Chapter Text
Hey!
Dainty hands not-so-daintily shove the small, faded blue MP3 player in a shallow pocket of his grey jeans, color even more lost to time than the chipping paint on the music device. Didn't they used to be blue as well? He doesn't even remember. Doesn't exactly care to remember, either.
Been tryin' to meet you... mm-hm...
He slips both earbuds in before turning the rusty handle on the door in front of him. Now that he's in the mock safety of his own shithole, he can handle wearing more than one headphone without grazing the path of hyperventilation. A fragrant aroma of stale beer and cigarette smoke that has soaked into the walls by this point tickles his pale nose.
Hey!
Turning around, one of his worn-down sneakers kicks the plywood door to force it back into the frame. His dark eyes scan around the living room he's walked into. Soft lighting filters in through the half-shut blinds and sheer curtains, illuminating the dust particles he inhales every moment of his nonexistent life here. The sunset hits his apartment at the perfect angle to blind him first thing in the morning and wish him a half-assed slumber during sunset. It's the latter right now.
Must be a devil between us...
He pads down the hallway missing chunks of ancient carpet, not that he minds. There were too many puke stains when he first slithered into his own little slice of hell. The slender, short figure proceeds into his bedroom door, er... door frame. He hasn't had doors on any room in his apartment in nearly six months. In fact, the pile of wood is currently rotting outside by the dumpsters, soaked with city rain and covered in mold and bird shit.
Or whores in my head...
He tears his graphic tee over his head and immediately winces in audible discomfort as he grabs painfully at his right peck. A scarred-over bullet hole is only a couple inches above the lump, barely under his small, pink nipple. It's just as swollen as that lump of whatever protruding from under his skin, parallel to the nipple.
Whores at the door, whore in my bed...
Pushing his earbuds further into his ears, the man shirtlessly walks back to where he entered to make sure the door was locked behind him. He'll check again in ten minutes, and after that, twenty minutes, and after that, maybe an hour, and after that, maybe ten minutes, and after that, every five minutes as he progressively becomes more and more tired. From there, he idles into the cramped kitchen.
But hey!
Who is "he" exactly?
Where have you been?
"Adam Faulkner-Stanheight," he mumbles to himself as he rips into the envelope that's been gathering dust on the kitchen counter for a few too many days now. "Mr. Adam Faulkheight... Okay, first of all, how the fuck did you get the name right on the envelope but not on the part that I'm fucking reading? Anyways, yada, yada, yada... Your court date is rapidly approaching, and thus, your request for a change of date has been denied by Judge Applegate. If your appearance is not made, a warrant will be placed for your immediate arrest... yada, fucking yada."
If you go, I will surely die...
"Now the question remains, do I lose my license or become a wanted fugitive? Big decisions here, Faulkheight," mocks Adam.
He turns the volume up on his MP3 player and breathes out a strained sigh as the most euphoric part of the song prepares to kick in. Adam could fall apart right here and now over the way Black Francis entrances him in his ears, but he chooses to stay upright this time.
We're chained.
We're chained.
We're chained.
We're chained.
With his newfound, however temporary that may be, will to live, Adam turns to the sink full of dishes covered in slime and take-out residue. When's the last time he bothered to wash them? It could have been days or weeks, maybe even months at this point. Adam turns the hot water tap on, which is really just lukewarm at best. That's on good days, though. Today, it refuses to heat past gently frigid. He reaches for the dish soap bottle and gives a hefty squeeze, but nothing more than a few bubbles come floating out of the nozzle.
"Huh, so that's why I haven't done dishes this year. Hand soap is the same thing, right?"
Adam furiously pumps the bottle of hand soap, but not a drop relinquishes onto his biohazard of dishes. He rolls his eyes so far back in his head that he momentarily fears he's severed his optic nerve, but when he can still see after repositioning his eyes forward, Adam takes out his earbuds and tosses his MP3 player onto the counter. He sucks in all the air his lungs will allow before barreling to the bathroom. He instantly turns on the overhead light so as not to have an episode. It's been three days since his last one, and the last thing Adam wants is to break his streak.
"Listen, if I can put it on my body, I can put it on my dishes, " reasons Adam, grabbing the bar soap from the shower.
Of course, there is no curtain on his shower, nor is there a door positioned in the frame. A ratty, eggshell towel covers the mirror, carefully tucked around the frame so that it cannot ever slip out unprompted. Well, not after the first time, anyways. Adam won't make such a silly mistake again. That one nearly paralyzed him on the bathroom floor until his death, but Scott found him and helped him out of the bathroom and back into reality.
What are best friends for if not to save you from your own demons? Adam looks to the faded scar on the palm of his hand and gently laughs.
Adam hastily turns around to get back to the cesspool stewing in the kitchen, but the most horrific type of burning pain courses through his peck, not unlike that of a bullet. He would know, of course. Adam looks down to his breast, eyes wide open at the fact that his once baby pink nipple is now bright red... and weeping.
"Holy shit, I'm fucking lactating! Oh god, oh fuck. I'm not ready to be a mom! Holy shit, this hurts like hell..."
Without a second thought, Adam stumbles his way into the living room to where his home phone sits on a cardboard box that he likes to pretend is an end table. He dials the only number he's ever known by heart into the keypad as he tries not to vomit.
"Go for Tibbs," answers the recipient, after three painfully long rings.
"Tibbsy! Oh god, I'm in big trouble. Ya know that bump I have? That bite or whatever? Well, it currently feels like my tit is on fire. There's milk coming out of it, Scottish. Fucking Milk!"
Scott gasps. "Milk? Oh, there's no way in hell you of all people are ready to be a mom."
"Funny you mention that because that's exact- Wait, why am I getting off on a tangent? My tit is rotting off! What should I do, T-Bo?"
There's a long pause where Adam can almost hear Scott's gears turning over the sound of his own rapidly beating heart. He's unable to rip his eyes from the lump. The pain deepens and lightens over and over again as Adam wonders if maybe the bathroom should have been his final resting place. Whatever is going on with his peck is not something he wanted to tick off his post-almost-mortem bucket list.
"All right, I've thought it through. You need to get to the hospital ASAP."
"And be in debt for the rest of my short life? Fat fucking chance. What's your back-up plan, Tibbles?" asks Adam, hand shaking as he pokes at the painful lump.
There's another small moment of silence before Scott chimes in with, "What if it's a black widow bite? Or worse? You need to get that fester-fuck checked out, man. I'm being serious."
Adam grumbles into the line, knowing his best friend is right. He quickly finishes up his conversation with Scott and throws on a shirt with a rag tucked up one side. It gives the impression that Adam has one implant, but at this point, he doesn't give a fuck. He speeds to the hospital in his 1960s Ford Starliner, knowing this may be one of the final times he ever drives the shitbox if he cannot somehow become his own saving grace in court.
The emergency waiting room is cramped with all walks of life. A strung-out mother drags in her three, greasy kids and sits across Adam while smoking a cigarette and giving him sexy eyes. He tries to avoid eye contact and not spew his guts all over her. The older man next to him hacks up a thunderstorm without covering his mouth. Phlegm runs down his chin as spittle flies everywhere. Adam has seen and touched far, far worse, though. On the other side of the room, a teenage boy with his two front teeth clutched in one hand angrily glares at the second teenage boy sitting beside him. They remind Adam of him and Scott.
"Mr. Faulkner-Stanheight," calls the nurse, saving Adam from that ragged mother attempting to slip her phone number down the front of his pants. "What brings you in today, Mr. Faulkner?"
"I have a bite of some sorts on my tit. It's been bugging me the past several days, but today, it just decided to light itself on fire. Oh, and I'm lactating."
She raises an eyebrow at him and motions him to move back the cloth covering his breast. "Well, I'm not the doctor, so I cannot say for sure, but that doesn't look like a bite to me."
"Well, then, what is it?" Adam implores, grimacing at the sight of himself.
Suddenly, a look of amazement clouds her once serious features. "Hey, don't I know you from somewhere? I swear I've seen you before..."
Adam has to ignore the pain to clear his throat and pretend that he isn't as smooth as crunchy peanut butter. "Perhaps, you've seen me in your dreams."
"I'm pretty sure the men in my dreams don't lactate." Adam's eyes shift away from her face, knowing he has lost any chance he ever had of fucking the hot nurse. "I've got it! I've seen you on TV. You're a Jigsaw survivor!"
Before Adam can say anything in response, the curtain to his room flies open to reveal a man in a lab coat with a stethoscope around his neck. "Hello, Mr. Faulkner-Stanheight. I'm Doctor- Do I know you from somewhere?"
He has to roll his eyes at this point, for Adam is really sick of such trivial déjà vu. He was nothing before the game, and he intends to be nothing afterwards. He'd stay in his apartment forever if he wasn't forced to pay bills... or get his breast lump checked out. Adam's luck had never been shining, though.
"Can you just tell me what's wrong with me so I can crawl back to my hidey hole?"
The doctor takes one look at Adam's lump and then stares into him with unnerved, cold eyes. "Brayelle, order an MRI, now. If there are people in front of Mr. Faulkner, please bump him to the top of the list. His case is now priority."
Adam's whole body goes numb as that sinking feeling sets in. He's not unused to the feeling, but it never becomes easier to stomach. Perhaps because it's only been six months. He doesn't give more effort than to mumble responses as he's ushered from room to room and told to stay still or turn this or that way. Who knew a spider bite could be so troublesome?
Well, he hopes it's a spider bite.
The nurse, Brayelle, tends to him for what feels like hours after his MRI, but it couldn't have been more than forty-five minutes. She's been looking at him with curious eyes ever since she stated that she knew him from the news, and the look didn't end as she prepares to give him his own sort of sickly news.
"Mr. Stanheight, your results are inconclusive. We've referred you to the only oncologist in our department that accepts Medicaid, but he's not back in the office until next Tuesday. For the time being, we'll send you home with a prescription for amoxicillin."
"Woah, woah, woah, next Tuesday? If I die before then, I'm suing your asses!" he threatens, though he doubts he'll have any credibility after he butchers his upcoming court case. "Also, can't I have something for the pain? Hydrocodone works best for me, but I'll accept Fentanyl too."
She raises an eyebrow at him. "You can take some over-the-counter acetaminophen until your appointment. You're free to go, Adam. Er... Mr. Stanheight."
Adam huffs and pushes past her, knowing full and well she knows exactly who he is. More than anything, Adam wants to go back to his trash goblin life as a pervy photographer without a hint of meaning to anyone in the world besides a select few people. Now, though, he doesn't even take pictures. Adam hasn't set foot in his darkroom since the night he was kidnapped for the game. What does he have left?
That's when he remembers there is a half-full pack of Newports in the back pocket of his jeans.
~
Adam keeps a bandage over the lump on his peck. Now that it's noticeable through his shirt, he seldom goes anywhere without a flannel, jacket, or sweater shrouding him in secrecy.
"You do know what an oncologist is, right Ads?" asks Scott, one day, while they're having a treasured phone call.
Adam chews on the butt of his last Newport, hoping he'll feel the nicotine residue hit after he eats enough of it. "Dunno, probably a doctor that's on-call. Which is fucking dumb if this guy's out of town when I'm having a crisis!"
"No, man. An oncologist is a doctor that specializes in cancer treatment. They think you have fucking cancer!"
The whinier best friend practically shouts in retaliation, "No fuckin' way! I'm a man. Men don't get boob cancer! It's just a bite or a cyst or something. It is not cancer though, Tibbsy. I would know."
"You're my best friend, so I'm legally not allowed to lie to you. Adam, you know absolutely nothing. Remember when you asked Marley French to prom in junior year and she said she would rather take a dog to prom? So, you came to school the next day with a collar on because you thought she meant it in a kinky way?"
Adam clears his throat. "No..."
Scott sighs into the receiver. "What are you gonna do if it's cancer?"
"I really don't know. I thought my life was over in that bathroom. I thought the last thing I would ever see was that disgusting place with the idiot doctor that fucking shot me. Now? I just don't know." Adam fights the urge to toss his home phone into the peeling wall in front of him. "I just hope the doctor I'm seeing isn't a total wacko. Anything is better than Dr. Gordon, though."
~
The freeway has been moving at a slow, steady pace for two hours now, frustrating the doctor to no end. He's a patient man, though, for he's learned such a virtue throughout his career in medicine. Being trapped in a bathroom for six hours and crawling out with only one foot taught him quite a lot about it too.
"Oh, Lindy, there's no way I'm going to be able to stop in for lunch. This traffic doesn't seem to be letting up anytime soon," he huffs, glancing at his watch as one hand holds his flip phone to his ear.
"That's such a pity. I haven't gone without seeing you in over a week since we started dating," reminisces the woman, on the other end of the line. "I'm working late tonight at the hospital. You can come over after your shift if you're willing to wait for me."
Lawrence swivels his jaw while he thinks. "I wish I could, but I've got such an early day tomorrow. I have to work in a new patient before my usual schedule since I was completely booked up. The staffing in the emergency room made it out to be quite urgent."
"I understand more than anyone, Lawrence. Listen, I'll see you tomorrow, then, okay? I miss you so dearly, but this is important. Let's grab dinner and talk about your visit with Diana tomorrow night."
"I'll be there, Lindy. Love you."
The doctor clicks the end button and plants both hands back on his steering wheel. Lindy Hawkins is a wonderful woman that he's had the pleasure of dating for three months now. His separation from Alison came so naturally after he escaped from the bathroom. It was difficult, but he knew that there was no saving their marriage. It took being brought to his deathbed before Lawrence fully understood that letting go was okay to do sometimes.
Traffic comes to a stiff halt once again, causing Lawrence to let another sigh slip. Visiting Diana two states away was well worth the trip and time off work, but this painstakingly long drive makes him wonder if he should start flying instead of insisting on using old-fashioned methods. Lindy loaned him her minivan for the trip so he could have some more room than his BMW provided, which he greatly appreciated. She was just perfect in that way.
Lindy Hawkins had been the doctor that primarily treated Lawrence once he was out of the ICU. She fitted him with the ideal prosthetic for his missing foot and helped teach him to walk again. She is beautiful woman, tall and boisterous with bright eyes and laugh-lines. Her curly, red hair is always artfully unkempt. She is very dedicated to her job as an orthopedics doctor and her three young sons that she'd had in her previous marriage.
Lawrence and Lindy are just right for each other. They both understand what it takes to be in a relationship with someone in the medical field. They both are in their mid-forties, with Lindy being only a year younger than him. They both know how to run a marriage and how to let it fall apart when the engine stops whirring on its own. How idyllic.
If it weren't for Lindy, Lawrence would have been completely alone after the bathroom. He tried desperately to contact his counterpart to Jigsaw's game, but there were far too many Adam Smiths in the yellow pages to get through to the one. In fact, he'd stopped at fourteen. Lawrence would often weep for the man he shot and never saw heal. It feels like Adam is just another one of his cancer patients that couldn't be saved. In Lawrence's heart, Adam Smith is dead.
A honk from the car behind him startles Lawrence from his bitter memories so that he could idle his car two feet forward in the unending sea of humming cars.
~
The day came that Adam was to see the oncologist. Ever since Scott revealed to him what exactly an oncologist specialized in, he'd been in a state of denial. Everyone—family, friends, doctors, news reporters, and strangers—talks to Adam like he should be endlessly grateful for having lived through his game. They make it seem like he had been baptized and reborn, but Adam felt absolutely fucking none of that. He is so much worse off now. He has night terrors when he even can fall asleep, is afraid of pursuing the one thing that made him happy for fear of returning to that bathroom, has developed an unhealthy attachment to his Xanax prescription among many other licit and illicit substances, can barely afford to pay the bills for his shitbox, is about to lose his license, and now is facing the possibility of cancer.
What will it take for him to just give up?
Adam's never felt so disconnected from the world around him. He feels like he is completely alone in this vast world. People look at him like he's a monster. Hell, Adam is a monster. If only Scott still lived in the city. If only Scott still lived in the US, in general... Maybe then, Adam wouldn't be contemplating jumping out of his bedroom window.
He careens his Starliner, rusty and faded beyond recognition, into the first handicapped spot outside of the hospital entrance he was told to make his presence in. If this may be the last time he's allowed to drive, he might as well be as bold as he can. Adam pulls out his menthol Newports and shakily lights one, cupping the flame as he singes the tip of it. He takes in the deepest breath his lungs will allow him to hold, barely able to contain his sudden arousal. If he's going to make this pack last, though, he'll have to finish her off later.
"Don't go anywhere, sexy," says Adam, as he stubs the cigarette out on the interior roof of his car and flings it onto the passenger seat.
Adam shoves one earbud in and searches for the only song that's given him serotonin lately. So what if he's listened to it twenty times today, already? If he's not slitting his wrists, he's winning at his shitty, little life.
"Name?" asks the receptionist, eyeing Adam like the pest he is.
"Faulkner-Stanheight. There's a hyphen in the middle," he says, tuning out her follow up questions.
Hey! Been trying to meet you, mm-hm; Hey! Must be a devil between us; Or whores in my head; Whores at the door; Whore in my bed; But hey! Where have you been? If you go, I will surely die!
"Please, have a seat Mr. Faulkner-Stanheight. A nurse will bring you back to see the doctor shortly."
Adam trudges over to the waiting area and taps his foot to the beat ringing through the only ear with access to that dopamine. He could die right here and now and find a way to be content with it.
We're chained.
We're chained.
We're chained.
We're chained.
(Chained) We're chained.
(Chained) We're chained.
(Chained) We're chained.
(Chained) We're chained.
(Chained) We're chained.
(Chained) We're chained.
(Chained) We're chained.
(Chained) We're chained.
(Chained) We're chained.
(Chained) We're chained.
When he's beckoned by a nurse to follow her, Adam takes out his earbud and tucks the MP3 player into his pocket, but he never relinquishes all of his attention to her. In fact, he only gives her enough to make her think that he's listening to what she's saying. Adam doesn't want to be comforted by any of the staff here regarding his impending diagnosis. The last thing he needs is false sympathy that is dished out to every sap that walks through these doors. If he's dying, they need to just say that and shut up indefinitely.
The nurse feels him up, and if he didn't know any better, he'd think she was hitting on him. Her hands graze both of his pecks and trail down his chest. She puts her ear to his heart and softly hums before pressing two fingers to his dainty wrist to listen for her pulse. Her otoscope shines in both of his dark eyes, down his throat, and in each ear. Her soft hands grip his throat to feel his lymph nodes, which sends a shiver down his spine.
Is he that touch-starved? Does a simple touch make his whole body quake in delight?
"All right, Adam. The doctor will be in here in just a few minutes. Please, relax in the meantime."
"You fucking relax with possible cancer in your tit," Adam mutters to himself, lying down on the small bed with a sigh.
He slips an earbud back in and closes his eyes, placing his hands under his head so that the crick in his neck that develops from this visit doesn't completely paralyze him later. Adam focuses on the brief intermission before the next verse, which is his favorite set of lyrics that have ever been written.
"Uh!" said the man to the lady, mm-hm; "Uh!" said the lady to the man she adored; And the whores like a choir, Go "Uh!" all night; And Mary, ain't you tired of this? "Uh!" is the sound; That the mother makes when the baby breaks...
Adam is so focused on this verse that he doesn't catch the soft tapping of wood on ceramic tile that trails closer and closer to the room he's in. He doesn't even open his eyes as the door creaks open. Nothing could break him out of the otherworldly trance that "Hey" puts him in.
"Adam?"
"That's me," he responds, dully.
The doctor says nothing back, which piques Adam's interest. He opens one eye to take a quick glance at the man, only to have the wind metaphorically knocked out of his small body. He shoots upright, the singular earbud falling out in the process.
"Holy shit..." gasps Adam.
Lawrence Gordon—blonde hair slicked back and white overcoat shimmering against a black button-up, pressed dress pants, and leather loafers—is staring at Adam with utter amazement in his icicle eyes. Adam has to resist the urge to kick the cane away from the man in order to run by him without the fear of getting caught.
"When my nurse told me my first patient was a man named Adam Faulkner-Stanheight, I did not even slightly expect to see Adam Smith. But, Adam Smith isn't your real name, now, is it?" questions Lawrence, hobbling over to the chair next to Adam's bed.
"I never thought I'd see you again..."
The doctor feigns a smile. "Well, you clearly didn't want to, did you?"
"Not fucking particularly!" shouts Adam, unable to keep his voice down as the anger-induced nausea swells inside of him.
Lawrence pauses to let Adam's words simmer before continuing with, "I tried so hard to find you. So goddamn hard."
"Why is that? Last I saw you, you did this to me!" Adam raises up his tee to reveal a scarred wound piercing through his shoulder. "I had to have six surgeries, and I will be in medical debt for the rest of my fucking life. However long that is."
But, Lawrence's eyes are not fixated on the bullet wound. Instead, they are directed right at the lump on Adam's breast. The leakage has stopped, but that bulbous mound is still plain as day. Adam feels himself tense and freeze in the midst of his rant.
"Adam."
He cringes, hating the way the pristine doctor says his name like a teacher scolding a misbehaving student. "What do you want from me?"
"To make sure you are healthy, Adam. That is all I want to do."
"I didn't know doctors shot their patients for health benefits."
Lawrence pulls a pair of latex gloves over his hands. "You weren't my patient at the time. I wish I could undo it, Adam. I really wish I could. But, I cannot. You didn't have to lie to me, though. I just wanted to find you."
"Well, you've found me! Now, can you tell me if this is fucking cancerous so that I never have to see you again?" spits the younger, wishing he had the confidence to push Dr. Gordon out of his chair and onto the floor.
"If that's what you want, Adam, I will not disrespect your wishes. When did this growth appear?"
Adam has to use his brain to think back on this, though he's seldom been sober enough to since the game. His life has consisted of taking any drugs that will numb the pain and the fear. If it quiets his racing thoughts, Adam will take it to feel less of... everything. He doesn't care if it kills him as long as he dies at peace.
"Shortly after the game..." he whispers, despising the fact that he's talking about the game with the man that knows what he went through more than anyone. "But, it's gotten so much worse lately. Way more painful. Bigger. My... my nipple has been leaking?"
The doctor examines the lump on Adam's peck, almost hesitantly. "Discharge? Okay. I will need to do a biopsy to see whether or not this growth is cancerous."
"Biopsy? No fucking way you're coming near me with a weapon. The first time that happened, I almost fucking died."
"You are allowed to hate me, but please, just let me do my job. I'm not going to hurt you. Not ever again."
Their eyes meet in a painful gaze. "Somehow, I doubt that. Do your worst, Doctor."
Lawrence guides Adam back to the lying position and prods at the lump with his clothed fingers. Adam hates the feeling of Lawrence touching him in any kind of way. He's only ever known pain from those destructive hands, and for as long as Adam may live, he swears to himself that he will never seek Lawrence's comfort. Sure, that man is the only one that understands what Adam is dealing with, but solace is not worth sacrificing for. Adam will always despise Lawrence.
"I'm going to apply a local anesthetic to your pectoral area around the lump. Then, I will retrieve some fluid samples that can be studied to detect possible cancer. Can you cooperate with me on this?" questions the doctor.
Adam rolls his eyes. "As much as I would like not to, I will comply this once. Is... is it going to hurt?"
The look in Lawrence's eyes causes Adam to realize how pitiful he sounds. Pain is something Adam is all too familiar with, but he wishes he were anything but. He's experienced more than he ever thought possible by the nimble hands of the doctor pressing on his peck right now.
"Please, just relax. Look up at the ceiling and start counting to one hundred, slowly and methodically. It'll make this easier."
Adam sighs and chooses not to verbally fight back, even though every bone in his body demands such a rash thing of him. He's volatile and disgusting for many reasons, but that doesn't make his reasonings for hating Lawrence any less valid. That man left him for dead, after all.
Those bluish-grey eyes, like forlorn ice in the deepest of arctic winters, lean down closer to Adam's face, causing Adam's breath to hitch. He's only seen Dr. Gordon up close once before, and it was when the man had crawled over to him. Adam had blood and brain matter staining his hands. He was in hysterics and more pain than he'd ever known possible. A sharp ringing had pierced both of his eardrums as the previous night's dinner of Poptarts and vodka threatened to come up his burning throat. He was so dizzy and cold, but the second Lawrence's shaking hands gripped him, Adam felt that he was safe.
Now, with the touch of those skilled hands on his peck and eyes peering down at him with complexity and certainty, Adam feels dread. He regrets gripping him back with slippery hands and gasping cries. If he could go back, he'd let himself die on that frigid floor. He'd let Zepp Hindle kick at him before shooting Lawrence and probably Adam himself for good measure. Adam's biggest regret is making it out alive.
That's when he feels a pinch.
"Fucking ow!" he exclaims, almost involuntarily.
"The worst is over," assures Dr. Gordon, setting the initial syringe aside. "There are several ways a tumor can be biopsied-"
Adam shoots straight up on the table. "You don't really think it's a tumor, do you? Not that I... I value or trust your opinion, that is."
Lawrence's gaze holds firm, not wavering in the slightest. "Adam, I simply want to prepare you for the very possible reality in which it is a tumor."
"I'm sick of you saying Adam. Mr. Faulkner-Stanheight is preferable to me, Dr. Gordon. I'd like to keep this professional."
"Morbidly so," Lawrence mutters.
The doctor chuckles as Adam forces himself back to the lying position, eyes trained on the ceiling once more. "What's so funny?"
"You've been through far worse than this, Mr. Faulkner-Stanheight. We both have, together."
Adam cringes inwardly as Lawrence lowers an empty syringe to Adam's breast. "Please, do not ever consider us a 'we.' I want nothing more than for you to forget about me."
"How could I?" the doctor sternly asks, his voice trepid and louder than he's dared to speak thus far. "I think about you every day, Adam."
"Don't."
Nothing more can be said by Adam than the simple, harsh word. He's gone through far too much to be ripping open old wounds during his cancer check-up. Adam wants to move on and find purpose in his new life, but that's just the thing! This life isn't new at all. And, if it is, it's just worse. What has he gained besides limited mobility of his right shoulder and the fear of sleeping? It's as if he expects to come face to face with Freddy Kreuger every time his eyelids shut.
"I'm going to suction a sample of fluid from the mass on your breast with another syringe. You shouldn't feel much more than slight pressure now. After I've collected enough fluid, you will be free to go. Someone from my office will call you when your results are in," explains Dr. Gordon.
Adam has nothing to say in response, though Lawrence looks to him for some sort of confirmation he was listening. Adam refuses to give it. His eyes stay hooked on the ceiling tiles and LED strip lights above him. The monotonous surface provides him more comfort than Lawrence ever could dream of.
During the tedious process of aspirating a sample of Adam's lump, the patient makes the mistake of glancing at the syringe as it fills up with milky, red fluid. He swallows the growing pool of saliva in his mouth in order to cease from vomiting all over the doctor. Though, chucking up on Lawrence would be a rather good start to Adam's desire of payback...
"You're safe to go now, Ad... Er, Mr. Faulkner-Stainheight."
Adam sighs in relief as he pulls his shirt back down over his chest and abdomen. "Thank fucking God."
He hops off the table and begins treading out of the sterile room, but before he can fling open the door, Adam feels a tender grip on his once injured shoulder. The touch is enough to make him turn around in defense as a gasp escapes his throat. Being suddenly touched without prompt is definitely a trigger for him, for Adam's heart begins to beat twice as fast as his vision momentarily flashes white. He quickly turns around with terror in his brown eyes, pupils mere pinholes now, and cowers with his back against the door.
"Sorry! I'm... so sorry to spook you. I didn't mean..." Lawrence lets out a long sigh. "Adam-"
"Mr. Faulkner-fucking-Stanheight," Adam corrects, voice trembling.
Those blue eyes contort in distress. "Mr. Faulkner-Stanheight. I'm so sorry. I'm endlessly sorry for what I did during the game."
Adam avoids looking into those painful eyes. "I don't care what you are."
"Can't you just talk to me about it?"
"Is that a fucking joke?" Adam closes the gap between himself and the vile creature standing in front of him. "Talk with you about it? I think I'd rather take another bullet. Are we done here?"
Lawrence is silent for a few, awkward moments. Perhaps he is guilt stricken. Adam more so thinks he's just trying to clear his good name. After all, when Lawrence aimed that gun at him, it wasn't with the intent of making things right later. It was with the intent of never having to own up to killing someone.
"Yes."
Without a second to spare, Adam rips open the door and stomps out of the hospital, wishing he could destroy everything and everyone in his way. The anger coursing through his veins causes his whole body to flush and pulsate as he navigates his way to the parking lot where his beat-up Starliner sits. He looks at the car with hatred and even more at his reflection in one of the shattered side mirrors.
"Fuck it. Fuck it! I'm not gonna be able to drive this pile of shit anymore anyways, so why fucking keep it?" he shouts, to himself.
Adam turns toward the wooded area bordering one edge of the hospital and looks down at the keys in his hand. The Starliner's key is so old and dingy that the ridges are smoothing into curvy mounds. It's too ancient to have a key fob and just barely still fits into the finicky ignition. He doesn't have a reason in the world left to hold onto this decrepit thing. Before he makes his hasty decision, Adam soaks up one last gaze of his metal frog keychain with chipping, lime paint that he's had since receiving his license and heaves the keyring into the tree line.
"I'm not going to be fucking chained anymore."
Before he sets off into the busy streets on foot, Adam digs through the junk in the now not-his car for his half of a Newport. He then pulls out his earbuds, popping them in and turning on the track he cannot seem to stay away from today. Finally, Adam opens the glove compartment and fishes out his nearly empty bottle of driving wine before slamming the door shut and abandoning the ole girl here forever.
Hey!