Adam Parrish

 By now, most of Adam's coworkers at West's knew that he didn't respond to anything spoken on his left side and most of them knew, further, to not ask. It was unspoken around him and Adam never felt the need to speak a disclaimer. People silently gave accommodation but inevitably there was always some new hire who didn't pick up on that unspoken rule. Someone who shouted Think fast! before throwing a wrench or a car battery or something else his way.

Today it was a damaged timer belt and Adam didn't think fast before it came at him, hitting him squarely on the cheek. It wasn't as heavy or as bad as it could have been, but Adam knew immediately that he'd have a greasy bruise to show for it. 

"I'm taking my break," he said, standing up from the car he was working on so he could wash his face. On his way over, he waved off someone's offer of ice. 

It was stupid. So stupid. Someone at the garage had come up on Adam's left side and startled him and he'd flailed a hand back. That hand, his left, was now marked with a deep gash from where it'd struck the blade of the circular saw. He'd been too surprised to ask Cabeswater for help.The cut had bled like crazy but it hadn't actually hurt at first.

Driving home, Adam had realized that his left hand was damp inside the leather gloves he wore when cycling. Pulling over and taking the glove off had been like a horror movie. It reminded him of the time that his dad had slammed Adam's hand in a car door. In the nighttime shadow, he'd noticed the wetness of blood but it hadn't hurt. When he'd walked into the light and seen the blood it had been a switch in his brain. Everything had gone into pain mode.

He'd whimpered but learned by then not to cry.

Adam knew, now, not to cry either. He knew to take himself to the emergency room. He knew that–because he was actively bleeding–he would get taken back quickly.

It was morbidly fascinating once they'd shot in the local anesthetic because he could see the needle, feel the pull of the thread, but all of it registered as a distant tugging sensation. Like stamping feet that had fallen asleep.

He was given a tetanus shot and sternly told not to drive.

He didn't have to worry about the bill. Darrow was thoughtful about their healthcare like that.

He had to worry about getting home. Blue was scared of driving normal cars; Adam had a feeling she wouldn't come near his motorcycle. Gansey had the Pig but he must have been elsewhere because his phone didn't pick up. No response from Noah either and it was terrible of Adam but he wasn't sure if Noah could drive a motorcycle either. That left...

Please check your phone. I'm at the emergency room. Need a ride home. Please.

He didn't expect a response from Ronan, not really.

He had the keys to Hywel now. There were five sets made, one for each of them, only Ronan had made himself scarce and Noah seemed more interested in shacking up with Krem and Blue―probably sensibly―seemed to want to keep her own quarter. So, mostly, it was him and Gansey eating Doritos in the middle of thousands of square feet of industrial gray. They'd pinned a lot of hopes on recreating Monmouth only for things to go to shit.

But he'd still made the keys with the machines at Pete's, so it fell on him to distribute, even if he could barely look Ronan in the eye. Blue seemed to be the easiest place to start so Adam made his way to her door and knocked. "Hey, are you home?"

There was supposed to be a plan and they were supposed to stick to it. None of them went out at night because that was when the monsters emerged. They took so many different shapes: Persephone's corpse, night horrors, Barrington Whelk. Adam's own monster took his form, all twisted and terrible. The worst was that Adam could see his reflection in that other self. It twisted and warped like the surface of a brass mirror, catching the light and dipping into darkness.

They'd taken to carrying improvised weapons. At first it had felt savage and terrible but the more nights wore on, the more Adam saw the reason to it, even though he hated the reality that he carried something that could physically hurt someone. It was bad enough what his words could do.

He walked along the edge of the street, a dented aluminum baseball bat dragging along the pavement behind him, when he heard the sirens. How had it gotten so late? Cursing, Adam threw himself into the nearest building and immediately wished he hadn't.

Logically, he knew this had to be a trick. You didn't just enter the courtroom from the street door. You had to pass through the clerks, the metal detector. None of that made a difference as the Judge's platform loomed above him and in its chair lounged a dusty boy, his cheeks roughened with pale stubble, a beer in his hand, and his stained flannel shirt open over a white wifebeater. The Other Adam smiled at him, his eyes pale blue rings surrounding black pupils. "I was wondering when you'd join me."

"I'm not joining you in anything." Adam was careful with his words, maintaining a tight, neutralized accent where his doppelganger drawled.

"Give it up, Parrish. Everyone knows what you are. You're a hick. A piece of shit redneck and you're never going to be better than that. It's just too bad your daddy couldn't beat enough sense into you."

Adam gritted his teeth and clenched his jaw. "You're not me!"

"You're right, Parrish. But everyone knows I'm what you'll become."