Part Three
disclaimer : I own nothing, that goes to our dear Leigh, James and Darren
As soon as his coughing subsided Amanda felt it right to speak to him again.
A stray finger ran over his shaved scalp, "When are you going to grow back your hair?"
He hadn't thought about it, after shaving it for one of the games, so he could wear the latex bullet wound, he kept it that way. Then again, it was only a month ago.
"Do you want me to grow back my hair? I think I look good this way."
"Grow it back." Amanda said, "I want to see it."
They didn't say anything for a while, Amanda just curled herself up next to him.
"John?" her voice was soft, like a child's.
"Yeah?"
"Do you remember the day we met?"
"Of course." how could he forget that day now?
"I wouldn't have imagined..." she eased her face into the crook of his neck, "Tell me the story of the day we met."
"Tell you the story? Like a bedtime story?"
"Yeah, it'll help me get to sleep." she said, the sheets rustling as she pulled them up around her shoulders.
"If you insist my dear. It was November. Late November, on a Thursday. At the hospital."
"You remember that?"
"Yes. I keep journals of everything that's happened. At least since my diagnosis.." he continued the story, "You were in the cafeteria, eating lunch. And I just happened
to be there at the same time."
He looked down at her, and she nudged him to go on.
"The orderly, Zepp, he told me about you. He told me everything about everyone, but you caught my eye. Then I saw you in the cafeteria, so I just had to sit down accross
from you -" he smirked, "Even though you weren't looking too good."
Amanda would've teasingly hit him if she wasn't drifting to sleep.
"John, what did you say to me? I can't recall."
"I said why is a beautiful woman such as yourself stuck in a hospital, living out your days as a junkie."
"What did I say?"
"That you knew."
"Really?"
"Really."
"Why did you chose me John? For the game?"
A pause.
"Because I cared."
Amanda grabbed his hand, "Because you loved me?"
John hesitated, "I don't know."
Amanda nodded sleepily before rolling over and falling into sleep.
Back then, almost a whole year ago, he hadn't loved Amanda. Pitied her, definately. He was even jealous of her, young and naive, even slightly innocent compared to others. She'd just seen too much in her years. No, he hadn't loved her. But he cared. Wasn't that the point?
Now he loved her, more than he thought possible. His hand found it's way to her hip, where it stayed, gripping her and not wanting to let go.
He moved up right against her, his body on her's, hand still on her hip, his face near her neck.
She was sleeping so deeply she barely felt his breath against her throat.
In his misery, John began to weep. Not once had he shed tears since his diagnosis, but now he did with his lover in his arms. He had to leave her. One day, and one day
soon, he could no longer be with her. No longer watch proudly as she set up traps, share his joys of the games, or have the feeling of knowing someone felt the same way
about his livelihood that he did. Some day soon he could no longer stroke her hair, or kiss her lips, or make love in their bed.
Ah, but it was worth a lifetime of suffering to just have her for a while, wasn't it old man? He said to himself.
With a sudden extreme tiredness creeping up on him, and the nausea hitting the pit of his stomach, he closed his eyes. Willing himself to sleep, he joined
Amanda in lucid dreams.
Even in sleep she swore she could feel his sadness.
That night Amanda dreamed of John's death. She didn't see him, but she could feel that he was gone. Blood was on her hands though, and she was trying frantically to
get it off, but it was no use.
When she awoke she was terrified. Turning to him, she laid her hand on his chest.
Still breathing.
Amanda still felt adrenaline pounding in her chest, and didn't want to wake John with her hysterics. She got up, taking his robe from next to the bed, and wrapped it around herself. By the time
she padded into the drawing room a sketch on the board had caught her eye.
Beds on top of what looked like pits.
Gingerly taking it off the board she turned it over.
Syringes. Hundreds of them, inside the pits under the bed.
She almost flung the paper away from her. Of all things it was that one sketch that sent chills down her spine. What poor soul would be thrown into that?
More importantly, why had John made such an abhorrent game as that?
The thought of those needles made her sick to her stomach. Since her addiction ended she had learned to loathe the needles she used to worship. Devices of sin was
what they were now.
She tried to get the image of those pits out of her mind, but she kept seeing syringes full of blood and black tar heroin. She got so upset she could feel the bile rising in her
throat.
Why would John ever make such a thing as that? It was worse than anything she had seen him create before.
In the corner of her eye she saw him stir, but now there was no fondness for him.
That son of a bitch, she thought, who does he think he is?
Jigsaw, of course, her mind chimed back.
Amanda quickly snatched up the sketch and held it, wrinkled, in her fist.
John was barely out of the bedroom when she spat,
"What the fuck is this?"
John groggily looked at what she held, "A sketch. What else."
"Don't be a fucking smartass with me!" Amanda shouted, "Why would you make this?"
John didn't seem at all wary of her anger. He just seemed irritated.
"Amanda, what exactly do you think I made it for?"
Amanda stormed up to face him, shaking the sketch in front of his face.
"Needles, John?" she waved the sketch all around, "Who do you think you are, using needles in a game! It's unfair, it's cruel!"
John seemed to ignore her outburst and limped his way to his desk.
"I don't find it any worse than anything else I've ever created."
How she hated him at this moment.
"It is John, you know it is."
"Why? Does it too closely hit home for you, Amanda? I could've put you in that, but I didn't have the idea back then."
He looked away coldly, still tired and not in the mood for argument.
Amanda couldn't believe what she'd just heard. Did he care so little, after everything that happened?
She stood there in the middle of the room, dumbfounded.
"Well... Fuck you too!" she shouted, storming off, but she wasn't sure where to. She found herself in the bedroom, confronted with only her own nerves.
Thoughts mingled together in her mind. She couldn't well leave, he would find her, or worse. She didn't know if she could stay. For the first time since their early meetings
did she truly consider that he might just be a charming monster.
She almost laughed, but that's what he was, a charming monster. Even thought he cared, and loved, it was a very strange way to it. The only way he could show passion
it seemed was through cruelty. But he hadn't been so cruel during the nights...
How could she get back at him? Give him a taste of his own medicine?
She wasn't sure how long she sat in that room, but when she emerged she would consider him differently.
John looked up and was startled to see Amanda in front of him.
She stood with her arms straight at her sides, her hair a wreck, face stony.
"What was your wife's name?" she asked.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Your wife."
"Amanda, we weren't ever really married..."
"Just tell me!"
He decided to play along, "Jill."
"Tell me about Jill."
John shook his head, "No. I'm not getting into this."
"Just tell me!"
John stood up, too quickly, almost falling over, "I don't need to tell you anything."
"But you make me tell you everything!"
"That's different."
"How?"
"Because it just is."
He started to walk away, trying to retreat to the lobby, but Amanda didn't let up.
"It's not different. You make me spill my guts without prevail, and make me sit there, naked and vulnerable, while you just watch. Like some fucking pervert, you want to
get inside my head. Well fuck that! Let me see inside you for once, just once!"
John spun around.
"You want to know about Jill?"
"Yes."
"I'll tell you about Jill! She called me irresponsible but she was an alcoholic. She had been arrested so many times, I spent nearly every weekend coming to bail her out.
She didn't care about her life, or mine, or my son's!"
John was silent then, suddenly aware he had just let too much slip.
"S...Son?"
He turned away, "I don't want to talk about this anymore."
"Please,"
Time seemed to stop. Amanda wasn't sure when she sought John out again.
He turned, eyes sad, and looked straight into her soul.
"Amanda... I..."
"John, it doesn't change anything. Please, please just tell me something, anything."
He sucked in air, his eyes now cast downward.
"His name was James."
"Your son?"
John nodded.
"He died in 1986. 10 months old. My wife, you see, killed him. Accidentally of course. Drunk driving incident, ran a redlight. Another vehicle slammed into them, right on
the side James was on."
He said it so coldly. Nearly 20 years since the boy's death, and he had trained himself to grow distant.
She wanted to go up to John and hug him, tell him she was sorry, but he had descended into a world of his own.
"He didn't even have a shot. 10 months old and his life was taken from him. It killed me inside. Do you know what it's like to see other people in their bliss? My friends were
getting married, some had kids. My relationship fell apart and my son had just died. Tell me Amanda, is it my fault? Did I squander my life?"
"Your fault?" Amanda choked out, "No, John, of course not! It was just circumstances, things happen, bad things, but you move on. You told me that."
"Now I'm not so sure."
They were both silent that night, both went about their own business. When night fell Amanda found herself alone in the bed, he never came to join her.
She didn't care that much, they both needed to be alone with their thoughts for just one night.