Timeline: Hours after the last chapter

Rating: R for intense description of violence

Chapter 6

Save as I Save

"You'd be surprised what tools can save a life." -Amanda

She woke up to the taste of metal and blood. Her eyes fluttered open and her features conveyed her mounting confusion and panic as she noticed her unfamiliar surroundings, despite half her face being concealed by the instrument of destruction on her head. She tugged at the wrist restraints keeping her strapped down. A muffled screaming saturated the air as she continued fighting against the restraints.

The sudden light emitted from the television screen distracted her. She whimpered. A horrific looking puppet was looking away from her. Slowly his head turned to face her, causing her to flinch.

"Hello Amanda. You don't know me, but I know you. I want to play a game. Here's what happens if you lose. The device you are wearing is hooked to your lower and upper jaws. When the timer in the back goes off, your mouth will be permanently ripped open. Think of it like a reverse bear trap."

"Here. I'll show you," it said eagerly.

The faint ticking sound got louder until suddenly it stopped and was replaced by the earsplitting blast of crushing porcelain as the trap demolished the mannequin attached to it. Virtually nothing of it remained, except for the reverse bear trap. The trap that was now attached to her. She choked on a scream.

"There is only one key to open the device. It's in the stomach of your dead cellmate. Look around Amanda. Know that I'm not lying. You better hurry up. Live or die. Make your choice."

Amanda yanked against her restraints, the duct tape ripping a little more with her every tug. After what seemed like eternity, she was finally free of her binds, but her true test had not yet begun.
As she stood up, the cord attached to her trap snapped back. She heard the click, and her hands shot up to feel around. She felt the timer counting down the seconds. What could be the last moments of her life if she didn't act soon.

She began hyperventilating and couldn't think straight. Her instincts told her to remove the device immediately. She tried grabbing it and throwing it off, but her efforts proved futile.
Then she saw the body.

She stumbled towards the corpse. Amanda never imagined she'd have to cut someone open, even if he was already dead. She wasn't sure if she could mutilate a corpse. She had no experience that could even begin to prepare her for something like this. She crouched down towards him and lifted up his shirt. A black question mark had been painted on hid abdomen.

Amanda sobbed. What have either of us done to deserve this? God, this is just a game to this psycho! she thought.

The clicking noise of the timer on her trap reminded her that her time was running out. She couldn't think about any of that now. The knife wobbled in her unsteady hand. She set aside her conscious thought and relied on her instincts that were pushing her towards survival.

Then the body stirred. Its eyes opened and looked at her, helplessly pleading for his life.

He's alive!

But if she hesitated, she wouldn't be.

Before she could analyze the situation and decide, her need for survival she'd eagerly let consume her consciousness made her choice for her.

She raised her arms and plunged the blade into his stomach. Again and again and again. Blood splattered across her face, the walls, and her victim, soaking into the cracks on the floor and the fabric of his clothes, drenching her hands. As she hammered into him, the crimson liquid poured out. His organs began to slide outside of his body with her every thrust. She dropped the dagger and dug through his insides, like a dog searching for a bone. And that's exactly what she felt like. An animal.

The organs slipped through her hands. Large intestines kept getting in her way as she rummaged around for the stomach. Suddenly she felt a hard bulge against the soft tissue of his stomach. She squeezed it and the precious key slithered out. She snatched it and reached behind her head, feeling around for the lock. She jammed the key inside of the lock and twisted. The trap opened up enough for her to pull her head out. It snapped shut when she dropped it a mere second later.

Sobs wracked her entire body. Her already smeared make up tainted her tears as they glided down her cheeks and merged with the blood covering the bottom half of her face. She quieted when she heard the sound of squeaking wheels. She looked up at the puppet she'd seen from the television. She lifted her hands over her face in instinct, feeling vulnerable and terrified. It had been barely a minute since she'd seen him, but it felt like a lifetime ago. She felt like a different person.

A dreadful crackling laugh echoed in the dark room. It repeated, sending shivers through her.

"Congratulations. You're still alive. Most people are so ungrateful to be alive. But not you. Not anymore."

She waited, expecting to see the lunatic behind this. When nothing happened, that part of her seeking survival took over and she overcame her fear enough to stand up and look for escape. She walked into the darkest part of the room and begin groping the walls, hoping to get away before the mad man that put her there came back to finish her off. Minutes later, she felt a smooth metal bar. She probed the walls like a blind person, hoping to feel the outline of a door. She sighed in relief when her suspicion was confirmed. She pushed against it. The sun stunned her, blazing its bright light straight into her eyes. She stumbled around, and once she regained her sight, she fled as quickly and as far as she could away from that nightmare.

Her heartbreaking wailing compensated for the lack of screaming of her paralyzed victim. What had occurred in the last minute was one of the worst things Mark had ever seen. It broke his heart. He turned away, unable to take anymore. At least it was over.

"She passed," Mark said.

"You sound surprised," Jigsaw said. Expressionless, like always, as if the outcome didn't affect him, even though Mark suspected it must.

Whether the subject survives must have some impact on him; he's invested everything into these games.

"Well, I didn't expect her to."

"Did you want her to?"

"Yes," Mark said. "I don't want any of them to die."

"Of course," Jigsaw said. "But I noticed you seemed especially reluctant to help this time, Mark."

"I don't like hurting women," he said. "It seems barbaric."

Jigsaw smirked at him.

"Oh, is that all?"

"I've met her before. I was concerned about her well being. But I still did what you asked. And she survived," he said. He paused and locked eyes with Jigsaw. "She's rehabilitated, so we're going to leave her alone now, right?"

Jigsaw stood up and walked away, extending the distance between them. He removed his robe, the way someone takes off their work uniform after a long day.
"Maybe," he said.

"Excuse me?" Mark said. He stood up to Jigsaw's level.

"What you just put her through…that will change her for the rest of her life. That's what you wanted, isn't it?"

"What I want is for ungrateful people to cherish their lives!" he yelled, beating his hand against the wall. His knuckles turned white. His eyes heated with passion. Then he began coughing. It escalated in intensity. Mark approached him to help, but he extended his hand, an indication for him to back away.

"I'm fine," he said. "Don't worry about her. As long as she doesn't forget the lesson she learned tonight, we'll have no reason to further interfere in her life."

Mark didn't want to ask about what happens if she didn't.

Jigsaw looked as though he were about to leave and retire for the night, but then he turned around and spoke.

"Goodnight, Mark. I'll suspect I'll see you again soon."

"Is that all you can remember, Mandy?" he heard Detective Tapp say. In retrospect, Mark knew he shouldn't have been surprised to see her here, but at the same time, it was unnerving. For the first time, the nightmare of his time with Jigsaw made contact with the part of his life that was supposed to be devoted to doing good for society.

He felt like Jigsaw had consumed his life. And seeing the pain in her eyes tore at his heart again.

"Hello Detective Hoffman," she said. Her voice never got much louder than a whisper now. She glanced up at him, not knowing that her every innocent gaze was destroying him.

"Hello Amanda," he said. He leaned in the doorway, waiting to see if she remembered that he had kidnapped her, knowing that due to shock and the drug he had injected her with would most likely eradicate her recent memory and make her unable to recall seeing him that night.

"I think I'd like to go home now," she said to Tapp. Her arms were limp at her sides, her eyes wet with fresh tears, the dark circle underneath them indicating crying was becoming routine for her.

"Alright," Tapp said, nodding with sympathy. Mark was relieved she didn't remember him, but at the same time, the guilt gnawed at him. Unable to endure the sight anymore, he nodded and left.

Once Amanda got home, she began to feel isolated in her small apartment. She'd never though it would feel too large, but now that she alienated her friends, it did indeed feel like too much space for her. She remembered the past, people coming over, some acquaintances from work, but most of them strangers, bringing the drugs and alcohol she needed to forget how much she hated everyone around her, including herself.

Now more than ever, she hated herself. What she had done was bad enough, but now that she was too terrified to get doped up, she remembered things she'd once been able to forget.
At first, she remembered how her drug addiction started. She wanted to think that it wasn't her fault, that it was her ex-dealers fault. Then she wanted to blame the people she worked with for encouraging her behavior. Then she wanted to blame her father for being distant and doing the cruel, awful things to her that made her want to leave home in the first place.

But then she remembered that man's eyes. The man she killed. No matter who had gotten her hooked, what she had done to him was her own choice.

She cried again. She felt overcome with emotion constantly. All the hate and grief she'd repressed for so long emerged, and just when she thought it was over, she'd remember her father locking her in the closet for hours, the empty beer bottles laying everywhere, and his bloodshot eyes. Or she'd remember that innocent man's last expression before she stabbed him to death. And then it would start all over again.

Detective Tapp had given her a card for grief counseling. She'd kept it for a few days, staring at the name and numbers until she'd memorized it by heart. But she could never muster the courage to call it. Because it had been hard enough reliving everything at the police station. She didn't think she could do it again. But she kept it anyway. Knowing there was an option out there gave her some sense of security, even if she knew she'd never do it.

She took the card and stroked the edges of it absentmindedly. Maybe she would call today. Maybe she'd just call and hang up. It was something to do, it was a baby step towards seeking help. She didn't want to, but if she didn't, she was afraid of going back to her bad habits.

Her phone rang before she could make the call. Amanda let the answering machine get it. One of girls from work called, demanding to know why she hadn't come in for days. She added a brief "We miss you" that Amanda could sense was a lie, before the girl hung up. For the first time in days, Amanda smiled. SLittle did they know, she'd never see any of them again. For the sake of that man's life that she took, she had to change her life. Make his death not be in vain. She would get clean and that involved not surrounding herself with other junkies and by evading the bad influence of that horrid place, the place that had started her downward spiral.

Amanda looked at the card again and noticed a single drop of blood on it. She flinched, wondering if she was having hallucinations. Then she saw that she had simply gotten a paper cut from the card. She sighed. She'd been so overwhelmed with her thoughts, she hadn't even realized her finger was bleeding.

She walked into the bathroom to look for a band aid. When her search turned up nothing, she sat on the toilet lid and watched as the blood slid down her finger, down her hand, down to her wrist.
She thought of her father again. How he had carved her mother's name into his flesh one night when he'd gotten drunk. She had only been six or seven. It was the first time she'd ever seen blood, except when she used to scrape her knees when skating or riding her bike. She'd been terrified, but watched anyway, full of concern for him, holding the phone in her hand in case she had to call for help. This was before she hated him. Back when she believed with all of her naïve heart that there was still the possibility of love and reconciliation.

She stood up and rinsed the blood off her hands in the sink. It reminded her of being in the hospital just a couple days ago. Everyone had been so concerned about her well-being and mental state, and all she'd cared about was rinsing the blood off of her hands. Once she'd gotten her chance, she scrubbed them raw.

This time Amanda didn't have as much blood to wash off, and the blood was her own. But it was cathartic nonetheless.

She opened the drawer to her medicine cabinet, and pulled out a razorblade.

Let's see how much better I feel with a little more blood on my hands.