I'm getting out of here.
That was all Mark Hoffman had on his mind. Being locked away in a prehistoric bathroom with corpses that havel ong since decomposed was not going to be how he met his untimely end. Wasting away while the man who locked him in here, Dr. Gordon, did god knows what. Was he going to continue the games? Was he John's true successor? Or was it over?
Too many variables.
Falling to the ground on his back, the cold, hard bathroom tile felt lifeless, shouting "Abandon all hope!" into his ears, and showing the corpses that littered the bathroom as evidence that would suffice. His crudely-stitched cheek was aching, and he was sweating a ton.
Slowly, he came to the realization that he was going to die here.
"No!" He shouted, slowly sitting up. He'd gone through too much shit to sit here and let that damn Doctor win. If only he'd left the saw, or a tool...
Hoffman sighed. The more optimistic he got, the further hope seemed to drift away. Regardless, he was going to search every inch he could, over and over, looking for any way out. If he had to resort to prying the bathub out and creating a device to free himself from this forsaken bathroom, by god, he would do it.
Hoffman pulled at the chain keeping him from reaching the door, to no avail. With no source of light, he was relying on touch alone. Feeling around, his hands brushed over tiles, the corpse of a man in the corner, the edges of a bathub, and finally a piece of broken tile that was mostly in tact, but had very sharp edges. Lifting it, Mark felt the edge again, and just grazing it cut his thumb, a tiny drop of blood spilling out.
"Perfect." He said aloud, his voice echoing into the dark, abysmal bathroom.
Slowly turning the piece upside down, he closed his eyes and exhaled deeply, waiting momentarily before slamming the jagged, sharp end of the tile onto his heel, easily splitting the skin and penetrating deeply into his foot. A loud cry of agony quickly followed, but he lifted his hand again and slammed it back down, another scream, this time louder. Hoffman continued to slice into his heel 6 or 7 times before the final penetration, in which the end of the tile snapped off, inside his foot.
"Fuck!" Hoffman shouted, grabbing his leg and cringing in pain, the tile flying from his hand and as it hit the ground, shattering.
With the heel of his foot cut and sliced several times, Hoffman slowly wrapped his hands around the shackle, ready to push with all his might.
"3..." He started, trying to lower the speed of his breaths and calm his nerves.
"2..." He counted, trying to eliminate the pain by clenching his teeth together and closing his eyes.
"1..." He said, taking a final breath.
Hoffman pushed forward with all the force he could muster. His sliced and cut heel opened further as the shackle ran over it, causing him to scream in deep agony, and tearing the wound further. However, with the blood acting as a lubricant for the shackle, along with his ankle cut and smashed to the point of not being an issue, the shackle slid over and off his foot, before falling to the ground, clattering.
Hoffman was taking large, long breaths, hands clutching his foot in pain. Slowly turning so he was on his stomach, he crawled toward the door, reaching a hand up and attempting to grasp the handle, so he could push the sliding door open.
It was locked.
"You've got to be f...aagh!" Hoffman shouted as another bout of pain shot up through his leg. Falling to the ground, hopeless again, his good foot brushed against something. Slowly turning, Hoffman crawled toward it with a small glint of hope. As he picked it up, he felt it over and discovered it was a gun. Unloaded, but he could still use it. Turning himself around again, he crawled back to the door, this time gun in hand, and slowly pushed the barrel into the small crack between the door and the wall where the lock was. It took some force, but Hoffman managed to wedge the gun into it enough so that it stayed on its own.
"This better work..." He mumbled to himself. Between the pain in his leg and hardly any of his ideas working, optimism was seeming more and more the enemy.
Slowly bringing himself to his knees, he lurched forward and slammed his hands into the part of the gun that was sticking out. All at once the door's internal lock was broke from the bending gun barrel, and the door slid open, light flooding into the room. The broke gun fell to the floor in pieces, but Hoffman was free, and had survived that which was designed to kill him. Twice.
Slowly crawling to his knees, Hoffman turned himself to the side, getting the first good look at his wound. His heel was literally hanging on by a thread, he must've cut in the same spot with the tile several times for something like that to happen. Blood coated his entire foot, and the pain was increasing, but at the same time, becoming dull and constant.
Slowly reaching up to grab the pipe lining the wall, he managed to get to his feet, or foot, rather, and begin limping down the hallway, toward the stairwell in the distance. He slowly picked up the saw the doctor had thrown out of the bathroom, and smirked.
"Don't worry...I'm gonna reunite you with that damn doctor." Hoffman said to the saw, before turning and carrying it with him. He had only one goal now, only one purpose: kill Lawrence Gordon and his family.
Make. Them. Suffer.