.
Jigsaw and Lawrence had been there, hovering above Adam.
Lawrence said Jigsaw wasn't a murderer. Hadn't killed anyone, he had explained. They were given a chance.
Adam scoffed. "Zep would love to have a talk with you about that one."
Game over.
It's what Jigsaw had uttered before leaving Adam to stain the bathroom with nothing, his contribution blending in perfectly with everything else.
Game. This was all a fucking game.
He stood up and eyed the camera, clenching his jaw as he pictured the person behind it.
He pictured Jigsaw there. Then he imagined his ancient face's remains splattered all around the prehistoric bathroom. For real this time, not Zep. Not some other innocent caught in the crossfire. And Adam and Lawrence would laugh. Maybe Adam could take some pictures. They'd make a pretty sick metal album cover. And the entire world could see Jigsaw for what he was.
Human. A weak little human. Not some untouchable figure preaching life lessons.
All Adam could do now, though, was speak to the camera.
"You hear me out there, huh? Soak up every second you can. Don't you miss a single thing."
Adam was ready to turn and storm off, but a bright splotch caught his eye.
The note sat patiently on the little table. The reminder of Lawrence, of what he had done for Adam.
He picked the paper up and stuffed it in his back pocket.
He'd lost the doctor once. He'd hold on to what he had left until he could find him again.
Until he could find the person who had, after everything that Adam had done, delivered on every one of his promises after all.
Adam could not fail this time. He had always wanted a chance to do better.
And this was it.
"You're going home, Lawrence," he whispered. "I swear."
Adam glanced at everything else in the room. A gross-looking couch. A bookshelf built into the wall, void of any books.
And no hints that they'd be of any use.
Adam walked to the other side of the staircase, balling his hands into fists. His nails dug deep into his palms.
He had done this a lot as a kid. Mom had always taught him to make fists and breathe deep when he was upset. It was a better outlet than what Scott had taught him.
When he had pissed Mom off — truly pissed her off — Scott was usually involved somehow. They would go out and bash mailboxes and light little things on fire. Any object they could find. They needed to feel in control of something. So against Adam's better judgment, and despite his constant suggestions of alternatives, Scott would always get the best of him.
And Adam would always have to deal with the heartache in his mother's voice as he showed up in the back of a cop car again. The officers swore he was one bad day away from a night in juvie.
He clenched his fists tighter.
He closed his eyes as her voice bounced around his head. Her words were soothing, despite the clear disappointment in them.
"Just take a minute, honey. Breathe and make your fists. I'm here."
Except she wasn't.
Blood dripped down Adam's palms.
Adam sighed and shook his hand, splattering red on the floor. "Nice going, Stanheight."
He had only done it to the point of bleeding a couple times before. The most memorable was soon after Scott convinced Adam to drop out of high school, sending his vet school dreams right down the drain. Scott sold Adam on Wrath of the Gods, a band that would surely take off. They needed a photographer and a drummer, as Scott had told him more than a few times in a less-than-subtle fashion.
So Adam left school and got a job at the local record store, saving up money for all the drumming lessons he could find. He hadn't gotten Mom anything for her birthday, but she assured him that his success would be enough for her.
Adam learned Scott's favorite song on those drums. And he was damn proud of himself for catching on so quickly.
And then, after listening to Adam play a few songs and random melodies he came up with — ones that hadn't sounded too bad for how inexperienced he was — Scott hired some other dude who flaked on them after a couple weeks.
Scott said he was teaching Adam a lesson, refusing to elaborate further.
What a great lesson it had been. His vet dreams were dead, and his drumming dreams — well, no, not dreams, more desires — were equally shot.
All he had left was photographing for the band and planning their events. He handed out as many fliers as he could, determined to convince everyone's cousin's friend's son to come to the performance. Maybe then, Scott would understand how hard Adam tried. How hard he had always tried.
Except maybe on the verbal advertising. He told a few people they didn't completely suck.
Adam rolled his eyes. "Nice marketing, dipshit."
He grit his teeth and shook himself out of it.
He had a job to do here, too. Lawrence. Find Lawrence.
Adam peered around the other side of the staircase.
There was a television with a tape precariously balanced in the VHS slot, begging to be pushed in. The setup looked old, its black exterior blending in with the darkness of the walls. There was lettering on the tape, written with the same handwriting as the note.
Play Me
"Oh lovely, you're keeping that up," Adam grumbled.
He pushed the tape in anyway.
The image started as static, and then the little grains gave way to reveal the setup of the concert that Adam knew very, very well.
He would have recognized it anywhere. He had planned every bit of the thing, down to the locations of the chairs. It was in the same crappy bar he selected, with the same people who enjoyed below-average rock music. The cameraman was in the audience, sitting in the middle with the camera pointed at the makeshift stage.
And Scott walked into the frame, beer in hand, storming onstage before gripping the microphone tightly.
The other band members walked up after him, grumbling about how he was supposed to wait for the cue. Scott shushed them and chugged his beer before pointing to the cameraman.
"Y'all might be wondering who this dude is, huh? I know what you're thinking: 'That's not Adam.'"
The regulars at that bar were familiar with Adam. They had become a source of comfort to him, as much as he tried to deny it.
Even when the rest of the week was shit, he could count on them to be saddled up on those barstools.
"Yeah, no shit it's not Adam," Scott shouted, gripping the microphone harder. "'Cause he is nowhere to be found."
Scott stared the camera down.
"You'll be here, huh? You'll be here? Then where the fuck are you?"
The corners of Adam's lips twisted.
I tried...
He had been busy losing his mind in the dark bathroom. Not that Scott knew that. Of course not. But the shouting still dug deep. The blame.
He was always to blame, wasn't he?
"Thanks for nothin', hotshot." Scott took another swig, then stifled a burp.
Maybe it was better Adam missed it. With how wasted he was, the show was probably shit.
Scott chuckled. "At least I found a new cameraman! A more reliable one!"
One of the band members interjected. "Scott… Scott, maybe he got sick or somethin', yanno?"
Lark. He always stood up for Adam when Scott did this. The guitarist hated when Scott turned things around on anyone else. Usually, it'd be Adam. Easy target, he supposed. And Lark would always pull Adam aside afterward and reassure him. It had nothing to do with Adam. Scott was just blowing off steam.
Thank you, Lark.
But on the screen, Scott laughed even louder before chugging the rest of his beer.
"Oh, shut up, Lark. Your little girlfriend got cold feet again!"
He was drunk, Adam needed to remember that. And when Scott got drunk, there was no holding him back.
"I'm changing the name of my new single. How 'bout I Don't Give a Shit About Adam!"
Everyone stood in silence. They only watched as Scott started chanting the title, like it was some sick ritual. Lark looked into the camera with a heavy frown, but didn't say a damn thing.
No one did.
"I don't give a shit about Adam!"
Things never change. They will never fucking change. Adam was the butt of the joke, and everyone just sat there and took it and—
"I don't give a shit about Adam!"
Adam kicked the nearby wall. His foot splintered right through the thin wood paneling.
He yelped, more out of shock than anything else, and then tears started to catch in his lashes. "Fuck!" he snapped.
"I don't give a shit about Adam!"
Adam sat down against the wall. "Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut—"
"I don't give a shit about Adam!"
Adam buried his face in his hands, and Scott still continued on.
"I don't give a shit about Adam!"
"Shut the fuck up!"
The video ended, right on cue.
Adam looked up at the camera. Jigsaw was watching, reveling in every bit of this. No doubt that sick fuck wanted to see how much it would take for Adam to snap.
"Fuck you!"
He heaved for air and wiped the tears from his eyes.
The shouting. He was giving Jigsaw exactly what he wanted. He was like a caged monkey, mindlessly trying to break free as people laughed and clapped and chalked it all up to him just being funny.
He was the laughingstock again, and he was letting it happen.
"Fuck you," he whispered.
He propelled himself to his feet using the wall. His head spun with the motion. A cough escaped him and he caught himself on the staircase.
He was fading, and he knew it. This nerve agent would rip his brain apart if he didn't pick up the pace.
But this couldn't be it. This couldn't be where he stopped.
Lawrence needed him.
Adam walked along the wall, his hand still holding him steady.
And then he caught a lip of something with his fingers. He stared.
Part of the wall stuck out just a bit.
He smirked.
Adam pushed the wall and a not-so-hidden door popped out from the wall. He peered into a dark room. The only thing he could make out from the light in the foyer was the rickety wooden staircase.
He adjusted his feet on the top step, already shaking.
The dark.
He thickly swallowed and went down the first step.
The door slammed shut behind him. He jumped and caught himself on the railing, which was about as sturdy as the rest of the damn staircase.
The total nothing around him bore a remarkable resemblance to the bathroom. The absence of existence — of life — echoed around the empty room. There was no telling what would be lurking down there. It was only a matter of time before something would grab him, just like things had in the bathroom, and throw him somewhere else.
It scared the shit out of him.
He debated turning around. Trying something else. There'd be more than one thing for Adam to do here, especially if he had two hours, and—
But he couldn't. He needed to go in. For Lawrence.
Adam let out a shaky breath and forced himself to take a few more steps. But he only got so far before freezing in place again.
He cursed under his breath. "It's just a fucking room Adam, pull yourself together."
His heart slammed against his ribs as he slowly descended, keeping a death grip on the railing.
"For Lawrence, for Lawrence, for Lawrence," he mumbled to himself with each step.
It was a miracle his wobbly knees didn't cave and send him toppling to the ground floor. He uselessly scoured the room for something. Something other than random shapes. Something other than faces that he knew weren't real and horrible crime scenes that he wasn't so sure about.
He used to love the dark. As kids, he and Scott would go camping with Scott's dad. Mister Tibbs had a talent for picking the darkest days when there were the fewest stars. They would stare off into the woods, telling each other stories of the creatures lurking in the trees and what they did for fun. Usually, it was that they'd eat kids named "Adam" or "Scott," because apparently, they never had anything better to do and the names signaled a delicacy. Sometimes, when Scott's dad was sleeping, one of them would rustle into the woods, and the other would try to sneak up on him.
Some of the best moments of Adam's entire childhood were spent in the dark.
But now, it fucking terrified him.
Adam reached the bottom of the stairs. He felt around the walls, frantically searching for a switch.
He found it, and he swiftly clicked it up.
The light wasn't blinding. There weren't fluorescent bulbs that burned through Adam's eyes.
One welcome change, at least.
But these lights weren't the change Adam would have hoped for. They illuminated just enough for him to see. He squinted and blinked for a few moments, trying to make out shapes — real shapes — in the dark.
He heard a scream as he looked around.
In front of him was a makeshift stage, much like the one for Scott's concert. Under the dull stage lights was a basic drum set. Four pieces. Didn't even look like a real set.
Connected to the drums was a string. He followed the string, and it led him to a machine before disappearing into the shadows of the ceiling.
The ceiling that a hooded figure was connected to. They screamed again.
Without thinking, Adam raced over to them.
"You're gonna regret this!" they screamed.
Adam stopped dead in his tracks.
"You're gonna regret this."
He was far, far too familiar with that one. He'd heard it every other day for as long as he could remember, at least as far back as elementary school. Any time Adam pissed him off or stepped a single foot out of line, it was that stupid phrase.
He'd regret it.
He'd always regret it.
Adam reached out and shakily pulled the sheet off.
The person winced under the light and blinked furiously. Adam looked at their arms and legs, each limb connected to a string that sprawled out in each direction before looping around pulleys and disappearing into more shadow.
"X" marks the damn spot again. As if the tapes from Adam's first game were still in play. As if the entire thing was one drawn-out hellscape.
Except this time, they were the "X."
Between grit teeth, the person hissed, "The fuck are you doing here? I thought you were… How…?"
Adam stood there, mouth hung open.
A pawn. Another fucking pawn.
He wanted to say something. Anything. An apology, an explanation, something to start defusing a bomb that wasn't even lit yet.
But he only managed one word.
"Scott?"