(no subject)
"Mr. Avery, you've been diagnosed with pulmonary emphysema."
Somehow, he's not surprised, sitting slumped in one of the chairs at the doctor's office.
As for what they're asking (stop smoking stop boozing stop whatever else it is you're doing), he knows he isn't going to do any of it.
(And he knows he's going to destroy himself.
Well, get himself farther down the abyss than he already is, anyway.)
What follows the diagnosis is what shocks him.
They hand him a small oxygen tank, mask attached to it with a tube.
He takes it with a numb sort of horror, metal cold in his fingers. He holds up the plastic mask, looking at it through the light.
(They say he'll have to carry it with him wherever he goes.)
Shit.
Paul gets home and closes the door behind him, slamming his back against the door and sinking down against the wall.
The Zodiac case destroys lives.
He discards the tank on a couch, and heads immediately towards the Milliways door.
-- it leads to a simple closet.
oh god, no, please, please, no, no, no, no, no
He closes the door, opens it again.
Nothing.
And Paul Avery backs away from the door, stumbling towards the couch, and gropes for the oxygen tank.
One deep breath.
Two deep breaths.
And his heart is only beating faster and faster.
And he wonders if, maybe, the place was just a part of his case-addled imagination.
(it wasn't IT WASN'T)
But nevertheless, he gets the sinking feeling he won't be back for a very, very long time.
He grabs the closest slip of paper, and pulls a pen from his breast pocket.
In shaking script, he writes
Don't look for me.
P.A.
He slips it under the door.
"At least do that for me."
(When he looks back in the closet some time later, the paper's gone.)