I awoke in the early morning, my legs and arms screaming in pain. I forced myself to sit up and I grabbed the bottle of pills that Sadik had brought from the hospital, along with the bottle of water he had. I quickly took three of the pills; more than the recommended dose, most likely, but I didn't care. I just wanted the pain to subside long enough for me to get the second task over with.

I glanced around, noting the fact that Eileen had fallen asleep on one recliner, a blanket draped over her curvy figure, and Sadik had fallen asleep on the floor a few feet away from me with a pillow under his head and a second blanket covering his legs.

Standing on pained legs, I made my way over to the table, where the second letter resided. Two wax stars sealed the envelope this time. I opened it, and retrieved the letter, reading it over with hard-to-focus eyes. I hoped that the Paracetamol would kick in soon. The pain in my limbs was going to prevent me from doing quite a bit.

Dear Alexianos,

So, you may have passed the first trial. Good job. Maybe you aren't so feeble after all. But, that's behinds us. On to your second task.

Go to the old Chamberlin-Mercy Hospital and go to ER Room number 23. That number is significant to your life, is it not? Don't you remember, your dorm room number in college? Ah, good times for you, Alex. Good times. For me, they weren't so great, especially after what you did to me. But let's get back to the hospital. Go there, go to the room. You will be surrounded by video cameras and various anesthetics and numbing medications. The cameras will be on and recording your every movement and action. You may not use the medications or anesthetics. If I see you use one tiny droplet or one insignificant pill, I will kill Tino.

There will be a table in the center of the room. A single, shining, sharpened hatchet will be lying on the table. You are to remove any two fingers on either hand with said hatchet, without any painkillers, anesthetics, or disinfectants. When I see that you have removed your fingers, I will play a tape that is implanted in one of the cameras. It will tell you where your next clue is, that is, if you choose to complete this task. If you don't, Tino dies. So, Alexianos, it's two of your fingers, or Tino's life.

Are you willing to lose a part of you, to save the life of the one you love? Good luck, Alexianos. Your second trial begins now.

I.B.

My heart nearly stopped at just the thought of doing such a thing. I was an architect. I needed my hands.

I started breathing quickly, but I forced myself to calm down and not hyperventilate and cause myself to faint. I couldn't lose valuable time. I had to do this for Tino. I could live without two fingers, right? Being left-handed, I would obviously remove two fingers on my right. Since our most used fingers are our thumbs, our index, and middle fingers, my two fingers that I would have to say goodbye to, were the pinkie and ring fingers of my right hand.

Good God, I made it sound so easy. Yeah. Just chop off your fingers with no anesthetics. No big deal.

I half chuckled at myself. Was I really capable of doing this, even at the cost of the love of my life's own existence as a living person? I most definitely wasn't a masochist. This wasn't just going to be a simple pain either. This was going to be the pain of cutting off your own fingers. It was going to absolutely dwarf the pain of crawling through broken glass.

I set the note on the counter, and then went to the laundry room, grabbing some clothes out of the drying and slipping them on. An old beat up pair of jeans and a black t-shirt. I wouldn't care if blood stained them. They were going to get thrown out soon anyways.

I slipped on a pair of socks, and over them the work boots I had worn the previous day. I grabbed an old leather jacket and a single glove, putting it on my left hand, then heading out into the freezing winter morning.

I was hoping that the cold would numb my right hand. Maybe it would serve as some sort of natural anesthetic, but I knew that it wasn't going to help much.

I made my way silently to the hospital, the few people who passed me on their morning jog or walk to work or wherever, not heeding any attention to me, until a certain friend came jogging up with a grin on his face. His name was Mathias Køhler, a man I had come to know at some college parties. He was a heavy drinker and a man's man back in college, but once he graduated, he hit the straight and narrow with a successful career as some kind of business executive.

"Hey, hey, Alex! Long time no see!" He greeted cheerfully, blue eyes beaming. I looked up at the tall man, not even faking a smile.

"Hey Mat… Listen, I've got to get going. I can't chat long."

"What's your hurry? It's five-thirty in the morning, and you work at home. Can't be heading anywhere important."

"I can't begin to explain, so just leave me be. Maybe tomorrow or in two days, you'll see why I'm out so early. I just… In the next few days, watch the local news, alright? You'll understand."

"Okay, man. I'll trust you, I guess. Never done me wrong before. Not even when you were crippled in your second year; remember that?"

"Yeah, don't remind me. I've got one thing on my mind right now, and I've got to get to it, so I'll be on my way."

"See you, Alexianos."

Without another word, I continued on, eventually finding the hospital. It was old and decrepit. I made my way inside without anyone seeing me, and walked around the halls. Everything was dust-covered and it smelled like mold. This place was so unsanitary; the opposite of what it had used to be. I remembered this place; ten years ago it had been so different.

I made my way to the ER, following old signs that hardly hung from the ceilings from rusty nails or chains.

Finally, I arrived at room 23. I placed my hand upon the doorknob and pushed the door open to reveal a single pristine room. It was clean, and like the letter had described, there were multiple video cameras and anesthetics everywhere. On the shelves, on the ground, on the ceiling; including the anesthetics. They were hanging from baskets in a tempting manner. Video cameras dangled over them. The lenses were all watching something; either they were watching me, or they were watching the anesthetics to see if I took any.

The table at the center was a bright white, with a single, simple TV camera sitting on it, facing a chair that resided on the other side. The hatchet lay before that camera, and thus before me.

I took a seat in the chair and stared down at my cold right hand. The weather outside had numbed it ever-so slightly, so I had to do this before that bit of numbness went away. I had to do this. If only I could reach forward and grab the hatchet and just get it over with but I was so scared.

I couldn't move.

I was frozen in absolute terror of what I had to do.

I was fearful of the amount of pain this would cause.

I'd heard stories about carpenters whom had their fingers hacked off in accidents with buzz saws or other industrial machines, but none of it was intentionally self-inflicted, and they had described it as one of the worst physical pains anyone can go through.

I had to take a hatchet.

I had to set my hand on the table.

I had to raise the hatchet.

I had to swing it down.

I had to chop off two of my fingers.

No anesthetics.

No painkillers except for the ones I had taken at home.

No professional help except for when I made it back to safety about a half hour's walk away.

I had to survive.

Those were my tasks.

I slowly reached forward with my left hand, grabbing a hold of the hatchet. It had a light handle, but a heavy head. It glinted, almost reflecting my own image on the blade that would soon be covered in my blood.

I took a deep, shaky breath and placed my right hand upon the table, spreading my index and middles fingers as far away as my hand could possibly get them from the other two which I had decided were the unlucky two to go.

I twirled the hatchet in my left hand, trying to familiarize myself with the weapon. I would need to be accurate. I very slowly brought it down to pinpoint where I needed to hit; just past the point of attachment where the fingers join the hand. That would be simple to get through, right? The blade of the hatchet was sharp, and if I swung with enough force, there would be no skin that still connected the fingers, so I wouldn't be left with the digits dangling and have to tear them or cut them off. One swing was all I wanted, and all I needed.

Just one swing of the hatchet and this task was over.

Just…

One…

Swing…

I raised the hatchet quickly, but stopped when it was just above my head. I was frozen again. I stared at my fingers, strained to a point where I probably looked insane.

"Come on, Alex… It's for Tino… Two fingers, for Tino… Just do it." I urged myself, trying to gain some type of motivation to do this.

It was only two fingers.

And pain wasn't permanent, even though the scars were.

I lowered the hatchet slowly to pinpoint the area I needed to hit once again, and then took a few deep breaths. They were shaky, but it was all I could handle.

I lifted the hatchet, and with as much precision and accuracy and force and motivation as I could, slammed the blade down on the fingers, successfully removing them.

I let out a long and loud cry of absolute agony as blood poured from the wounds, pain surging through me in waves of extreme anguish. I fell sideways out of the chair, clasping my right hand in my left one, crying, screaming, groaning, and rolling around on the ground because I had just used a hatchet to chop off two fingers.

I must have spent five minutes crying and screaming before I managed to stand up, taking my glove that I had worn on my left hand, and using it in an odd way to function as a meager bandage for the wounds. It would do until I got home, if I got home.

A voice piped up from one of the video cameras.

"Well done, Alexianos. Check under the chair to find your note with the next clue to Tino's location."

I quickly flipped the chair over with my left hand and retrieved the note that was stuck to the bottom of it with a piece of tape. I shoved it in my pocket without reading it, and rushed out of the room. I clasped my right hand in my left and practically ran, trying not to scream, trying not to cry though I knew tears were streaming down my cheeks. I stumbled my way home, leaving a trail of blood in the light snow.

I barged inside my home, knocking over things as I made my way through to the kitchen, holding my right hand over the sink, letting the blood flow down the drain. I let out a cry. "Sadik!" I shouted. "God, Sadik, h-help me!"

I soon found myself joined by both Sadik and Eileen. Eileen had to back away in horror and disgust, rushing to the bathroom to most likely vomit at the sight. Sadik quickly rushed to the living room and grabbed his bag full of medical supplies, performing a mediocre surgery to seal my finger stubs and disinfect them. He then wrapped them in heavy bandages, looking me in the eyes when he finished.

"It's all I can do. Take some paracetamol… a-and don't irritate the stitches, alright…?" I could tell the man was shaken and horrified. He wasn't used to this kind of operation. He was used to the order of a hospital, and not this kind of gruesome thing. I had just chopped off two of my fingers. Voluntarily.

"Did I.B…. Did he make you do this?" Sadik asked.

"Th-The note i-is on the counter…. I-I…" I resisted a scream that came up through my throat. "I-I had to remove two fingers with a-a hatchet… no anesthetics… n-no time to waste…" I stammered, not only woozy from losing blood, but from the shock of the pain and the adrenalin that still flowed through my veins. It was probably the only thing keeping me from passing out.

Sadik helped me upstairs and to my bedroom, instructing me to lie down while he retrieved the painkillers from downstairs. I writhed in pain, groaning out of agony. It hurt so badly. There was nothing to compare it to. This was the worst pain I had ever felt in my life.

Sadik soon returned with the painkillers and a glass of water. I gratefully took the pills and drank what water I could, before lying back, trembling. I was in so much pain and I was scared and so fearful and terrified and oh God I couldn't even imagine what the hell the third task was.

I didn't want to think about it.

I didn't want to think about anything worse than what I had just done.

I would crawl through glass again. I would give up my job, my house, my money, my pride, my anything. Anything but Tino's life, and my life.

I reached into my pocket with my left hand and retrieved the clue to where Tino was.

1_ _o_e_ _

I tried to remember the clue I had gotten after my first task, but it was futile. I couldn't recall anything right now but the pain of removing my own finger. I couldn't talk, I couldn't move, I couldn't think, I couldn't do a single thing but replay the scene over and over and over in my head.

I had lifted the hatchet, and had brought it down on my fingers. My fingers were removed, blood gushed everywhere, and I cried and screamed in agony. Simple as that.

"Y-Y-You should check o-on Eileen…" I muttered quietly to Sadik, who sighed a bit.

"Yeah... I wish there was more I could do for you, Alex… but I can't do anything."

"Y-You've done e-enough…"

"I'll check on you in a little while. Try to sleep, alright?"

I didn't respond. Sadik walked out and I sighed shakily, allowing tears, not of pain, but of sorrow to fall.

I was so weak.

I was so scared.

I was so feeble and tired and I didn't know if I could handle another task like this.

I closed my eyes, and all I saw was the lens of a video camera staring back at me. I opened my eyes quickly, shaking my head. All this strain was getting to me. All these things. All the pain, all the mental stress.

If I didn't die in the next task, I'd sure as hell be insane.