September 22nd, 1997-The Iron Chair Trap.
Whoa-huh. Whoa-huh. Whoa-huh.
These sounds: even in the haze, were ragged, desperate, filled with pain.
But sometimes, the sounds – like the pain- faded, and then there was only the haze. She remembered darkness: solid darkness had come before the haze. Did that mean she was making progress, or was she slipping further into unconsciousness? Let there be light (even of the shitty, hazy variety), and the light was good, and so on and so forth? Had those sounds existed in the darkness? She didn't know the answer to that question. Did it even make sense to be asking them? She didn't know the answer to that one, either.
The pain was somewhere below the sounds. It was west of the light. That was pretty much all she DID know.
Those sounds were the only outer reality. She had no idea where she was. She wished she were dead, but, in the pain-soaked haze that filled her mind like a summer storm-cloud, she did not know she wished it.
As time passed, she became aware that something was pressing in on her skin, quite possibly what was causing her so much discomfort. She also became aware that somehow, she was wet, like she had water on her or something. Unlike water, however; it was warm.
And it smelt coppery. Rusty. It smelt wrong.
Melanie stirred a little in the chair, her chair-the Iron Chair.
Beads of blood dripped from almost every inch of her skin. The chair- it had nails hammered into it, pointy bits upwards, and almost every single one of them were poking through the flesh of Melanie Dwyer, and that was the source of her discomfort.
It wasn't just her skin that hurt, Melanie mused to herself, still safely hidden in the painful haze, no, not just her skin: her head hurt as well.
Then, reality hit her like a ton of bricks-if she could think, could know how much her body hurt, then she was hardly in the haze any longer. If she could know these things-then she must be alright, she must be okay-
Melanie opened her eyes, and sucked in a great whooping gasp.
And then, she screamed, because she KNEW what she was sitting on, oh yes, she sure did. She was sitting on a device that had LONG gone out of fashion (or so she had thought) - The Chair of Torture. They were all different, Melanie knew, depending on what was available to make the chair in those times, but the point was all the same: make some poor soul sit on the chair, which was lined with nails, or blades, and keep them there until they died, which could last for up to three days, sometimes more, because, since the nails were actually IN your skin, they blocked most of the blood flow. It was a long, humiliating, PAINFUL way to die-and now it appeared that Melanie was going to die this way. "HELP ME! HELP ME, PLEASE!" She shouted, her hair plastered across her face, obscuring her vision. She tried to tug her arms, but she was strapped to the armrests, and, as she struggled, the nails dug in deeper, causing more blood to swell, and Melanie to scream louder. She tried to move her legs-but found that they were strapped to the chair as well. Every time she moved her legs, the nails dug in, and tore her skin just that little bit more. If she kept struggling, she would soon have long slashes in her wrists and calves, Melanie saw this with utter clarity.
There really was no other way to describe her situation now: She was fucked.
XxX
It was with a kind of mad, desperate hope that John Kramer, whose health was rapidly declining, watched the remaining monitor, clutching at the armrests of his 'wheelchair'. This was the final of the four-and he hoped that she would win, for John Kramer had an interest in Melanie Dwyer. Oh, yes, there was something about the former botanist that caught John's interest. She was smart, deceiving, cautious…and she looked before she leapt. She thought before she spoke. She did not seem particularly fragile-mentally at least.
Yes, Melanie Dwyer was certainly different than most people her age. And she was a cut apart from Amanda and Hoffman-perhaps even two cuts.
Yes, she certainly interested John Kramer indeed.
XxX
The old woman began to blink back tears, as she remembered the way the other woman on the other end of the line had begun to weep loudly. Sarah hadn't wanted to do it; oh no, Sarah Skinner hadn't a single bad bone in her entire body, and, no matter the age, she always hated to listen to people cry.
And, considering the news that Sarah had had to deliver, it was no real surprise that Melanie Dwyer had cried.
Sarah glanced down at the small, black object in her hand, and she began to weep herself.
XxX
"Melanie Jane Dwyer, age thirty-two, profession: botanist and residence is at fifty-two Krause street, Mayfield-"
"Enough!" Strahm barked, holding one hand up to stop Detective Fisk from going on, while scribbling down Melanie's address with the other. Fisk, being the good cop he was, obeyed without question. He was also slightly afraid of Strahm, though he was not without good reason- Strahm had barged in here, looking like a shadow of his former, polished self, and had demanded that someone, ANYONE, get him the postal address for Melanie Jane Dwyer.
While Fisk was a good cop and did as he told, Allison Kerry, however, had more courage. "What exactly is this about?" She asked, her voice quiet but also somehow loud, and sharp, though she hadn't meant it to be so.
Perez sucked in a deep breath. When Strahm was on a roll, you just didn't go up to him and question his methods-she had learnt that the hard way. Oh, he hadn't hurt her, or anything like that, but, if what he was studying was important to him, he would simply get up and walk away, scowling. This is what she expected Strahm to do now-walk away from Kerry, and complete the rest of his research alone.
However, he surprised Perez by smiling darkly at Kerry. "What this is about," he began, a fanatical gleam in his eyes, "Is that three of the original four friends are dead, and all of tem have been abducted by Jigsaw. Now, the fourth one is still alive, and, if we can assign police protection to her, we might be that little bit closer to capturing Jigsaw and Amanda Young."
"You think this scientist knows where Jigsaw is?" Kerry asked sceptically.
Strahm's mouth twitched-his charade was fading, and fast. He was becoming annoyed with Kerry. "No," he said sharply. "But either Jigsaw or Amanda Young will come for her, and if she's protected, then we'll finally have them!"
Even Kerry couldn't argue with Strahm's logic, though it wasn't like she could really argue with him anyway-she was homicide, and he was part of the FBI. FBI outranked homicide by a long shot. Strahm had more authority than she did.
"Should we check now?" Perez asked her partner. "It's daylight. Neither jigsaw nor Amanda ever strikes while it's daylight- the risk of being seen is too high."
Strahm smiled at her rather darkly. Perez noticed that he was playing with his pistol again. "Yes," he said simply. "We should go right away."
XxX
There was something odd about the strap biding her on her right wrist. It felt…looser than the others. "What the fuck?" Melanie asked, not really expecting an answer. She pulled her wrist back. To her surprise and delight, the strap gave a little.
Melanie began to laugh-raw, hysterical laughter that was more frightening than screaming. Why was she laughing? Melanie figured that she couldn't be in a Jigsaw trap, if there was a faulty arm strap- Jigsaw NEVER made mistakes regarding his victims' immobility. She must be in an inferior trap-and, if she could pull her hand out, then whoever made it must not have a very clear idea of what exact Jigsaw did.
Of course, Melanie hadn't an EXACT idea of what Jigsaw did, of just how elaborate his plans were, of the amount of research that had to be done, how much planning... went into everything…
Planning. Melanie liked to plan, and she did it extremely well- better than most people. What if Jigsaw was simply playing on her disbeliefs, messing with her head? It was something he would do.
The reason why Melanie knew so much about Jigsaw was that she had spent countless hours researching him, and occasionally his apprentice, Amanda Young. But while John Kramer intrigued (and disturbed) Melanie, Amanda struck her as uninteresting. She never thought anything out; she simply acted on impulse, and that was hardly the best way to be.
Yes-Melanie remembered staying up past midnight on most nights, researching John Kramer on the internet, reading newspaper clippings she'd torn out of unread newspapers, and watching the news, when the newsreaders occasionally dared to announce that yes, another person was dead, and it had been the maniac that carved jigsaw-shaped pieces out of people, yes, it was the Jigsaw Killer. Melanie had done her research, and, while the methods of which Jigsaw used to get his point across disgusted her, she could see the reasoning behind it all: so many people ignored or wasted the gifts they had been given, wasting the lives their lives on simple, stupid things, and not caring about the outcomes. The fucking outcomes. How could you NOT think about the fucking OUTCOMES, for fuck's sake!
A television set, set directly across from her, so that she would not be able to miss it, flickered on, and the all-too-familiar Jigsaw puppet crept into view. Unlike most of the video tapes, (which Melanie had READ about, but not SEEN), the puppet was on a tricycle. It was chalk-white, with red lips, red eyes, and red spirals that substituted as cheeks. It was facing to the let, but, as Melanie watched with a kind of sick fascination, it turned it head to face her, creaking as it did so.
There was a moment of silence, in which Melanie used to continue observing the puppet almost thoughtfully, before it opened its mouth, and it began to speak:
"Hello, Melanie. I want to play a game. Most people see you as a respected botanist who has never harmed another person. But I see you as someone who is going down the wrong path- the path which liars, thieves, and murderers tread. You're not a true killer, are you? I see the pain, the revulsion on your face, as you kill for a man who has already been killed. You know better than anyone the price of taking a life away, yet you continue to do it, in the hopes of relieving your pain. I give you a chance to rid yourself of this pain for ever. The device you are sitting upon I like to refer to as the 'Iron Chair.' The nails pressing in upon your skin are doing so lightly, for the moment. One of your arm restraints is looser than the others. It is with this arm that you will save yourself, and be instantly rehabilitated. A key is needed to free your legs and remaining arm-to get it, simply reach behind yourself and take it. But be warned-when you do not look before you leap, it comes with a price. This is where the poison Curare comes into play-you of all people should know its devastating effects on the human body. It will paralyse you within a matter of seconds…and you will be forced to sit lightly until the device folds in on itself, mangling your body in a similar way an iron maiden would. Live or die, Melanie. Make your choice."
The television set turned off, and Melanie was left staring at a blank screen. Beside her, a timer began to tick. Melanie stared at it. It was set for sixty seconds.
XxX
Hoffman was pleased with his handiwork- the trap had worked exactly as planned. John was pleased with him as well-it had been a rather difficult trap to make, as Hoffman had had to modify the chair in several ways, to make the trap dangerous and to make it move ceaselessly, ensuring that there was no escape from it, unless the scientist followed the rules.
Hoffman smiled. Her friends hadn't followed the rules, so what were the chances of Melanie escaping from the Iron Chair?
Very slim, he thought, as he watched the monitor over John's shoulder, his eyes narrowed, and his mouth curving into a slight smile. Yes, her chances were very slim. There was no way she was going to escape. The four criminals were finally finished-Hoffman could rest, at last. Well, for a WHILE, at least-no doubt John would find more people to be tested, and he, Hoffman would be put to work once again, Amanda as well, perhaps.
Of course, that was always assuming she didn't end up killing herself-Hoffman had seen the cuts on her wrists and thighs, something that John had missed, or simply ignored.
Neither Hoffman nor Angelina knew why John was quite so interested in Melanie. She was a coward-and Hoffman believed, whole-heartedly, that she did not deserve to be alive.
But, unlike Amanda, he did not tamper with traps. He would play by the rules, and simply hope that she would fail her test, and be crushed on the chair. Yes, Hoffman would play by the rules.
For a little longer, anyway.
XxX
Perez had never seen her partner so agitated. He was literally hunched over the steering wheel, glaring at the stoplights. They were on red, and had been for quite some time, much to Strahm's dismay. He was clenching the wheel so hard that his knuckles were white. The beginning of a moustache was making itself known on his face, and he looked very ill indeed. Perez had in fact forced him to eat a sandwich before departing for the botanists' dwelling, fearing for his health, which appeared to be rapidly declining. She got him to drink half a bottle of spring water, which he took willingly enough. She knew this was not enough, but he would not take any more. She would have to make him eat later, provided a chance arose. Somehow, she doubted if there would be a chance once they arrived at the house of the sought-after Melanie Dwyer.
Beads of sweat dripped down Strahm's forehead, as he stared at the stoplight, wishing for the fucking thing to turn green already.
Mercifully, it did, and Strahm, who was no fool, slammed his foot down on the gas. His blue Volvo shot forward and nosed its way around the streets, Strahm pounding on the horn a fair few times, scaring adolescents on skateboards out of the street. "Come on, come on…" he would mutter whenever he did this.
They trundled into Melanie's street.
XxX
The phone rang. Sarah, now sobbing by this stage, fumbled for it, her wrinkled hands sliding over it several times before she could get a good hold on it. She was terrified of whom it might be; she had a pretty damn good idea who it was.
"Hello?"
For a moment, there was complete silence, and then, a deep, masculine voice answered her. It was cold, and made Sarah think of dark, never-ending tunnels.
"Hello, Sarah. I want to play a game."
Sarah began to sob, staring at the cassette player in her hand-it was the same voice, all right-but what had she done wrong? She had played by the rules, hadn't she? So why was he calling back? "Wha-what do you WANT from me?" She shouted into the phone. "I've done it; I've played your game! Now give me my grandchildren back, damn you!"
The voice was silent for a moment. "Nan?" A small voice asked, her voice thick with fear. Sarah softened her tone.
"Taylor, is that you, honey?"
"Yes."
"Don't worry, honey, everything's going to be al-"
"He has a gun," Taylor said calmly. Sarah almost smiled-that was her Taylor, as calm as always. She never freaked out about anything-Sarah could count the number of times her sixteen-year-old granddaughter had shouted, screamed on one hand. Taylor was a good girl. "He is pointing the gun between my eyes, Nan. He says he's going to fucking shoot us if you don't play by the rules."
Sarah began to wheeze in her distress. "Put him back on, Tay-Tay," she whispered, feeling her heart sink. Why, oh WHY, did this have to be happening? She had already played one game, but now, he wanted her to play another…
"The rules are simple, Sarah. Abide by them, and you will have your grandchildren back, unharmed. If you choose to disobey, your grandchildren will die, and you will as well. Are you going to play by the rules, Sarah?" The voice was eerily calm, and slightly cheerful.
"Y-yes."
"That's good," the voice replied cheerfully. "That's VERY good, Sarah! Now, listen, if you will: there are rules…"
XxX
The chair had begun to creak ominously, and Melanie, now afraid by this stage, began to scream. "HELP ME! HELP ME, PLEASE! PLEASE HELP ME! PLEASE!"
Of course, there was no answer. Had she been expecting one?
The nails dug in deeper, and Melanie screamed louder, feeling as though her throat might tear. "FUCKING GET ME OUT OF HERE, YOU FUCKING BASTARD!" Blood began to steadily drip down her body, as the nails dug in a little deeper, and they began to tear through flesh. "NO!" Melanie screamed, although she knew that YES, yes she had to do it, if she wanted to live. She had to reach for the key and free herself, before the chair crushed her to death.
Grimacing, she jerked her right wrist backwards, slowly easing it out of the straps that bound her to the nails. She screamed, as the nails dragged along her wrist, slowly, painfully, peeling it open. Blood flowed more freely here-she would have to hurry if she didn't want to start bleeding like a fucking pig.
Her knuckles caught on the strap. Her breath caught, as she jerked her hand back again and again, the nails sliding into her flesh happily, gouging it, opening it…
Her hand came free. "FUCK, YES!" She shouted, holding it in front of her-it was raw and bloody, and it hurt something terrible, but she had freed her arm, at least. She was proud of herself. "Now, the key…" she murmured, flexing her wrist, wincing at the pain it brought. She tried to glance behind herself, to see where the key might be, but her head movements were limited-the nails were pressing on her head lightly, and, when she turned her head, her face was grazed by dozens of rusty, filthy nails. One of them caught her cheek and left a long, bloody scratch there; blood cam thick and fast, dripping down the side of her face, obscuring her vision on that side. "FUCK!" She shouted angrily, and, because her time was running out, she plunged her hand behind her, into the unknown.
It was met by thin air. "No, no..." she whispered wetly, glancing at the timer-she had about fifteen seconds left, if that. She didn't know-she couldn't exactly see very well.
Her hand reached up, and up, until…
Melanie screamed in pain, as the cruel, curved edge of the razor dug into the flesh of her wrist. She had only pressed against tit lightly, yet already, beads of blood began to appear. But, aside from the blood oozing from her wound, there was another liquid mingling with her blood. The Curare. Melanie shuddered. Curare was a primitive poison, and it did its job in a mater of seconds-paralysing the muscles so they were unable to contract. It caused death in small birds in less than ten seconds. Humans would last a little longer, but she, Melanie, would be crushed before she died of the poison.
But she had no choice. She had to complete her task; she HAD to!
So she reached up again, feeling the razor slice through her skin easily, and then it began to cut through muscle, yet she still reached, and the timer continued to tick…
XxX
Perez knocked on the door. "Miss Dwyer?" She inquired nervously. "Miss Dwyer, are you there?"
Strahm brushed her aside. "Let me, Lindsey," he said, bending over the doorknob, blocking Perez's view. The act reminded her of the hooded figure who had attacked the pyromaniac. Seeing Strahm do it was somewhat disconcerting.
The door swung open easily. Strahm smiled at Perez slightly, obviously pleased with himself. Then, he was back in business, and yes, there was his pistol, out of its pocket, in both of Strahm's hands, ready for anything. "Miss Dwyer?" He shouted, entering the dwelling. "Miss Dwyer, its Special Agent Peter Strahm of the FBI! I'm not here to harm you. We're here to assign you protection. If you come out now we can talk it over!"
There was no reply. Perez, nervous, inched in behind Strahm and shut the door behind her. "Miss Dwyer?" She inquired, also taking out her weapon-a revolver. "Miss Dwyer, we're here to help you."
Still no reply. "Is she out?" Perez asked. Strahm glared at her for a moment.
"Not likely," was all he said. He moved further in, taking in everything, missing nothing, looking for any traces of the scientist, the scientist who was next-the next intended Jigsaw victim. He saw that her laptop was turned on, and he also saw a pack of two-minute noodles lying beside the kettle. "Not many people go to start preparing a meal and then opt out for a walk," he said, a slight sneer on his face. "Her computer is on. She was obviously in the middle of something when she decided to go out."
Perez had to agree with that one. "Should we check the rest of her home?"
"I think that is best," Strahm answered. "Anything she might have lying around, might be of interest." He reached a carpet-coveted stairwell. "Up or down, Lindsey?" He asked. Perez pointed down-to her, it seemed like a more likely place for Dwyer to have anything of interest lying around.
So the two agents edged downstairs, weapons at the ready, unsure of what they would find.
XxX
Her fingers touched the key. "YES!" She shouted, curling her bloodied fingers around it and yanking down-she missed the razor, thankfully, but not by much. She brought her arm back to the front, and fumbled to fit the key in the keyhole on the strap on her left arm. The key, slippery with blood, kept nearly slipping out of her grasp. But she couldn't drop it now-she COULDN'T!
The key went inside the keyhole. Melanie twisted it to the side, and her arm was free, and she was laughing again, that same hysterical, frightening laughter, as she bent down (the timer now read five seconds left to go) and undid her right leg, and then her left, and then she was diving forward, her skin being ripped away from the nails, the hundreds upon hundreds of holes oozing blood now, and she was still laughing when the chair went off. It folded in on itself, not two seconds after Melanie had pulled herself off of it-the back folded in on the seat, and, Melanie saw that if she hadn't been as fast as she was, the nails would have been driven through her skull, and every other part of her body.
The laughter turned into horrified sobs, as she realized this-that she had been literally two seconds from death. Melanie knelt on the ground and she wept. "Kael…" she whispered, blood trickling from a corner of her mouth-she'd grazed it on the ground when she had thrown herself from the trap. She raised a hand to her mouth, but found she could raise it all the way. "No…" she whimpered, realisation hitting her like a ton of bricks.
She had escaped the trap, but she had not escaped the poison.
XxX
John was proud of Melanie. He was so proud that she had actually managed to follow the rules and complete her trap. He smiled. "Amanda," he began. Amanda was there in an instant, ready to help. He coughed twice, his body shuddering. "Take me to her," he ordered. Amanda nodded.
As he was being wheeled down to Melanie, John's hand closed around a syringe.
XxX
"A laboratory," Perez said, surprised. She had seen some things in her time-but she had never seen a laboratory in someone's home, and certainly not as complicated as this. Papers were strewn everywhere, and there were vials upon vials of different liquids, some clear, some red, some white, but all of them dangerous, Perez knew.
"Holy shit," was what Strahm had to contribute. He stood in the doorway, pistol still held at the ready.
Suddenly, a high-pitched, chilling cackle. Strahm and Perez whirled around, staring at the middle of the room, as a puppet they knew only too well rode out on a red tricycle. It stopped when it was facing them, and continued to cackle evilly, the sound ringing from the walls. "Jesus!" Strahm shouted, his fingers tightening on the trigger of his gun.
"Wait!" Perez shouted. "Look!"
Around the puppets neck was a cassette player. Perez reached fro it, but Strahm took her arm and held her back.
"Don't," he warned her, his face oddly excited. He moved forwards, gun aimed directly between the puppet's eyes. He feinted a grab for the player, obviously testing to see if anything would happen if he did reach for it. Nothing happened, except that the puppet continued laughing at them.
"Fuck," Strahm muttered, taking the cassette player, which read 'play me.' He pressed play, and the raspy voice of John Kramer answered them:
"Game over."
Strahm stared at the puppet incredulously. His anger simmered, and ten went past boiling point. Gripping the sides of his head, he dropped his gun. "FUCK THIS SHIT!" He screamed.
The puppet continued to laugh at them.
XxX
Melanie lay on the floor, unable to move. She could still hear, and see, but she couldn't move a goddamn inch.
"Hello, Melanie."
Has she been able to start and scream, she would have most certainly have done so.
"You think you know me?" The voice continued. "You know nothing."
The jab of a syringe, a jolt of pain, and then…