Nightmares.
Amanda couldn't remember the last time she had one.
Had she been nine years old? Ten?
Actually when it came down to it, she couldn't remember the last time she had felt scared. When you became the monster you feared most, how could a creature lurking under the bed or waiting in the closet seem scary? Pursing her lips, she'd sigh.
He would have hated to hear her say that.
They weren't monsters.
They weren't heroes.
They were simply messengers as he reminded her, over and over again.
As the reporters clamored to that the elusive "Jigsaw", the man – or group of hormonal teenagers was intent on playing God, John believed in the complete opposite. Every religion preached making the best of your life, didn't it? Being the best, kindest person you could be?
So what about the people who wasted their lives?
That was the premise of his ingenuity. God wasn't pleased with them and neither was he. As God was fair and just, so was he. Players of his game would find his mercy in the outcome. If they made a sacrifice, they would be worthy of his mercy; granting them the rebirth of their former sinful selves.
If not, the game was lost.
Life was a gamble anyways in Amanda's mind. Why not follow his message – their message? Growing up there hadn't been very much time for religion between getting high and burning bridges. Literally.
From her hazy memories, she could recall her friend Margot – Margot the one with a needle continually poised between her fingers and her falling out teeth preaching about sin and redemption. Amanda hadn't liked Margot when she came down from her highs. High, happy Margot was easier to deal with than crazy with withdrawal and crying in shame Margot.
Still, she remembered enough from her rambles to know that John spoke true.
In her world, God and John were the same. In his world God and Jigsaw were in agreement while John was still in the hospital room waiting for Gideon to come back.
John she trusted.
Jigsaw she believed in.
They were just God's…she didn't know, messengers? Telemarketers? Whatever they were, they were spreading the message that He wanted them to tell.
Weren't they?
Still, she couldn't stamp out the small seed of doubt.
It whispered in her ear; lingering by her side as she went to work. Sure when she set up the traps and heard John telling her about the players' lives, she believed in the cause. Even when the work was done and the player was left in a gruesome mess on the floor, she believed.
But when John would pause; meeting her eyes with his piercing gaze, she couldn't help but wonder who was trying to convince who.
Was it right? Was it wrong? She didn't know where the defining line between the two was anymore.
"A message is a message, no morals about it." She whispered to herself. Night after night was the same routine, the same whisper of comforting words, the same beginnings of anxiety.
Sliding her arm underneath her pillow, her index finger would curl over her middle one. It was a childish belief that had stuck with her; crossing your fingers just might work the one time you didn't expect it to. Closing her eyes, she would wait for sleep to come with baited breath.
Hopefully one night she'd grow used to the monster in her bed.
In her.