When I die, I hope I don't see a bright light.
Those give me headaches.
After a long life, I don't want to stare into the sun.
I want a calm blackness-
the same shade that coats the back of my eyelids.
The Light- Bo Burnham
The darkness soon began to swallow it all. Every sensation, every thought, every breath. Each gentle rise and fall of the broken man's chest took with it so much effort; the weight of his own body an impossible burden to bear. Everything was so heavy. He had stopped trying to open his eyes, the immaculate blackness far too tempting a comfort as he rest against the tiled wall. There was nothing with him now, and soon he would become nothing. Only a broken hacksaw and a corpse kept the man company. He had no concept of time, no point of reference. Had he been here for hours or days? Did it matter anymore? Sleep helped. It was his one respite in the fight against hunger, thirst, and the pain that gnawed at his bones. His muscles ached, exhausted and bruised from all the thrashing that had accomplished nothing. He had clawed for hours at his ankle, blunt nails tugging and tearing at the flesh in a desperate attempt to break himself free from the shackle that kept him bound to this place. But the gunshot wound in his shoulder had left him even weaker than before. What little sensation was left in his arm burned, the pain hot and bloated; skin blistering with infection.
"I'll send someone back, I promise."
He had promised. The doctor had promised to return and drag him out of this hell. Adam had believed him. But there was nothing except the dark now. Nothing but the rank smell of rotting flesh; there was no Lawrence Gordon. His eyes had grown accustomed to his new dark whenever he had the strength to open them. The room felt so much bigger without the other chained in there with him. Adam felt so small, swamped in blood and black.
"Don't leave me!" The dark-haired man had screamed in a desperate plead to the doctor. His throat had grown hoarse in the afterbirth of his new fate. Images of that monster rising from the dead replayed in his dreams over and over. The mound of flesh stagnant on the floor had been their captor all along, the killer. No, now Adam was the killer. His hands, resting limp on his own lap were caked thick in dry, peeling blood; a festering cocktail of the doctor's, his own, and the man that he had murdered's. Whatever hope the photographer had left in him had fled. Surely, that hulking beast had caught up with Lawrence. Maybe he had left the poor man to bleed out just on the other side of the door, perhaps he had shot him dead, or even taken him to another awful torture. He wanted to believe that Lawrence had escaped, but with each second that slipped away, so too did that hope.
His thoughts drifted between sleep and wake to the man that had tried to shoot the doctor, barging into the bathroom clad in sweat and leather. Adam had thought he was the one behind it all. Zep, Lawrence had called him. He worked at the hospital with the doctor. But their assumption had been gravely incorrect. Zep Hindle was just another player in this sick game and Adam had killed him. He'd never killed anyone before. He'd never even seen a dead body in real life before he was dragged away to this place. And now he was trapped with it. Here. Alone. Forever. Maybe the photographer deserved this. Adam hadn't been a good person in life and had contributed nothing of worth to society, he was a bottom feeder. But did that merit execution? He'd lied and stolen and cheated, but he'd never held real malice toward anyone. The young man had only responded in kind to the world that had grown so cold and so uncouth around him. Adam wanted to live. He wanted to live. Before this, he'd been rather ambivalent about his own life. There had been nights, times full of laughter and joy surrounded by his friends, but there had been just as many nights where he didn't want to be alive at all. He'd put it down as a curse of the awful times they lived in, but he had never thought about his own death for real.
He was going to die. He was going to die, and he had wasted his life.
In this solitude, he had been granted ample time to think about all he hadn't done with his life, all he still wanted to do, people he still wanted to see. This wasn't fair. Snotty sobs had choked the young man raw, his own cries mocking him as they bounced back off the dirty tile walls and filled the industrial bathroom with his sniffling. He was far too exhausted to cry anymore. He could have gone back to art school, could have called his mother. His parents had given him the opportunity to study the thing he loved, only for him to waste his time and drop out when it got too hard. His cellphone was laboured with a growing amount of missed calls and voice-mails that his mother had left him. But he always let it ring. Adam wanted to tell himself that it was due to his apathy, but really it was all down to shame.
No one would even know he was gone now. No one would know what happened to him. Maybe they would think he ran away again, had gotten into more financial problems and made himself scarce. No one would know that he had been kidnapped and locked away in some creep's dungeon. He shouldn't have gotten so angry. If he'd just kept his calm like the doctor did, he wouldn't have broken the hacksaw and could have cut through his ankle to earn his freedom. Fuck. Everything felt so heavy. The man could hardly think, let alone stay awake. It was too much. Too heavy. Is this what dying was? He didn't want to, not anymore. Not yet.
Amongst the haze, falling deeper and deeper into the black, there it came. A harsh, scalding light. A burning sharp scream of white which stained the inside of his eyelids a roaring crimson and commanded they break apart. His faint breathing hitched with the effort, peering into the awful void. He hated it. Send him back to that cold black; he wasn't ready to go yet. Lawrence was coming back. He was coming back! Fuck you! His clouded thoughts screamed in empty, weak defiance of the inevitable. But this wasn't to be the end. What Adam didn't know, and what he wouldn't remember was that this light came not from death itself, but a death-bringer. The flashlight shone across the emaciated, pale, face of the dying man which stirred at the arrival of Amanda Young. The apprentice and devote follower of the Jigsaw Killer.
She was crying, bandaged hands shaking as she shone the flashlight onto his features. Guilt had been eroding her mind, pictures of Adam decaying in her thoughts like a burned image on an old TV. Each night she was kept awake with the memories of what she had done, how unfair of a position she had left the man in. She believed in John Kramer's words, that each torture of theirs was a test and that each test helped. Those who survived were rehabilitated, were made to rethink their actions and cherish the life they have, the one they almost lost. Criminals, junkies, rapists, murderers. These were the ones tested. The unworthy, the unfaithful, the ungrateful. But what was Adam in the scheme of it all? He had invaded Lawrence Gordon's privacy, abetting and enabling an obsessive ex-cop. She wouldn't question whether he was worth being tested, that wasn't her decision to make. But neither was her decision to ensure his failure. For that very reason, her guilt had consumed her. The key that would have afforded Adam's freedom in his game was unobtainable thanks to her selfish actions. She wanted to be the only one to survive John Kramer's test, to be the only one worthy of a new life. So she had cheated, and now he was left to suffer a fate undeserved. A fate cruel. Amanda Young had brought the judgement, now she would deliver mercy.
From the depths of her jacket pocket, the woman dug out the plastic bag she had brought with her, the sight of it having to have her stifle a sob. In the light, Adam shifted slightly, dry lips muttering soundless and unintelligible nothings. He had no concept of what was to occur, of what was going on. His eyes tried to open, tried to peer through the haze, only to see her dark silhouette in the wicked, heavenly glow. "Help…" an attempt was made to reach for assistance, but it went unheard by the apprentice. "It's ok… It's ok, Adam." Amanda whispered in desperate breaths and rueful tones as she went to move the plastic around the man's emaciated face. "It's going to be over now. It's going to be over. No more pain-" Her sob spluttered through tight lips as she pulled the bag around the man's face. She would finish what she started, and finally put the poor bastard out of his misery.
It was that sudden movement, that plastic being pulled taught that caused Adam to inhale sharply. But it had been far too late. With that inhale of breath came the tightening of the clear plastic around his mouth, agape with horror as it did its best to take in anything it could. All he could hear was the stretch of the material around his ears as the woman pulled it tighter. What was this? He had no time to think, there was no time allowed for anything other than what his body reacted to in instinct. It wanted to live.
A guttural groan, a melody of confusion and fear escaped Adam's throat as those weak arms lift from their stay, grasping out ahead of him to cease whatever nightmare this was. But Amanda had made her way behind him, teeth clamped in futile attempts to silence her crying. What had been so heavy had now become even more so as he clawed his way at the air, all the while pushing against the plastic sheet and stretching it tighter across his face. The clean plastic now nothing but a pale blur of flesh, two wide, manic eyes terrified and blinded, and a maw desperate for relief. What little thunder his heart had left coursed that fear through his veins like blowflies devouring viscera, a new found energy and hunger for life driving each pull away from the woman. His face screaming silently in agony began to turn brilliant shades of blue and purple as the remaining huffs of life were choked out of him. Not yet, his being screamed as it tore itself away from the woman. Amanda's frame was small, and far too weak to hold back the tempest of panic that Adam had left. Her grasp on the plastic bag slipped and with all the momentum of his resistance, his skull flew forward and connected with the floor. The sting of stomach acid erupted onto Adam's tongue, blood splattering to his teeth as his jaw made smashed against the dirty tiles beneath him. The woman shrieked with frenzied panic and tried her best to reclaim the bag, but Adam had been too fast. Unseeing, unknowing, he bucked in defiance and pushed Amanda back into the rusty pipes shadowing her.
The air stung in his throat, coughing and spluttering a mixture of blood and saliva as he heaved oxygen back into his lungs. A pained cry rushed inwards on inhale, an overwhelming howl of relief and sorrow feasting on his already exhausted brain. Why was this happening to him? Crimson stained teeth grit tight as he tried to move away, every muscle in his system splintering with pain as he did. Amanda flew forward, grabbing back the plastic and managed to capture Adam again. His stomach scraped against the floor and his head reared up like panicked prey. The bag itself began to grow red with blood rotting out from the man's punctured gums and Amanda cried out. "Stop it! Stop it!" The pleas emitted over and over, her dark eyes erupting wide with panic and fear. What had she done?
Until at last, their fray would come to an abrupt end. Adam's last attempt to break free need only be his last. The prisoner had pulled himself back onto his knees as the space around him became tighter and tighter, his consciousness growing hazier with each second. In his last effort to tear away, he thrashed to the left, losing his balance and smashing his head hard against the toilet seat beside him. His temple split open. Blood now painted the entire surface of the plastic bag. His head hung limp in the container. Amanda screamed at the sight, doing her best to hold on until finally the bag ripped away from her fingers, the material stretching and breaking apart. Adam's head hit the rim of the toilet once more, his world becoming nothing but black. His frenzy ceased, and he lay there motionless.
Panicked, blood stained fingers dropped the bag away and desperately splintered out to retrieve her flashlight. "I'm sorry- I'm sorry-" She sobbed in heightened whisper, shakily staggering to her feet before she fled the scene. She had done what she had came here to do, and there was nothing she could do about it now. Her work was over. The debt repaid. Feeling vomit rising in her throat, she slammed the door to the bathroom behind her, once again entombing Adam in the silence of the dark.
What a beautiful specimen he had become. Mangled violets, azures and plum all patch-worked into their brutal tie-dye against the man's previously pale canvas. Short, shallow breaths hitched their way through the gargle of iron in his throat as he stared into the nothingness. It was so cold. Was he dead? No, not yet. Why wasn't he dead yet? What in the hell did he have left? His arms were limp against his frame and the blackness of the room coaxed him back into riding the same waves of sleep and wake. A limbo of unconscious thought that placated a former restless mind. At least the black was calm. He didn't know what had just happened, if it had even actually happened. All he could feel was a painful chill. He didn't want this anymore, he couldn't do this anymore. He wasn't worth all this suffering. If there were anything left in him at all he would cry. Though he felt his heart aching, the energy had been smothered out of him.
Would this be it? The lingering shadows of defeat teased their way into the man's mind, their dark tendrils scalding the pain of each wound and weighing down his bones. How much easier would it be to give in. Adam's face, puffy and bloating with agony fell slack with exhaustion, coughing up the last of the blood from the back of his throat. Couldn't he even do this right? Did he have to screw up everything? Even…this? Had any of that even happened? Was there ever a time he wasn't here? Any image the photographer's mind attempted to conjure up faded away to dust, allowing for nothing but the black. This would be it. Adam just needed to be patient and enjoy what last sensations he had before he had nothing at all. His ankle felt swollen and sore, his shoulder burned with pain, his head thundered, leaching the last dregs of life out of him. And his face— his….face…
A tentative and cautious grasp was threatened by peeling skin to slip away from leather glove's hold, but the hand remained poised and still. What was this sensation? If it had not been so foreign a touch, the numbness of Adam's face would have disallowed any feeling at all. Was this real? Was any of this real anymore? His vision drowned in scarlet. Dry eyes splintered open slowly. Glazed with fatigue, the photographer's pupils shrunk to nothing more than the point of a needle as it battled against the sudden roar of light glaring upon him. There was no burn, there was no pain. This was… death. This is what it felt like.
The black that had draped over his lifeless form had all but melted away. It was with this light, all at once each pain was rinsed from his system. It left him bare. Nothing but bones. His cracked lips flaked into a smile, undetectable to the eye as he stared unseeing into the red. The more of it his soul consumed, the better it felt. It was euphoric. Perhaps now, death was to Adam as the lamp was to the moth; stars flooding out unseen in the stark light of day, unnoticed as they screamed their way across the cosmos. But no matter how much Adam wished to fall unendingly in devotion to this respite, his prayers for the end would go unanswered.
Doctor Lawrence Gordon's concerned features furrowed at the soft exhale of air leaking from the rag doll of a man before him. He moved the beam of the flashlight away from Adam's face and down to his shackled ankle. It was revolting to look at. Lawrence took his time with the effort, hands bracing against his cane as he lowered himself down to his knee and retrieved a key from around his neck. A sickening click in the darkness, metal scraping against metal; such meaningless sounds were the hymns of his freedom. He broke off the shackle that had dug deep into Adam's flesh, carving its likeness against the very bone of his ankle.
He turned his attention back to the young man's face as he removed his glove to place two fingers against the man's neck. The echoes of his heart beat had been so faint, that for a moment Lawrence had believed that he hadn't felt them at all. But he was there. Adam was still there. His hand turned it's attention to Adam's jaw once more, moving to prop up his head up as he inspected the damage around hairline.
Lawrence felt his patient pressing his head up against his hand, until the doctor was holding the whole weight of the man's skull in his grasp. This relief from the burden of his bones was a bliss he wouldn't remember, but the sweetest death that Adam could ever ask for.