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Sammy Lawrence is my best friend.
We've known each other since we were children, grew up in the same street and everything. Anything I couldn't do, he could. Let it be music or our social lives, our habits or our health. Especially that one.
I had always been a sick person. “Fibromyalgia” was what the doctors called it. It didn't bother me… for the most part. Sometimes I couldn't walk at all, or the pain was so bad I couldn't hear my thoughts. But I guess I always knew I could count on Sammy. So when he got sick, I knew what I had to do. I wasn't happy that it happened or anything, but now there was a way for me to repay him for all of those times when he had to slow down or stay late for me. For once, I wasn't the one that needed help.
It had been a rough season. It was hot, the elevator broke down again, and the United States had just entered war with Germany. Many employees had been drafted, and Mr. Drew started hiring more women to cover for the losses, although rumors started to go around about financial troubles. Sammy had written to Joey about it from both of us, which was odd considering their… rocky relationship, to say the least. Joey thought they were in a first name basis, friends, if you will, and Sammy always corrected him, “It's Mr.Lawrence”. I always liked the sound of it.
A couple of days after the rumors started, there was a bigger flow of GENT employees walking around with tubes and pipes and tool boxes, always so noisy and mysterious. The studio was heavy on construction for things they never disclosed to us, but it was all connected to that weird machine Mr. Drew got built. They were in charge of installing the ink tubes, and the music department was filled of them. They were fragile and kept leaking or blowing up, and our complaints were falling on deaf ears. Joey said he would do something about it, and what was his solution? Install more tubes, of course. He was practically calling for an accident to happen, for someone to get hurt, until one day it finally happened.
Sammy was looking around in Wally's closet and one of the new pipes exploded. Glass shards got everywhere, including his face, and it was deep enough to leave a scar on his right cheek. It pissed him off, but he was okay for all I knew. Although, it was around that time that Sammy started to get… weird. To act more strange than he already did.
One day, his back hurts. The other, it's a migraine. The next, his throat is sore. Just a random assortment of small ills that I wouldn't really pay attention to, if it wasn't because it was Samuel Lawrence, the man famous for complaining about everything, except for himself. It’s not like he had to, anyways. He had always been on tic-top shape until now. I told him a million times to go see a doctor or something, but he never did, because it was “nothing” and it would “go away soon”. And he was right. It did go away, just not how we thought.
Three months had passed, and Sammy started to stay late more frequently. First, it was for an hour or two, then, sometimes until morning. I would leave at 6pm and he would be sitting at his desk, and when I would come back at 8am the next day, I would find him still sitting there, as if he hadn't realized how long it had been. My presence was the one to make him notice the passage of time.
It didn't stay there though. When he did go home, sometimes he wouldn't sleep at all. “I just feel like something’s watching me through the window.” is what he would say. The problem is, he lived in a third floor. I listened to him talking about it for days, and I saw how my advice entered one ear and left the other. He wouldn’t listen at all, because he was always fine, because it was just a rough patch, because he wasn’t gonna miss a day of work for some little thing that he could deal with later. It was always like this with him. I thought I was doing enough… but maybe I should have pushed him harder.
It only got worse as it went. He was a chatterbox until suddenly he stopped speaking. He didn't forget a face and now he had a spare key under his apartments number plate as he had forgotten his keys in the office twice. He's sweet tooth was magically gone and so on. It was like watching my friend turn into someone else in real time, become a shell of his former self.
One morning he didn’t show up. I was looking at the clock every second, he never missed a shift and he was always on time. Ten, fifteen, twenty minutes had gone by and no sign of him. I'm the opposite of a nervous person, but he had never done something like this and even less without telling me. I went to reception and asked Miss Rodríguez if she had news, but no cigar. I walked back to my office, and just as I passed through the front door, I heard the phone ring. It was Sammy. He said that he was sick, that if I could come by. I didn't hesitate and was there in 10.
I knocked on the door twice and waited. Nothing. I stuck my ear to the door but didn't hear a thing, so I raised up the apartments number plate and grabbed the spare key. Now inside, the place looked different. I had been here hundreds of times before, but something about it just felt off. Sammy was laying in the couch, sweating buckets on the coldest day of the month. I took my jacket off and closed the window. He was asleep and didn't feel my presence.
I stayed in his apartment for the rest of the day, by his side when he woke up and there when he needed me the most. My body was aching and the weather was only making it worse, but I didn't say a word about it. He needed me more than I needed him, after all. The only time I left was to buy some generic medicine that he immediately vomited in a bag. He streamed in and out of consciousness all morning, with his body so hot it felt like his blood was boiling, and mumbling nonsense in his sleep that I couldn't make out.
He woke up fully at 2pm, when he had enough strength to take a shower that lowered his body temperature. I thought he could eat but his body rejected it and he puked everything I gave him. I didn't look at it, but I swear his mouth was pitch black after. I knew he hated them, but I almost called a doctor. He begged me not to, and sometimes I wish I hadn't listened to him.
He was awake and we spoke for a while. Weak and out of breath, he apologized for calling me.
—I called your house first, but you didn't answer. I thought you would have stayed home today,— he said, while laying on his side but not looking at my face. His voice was raspy and sounded like a completely different person. —guess I was wrong.
—Hah, I was hoping of finishing some work today. I had just arrived back to my office. —I was looking at him, but he didn't raise his gaze. —You called just in time.
He never made eye contact, and I realized it had been a long time since I last saw him without his glasses. And to think that was the only thing stopping him from getting drafted.
Many hours had passed, and it was dark, with the sound of the city coming out the window and flooding the apartment. I was leaning on the window smoking a cigarette, something I didn't do as much as Sammy. I looked at the passersby while listening to the soft mumbling coming from the couch. It was mostly nonsense, until he started reciting an old nursery rhyme under his breath, just loud enough so I could faintly hear it.
“Sheep sheep sheep,
It's time for sleep,
Rest your head,
It's time for bed.
In the morning,
You'll awake,
Or in the morning,
You'll be dead.”
I turned my head around. That's not how that rhyme goes. I stared at him for a couple of minutes, but he didn't move, and he didn't speak again. I put out the cigarette on the ashtray next to the couch, and sat on a chair next to him.
He woke up 15 minutes later, looking way better than before.
—Jack? — he asked, squinting, as I was sitting behind him. — …do you have my glasses?
—Ah, of course. Are you feeling better now?
—Yeah, guess I really needed the sleep… thanks again. For helping me, I mean. —He grabbed the glasses from my hand and put them on, and stopped squinting his eyes.
—It’s nothing. I just hoped you would have called a doctor when I told you to.
—If only. I don't need one. — he sat up as he spoke. —And it would have thrown off all of this months budget.
I didn't say anything for a second. “All of this months budget”? That didn't make sense. He had been writing songs like a madman, so fast he had three new ones done by the time I had finished one set of lyrics. He had been turning in melodies for episodes that hadn't even been animated. It got to a point where he told me Joey was given him a bonus for his “extra work”.
—…Uh, I thought Joey was giving you a bonus.— I didn't hide my questioning tone. Had he been lying to me? —For all of your work, I mean.
He froze. He had been lying to me.
No words came out of his mouth, but he stared at me. His brown eyes were opened wide, and he didn't blink. It freaked me out, he always looked me in the eye, but not like this. It felt different. It took him a second but ultimately he spoke.
—I think you should go home.
—You have to be joking,— That was the least thing I was expecting him to say. —you’re mad if you think I'm leaving you alone.
—It’s late and you are tired.— his voice had it’s characteristic monotone sound. —I'm an adult man, I think I can take care of myself.
—Are you sure? In your condition? You know, I really don't mi—
—I’m sure. —He interrupted me, and turned his head away from me.
He was right. I was tired, really tired. It was late and dark and cold and my body had been screaming at me all day. But I didn't want to leave, and I had a feeling in my gut that I was making the wrong choice by listening to him, again.
—Fine then. I’ll see you tomorrow.
I went outside and took a cab home, but I felt Sammy's eyes following me from his apartment window until he couldn't see us anymore.
I woke up the next day to go to work. I could have stayed home, I had a valid reason and no one would have questioned it. But I didn’t. I put on my glasses and called Sammy’s apartment but no one picked up, and I would be lying if I didn’t say that worried the hell out of me. After yesterday, after so many months of… everything, all I wanted was for things to regain some sense of normalcy. I wanted to arrive and find Sammy talking to Norman with a cup of the darkest and sweetest coffee on his hands, just like he had always done. So I put on my hat and got going, just like I had always done.
I arrived at the studio and there he was, talking on the phone on his desk. I was standing on the doorframe, and he raised his eyes and smiled at me. His eye bags were still there, dark as ever, and his skin had lost some of its color, but he looked so… normal. He felt like how he used to again.
We ate lunch together, and he was finally the one talking. He looked and sounded like I remembered him. Almost. I noticed how he would stare into nothingness for a couple of seconds before continuing what he was doing. I didn't ask him, I couldn't be bothered anyways, I was more focused on the fact that he was once again, the man I knew. The band noticed too, and went back to their usual banter with him. I must say we didn't get anything done that day, but at least the tense feeling of the department was starting to lift, even if it was just for a little while.
It was 6pm and I had gathered my things, and wanted to leave with Sammy, only to find he was still glued to his chair, writing on a notebook.
—You planning on staying there again?— My tone was far from soft.
—Just finishing this off, and I'll leave, —he immediately closed the notebook. —I promise.
—Soooo I can come back tomorrow and I won't find you still “finishing off”?
—If you do you can hit me with that cane of yours.
—Bet.
I smiled at him, and he returned it. I was one of the lucky ones that had had the chance to have seen his genuine smile before, but this… image of him stuck with me. The way the light from the light bulb lightened his face, how his eyes looked at me straight in the eye, and that smile. That soft, gentle smile. Until that day, I don't think I had noticed he had dimples.
—I see you you are cracking jokes now. Feeling better?
—I feel fantastic. See you tomorrow.
—See you tomorrow.
I turned around and made my way to the stairs, but deep down, in the bottom of my heart, I felt like I shouldn't. That I should go back and question him about everything. About the “bonus”, about his sudden sickness, about the way he seemed to get better all of a sudden, about that notebook he quickly closed. “Tomorrow” I thought, because I would have more time, because he would only lie to me for a good reason. I walked down the hallway as his humming filled the department, Bendy’s theme is what it was, and I remember thinking it was odd, as he had grown to dislike it after hearing it a million times.
“Tomorrow” never came.
I showed at the office and he wasn't there. He didn't show up that day, or the next one, or the one after that one. I went to the police, opened a missing person report. “He went on vacation.” they said. “He decided to start a new life.” they said. “He's an adult, hell probably come back” is all they said, like a broken music player. But I new my friend, I knew Sammy, and I knew that he wouldn't just disappear out of nowhere to “start anew”. And I knew deep down that he didn’t even go home that night.
I found his diary, sitting inside one of his desks drawers. It had no name and was filled with what I can only describe as the ramblings of a mad man. Phrases written on top of each other, following no sense of direction. Drawings of things I had never seen before, and talks about a “demon”, about the ink, about the machine. I took the notebook home and didn’t let anyone else see it. My best friend was losing himself in front of my eyes and I didn’t do a thing.
He was the first, but he was far from being the last. Norman disappeared not a long time after, and that goffer boy, Buddy, soon followed. Susie hasn’t been seen either, and she was fired months ago. A man from the art department died too, “heart attack” is what I heard, and one of his colleagues had taken “an unlimited time off”. Rumors said he started seeing things, that he talked about something watching and following him. Something talking through the ink. Some believed it, others called bullshit, but I always thought there was truth to it, because Sammy had talked and written about the same things months before, and now he was gone. I never saw it, whatever that thing was, but I'm convinced the man that had told me everything before didn't just vanish from thin air.
It’s been a month since I last saw him. The studio is struggling again, there’s more and more GENT employees walking around, and more people have left. I think about him everyday, on how I could have done more, on what could have happened to him, and that the only thing I have left is just a notebook and a memory of him. Sitting at his desk and smiling at me.