TRIAL XXV; NO SIGN OF REDEMPTION

Adam rolled over much as a teenager avoiding school and responsibility; slinging one arm over his eyes and pulling up the covers with the other. Granted, there were no covers, and he found he had very little space to properly roll over. He muttered to himself, something to the effect of, five more minutes, please, fuck off already.

It was a trial, he already knew that much. Likewise, he knew how much he didn’t want to deal with the headache trials invariably brought. He did, in any case, still try and roll onto his side, seeking the comfort of bending his back even further out of shape, eyes still screwed shut to block out reality.

And of course, he had to be rudely dragged out of it by the feeling, and the noise, of something falling off from his torso, sliding down whatever his make-shift bed was, and away from him.

Finally, reluctantly, he opened his eyes.

Terrific. Awesome, really, he swears. Gotta love to be sent to wake up in the room you were meant to die in, it’s always a real treat. Even the same spot, he mused, gripping the sides of the cold metal tub for leverage as he pried himself upright. Less wet this time, he supposed, for all that was worth.

He leaned up, fully now, in search of whatever fell away from him. Let it be a key, let this be over quick. Of course, were there a key, it would’ve been too much like last time for his comfort. It would’ve slid down the drain again, anyway, wouldn’t it? Just to rub it in.

This new object was kinder in that regard. Too large to fall all the way down the pipes and away from him. Stuck by its hard corners, a small tape, suspended in the drain.

Adam sighed, deep, low, and tired.

He knows the tape recorder came from his pocket, he knew it was there somehow, but it’s path from there to his hand is fuzzy, blurred negatives as he fumbles with the tiny tape, slotting it into the player with little thought. Second nature.


He breathes out, slow.

Hey, Mandy.


...See you soon, I guess.


And hello to you, too, John.

John’s words mean precious little to him, just like the first time he suffered through the spiel. Pompous, obnoxious, things Adam was well accustomed to. They sting, of course, they always will. He lost a part of himself, here, in this shitty fucking bathroom. John’s voice will always be a reminder of that.

But that doesn’t matter so much, now that he’s lost… well, all the rest of himself, too. But, even still…

He flips the ejected tape over in his hands, examining the hard plastic, scrutinizing. It has no secrets to reveal to him, there’s no more puzzles for him to solve that can get him out of this. It’s just him, Amanda, and whoever unlucky bastards got stuck with the both of them.

He wants to roll over. Let whatever happens this trial, happen. He’s already done this, all of this, and he knows where he’s supposed to end up. Let everyone else figure out their own endings to this shitty game.

But it’s not fair, and he knows that. He won’t weigh them down, won’t make it harder on them than it needs to be, just because he’s got his own shit he needs to work through. So he lifts himself back up, slings a leg over the edge of the bath, and plants his feet on the tile. He’s psyching himself up, now. Scrubbing his face, brushing his hair out of his eyes. He stands, slowly, always mindful of his leg.

(He pockets the tape, and the recorder, as he stands. He might need something of a reminder, later, not to give up. Amanda’s voice will do well for that.)

He meanders to the gen, lowering himself slowly. The panel is already open, like always, inviting him in. Let’s just get this over with, he thinks, connecting the same burnt-out wires as ever, hoping they’ll hold a connection one more time.

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