When Amanda awoke to the feeling of being cushioned with pillows on her back and blankets around her body, she knew she was not at her sister's apartment. For one thing, she was too comfortable to be back, and too warm. Not the putrid kind that she had woke up to for the past several days, her shirt soaked with the sweat that she could smell almost as soon as she could feel. Instead, she felt as though she had slept normally, or, what which was more likely, drugged. She was comfortable for the first time in what felt like ages, and had no memory of having any nightmares.
She also didn't hear any of the familiar noises from Liz's apartment, like the washing machine running, people on the street (or in the hallway), or Liz making any noise.
It was silent.
If Amanda hadn't felt so comfortable then, that alone would have freaked her out.
Still, she didn't open her eyes at first. She could not remember when or where she had last fallen asleep. Her previous experience with this was negative. The most vivid memory that came to mind was also her first one. Seventeen, while at a party celebrating her class' graduation from high school, waking up in her own vomit from one too many drinks. A trip to the doctor later that day told her that her system was clear of drugs, but she was no longer a virgin. Amanda had planned to wait, if not until marriage, then at least until she fell in love, before having sex. If she had been pregnant –she hadn't—she wouldn't have had the first clue who the father was.
Often, when she was a child, she'd wake up somewhere in the apartment that wasn't her room. More often than not, it was on the floor, arms and/or legs hurting from being hit...on the filthy carpet if she was lucky. Most of the time, she wasn't. Her parents abused her and Liz, but her more. Amanda's dad especially. Always when he was drunk, but often when he was sober. He'd hit her, but mostly yell at her and then drag her by her arms (if she was lucky) into a dark room. Or the bathroom. Sometimes he'd make her have sex with him, but mostly he just locked the door and leave her alone. For hours.
If Amanda screamed, he'd leave her there longer. But if she didn't scream, he'd forget about her and a whole day could pass before someone let her out. If it was her dad, he'd probably start hitting her again.
Her mom had been so weak, but Amanda couldn't place too much blame on her. If she had been around the house more, her husband probably would have hit her, too. She worked as a waitress and her dad spent most of what he could find on beer or gambling. He was good at gambling, but he never quit when he was ahead, so he always lost everything.
He father didn't have a steady job. He said it was because most people didn't hire people without collee degrees (her mom had a two year college degree, he pointed out, and all she could do was wait on people), but Amanda thought it was more likely because he was lazy, unfocused, and drunk at least half of the time.
Not that she would ever tell him this.
Unfortunately, his lack of work meant more time at home. That meant more time he could spend getting drunk. So whenever Amanda or Liz came home from school, or from a friend's house, or even from doing a chore for their mother, he was there. It seemed like he was drunk or hitting them all of the time, but Amanda knew it was just her childish mind that thought that. He hit her regularly, and locked her away even more regularly, but it was rarely more than once a day.
The abuse stopped when she was sixteen. Or if it continued, Amanda was immune to it. Liz got hit, but not as much. Liz was the "good girl" in the family because she did well at school, so Amanda was, by default, the bad one. After Amanda graduated high school and left her parents' house, waking up unaware turned out to be even more frightening than waking up in a locked closet.
Memories invaded her. She couldn't help it.
Nineteen. Waking up in jail. She had been sentenced to six months for harboring drugs. She must have passed out trying to escape, trying to fight off the police. Probably they used sedatives that time. Amanda had woken up lying on the floor, her head aching, and with a bruised leg caused by –she suspected—one of the other inmates who had taken an instant disliking to her.
Then there was the most recent event of just over a week ago. Or what she thought was a week ago. Could have been longer, depending on what day it was. Waking up with the taste of metal and blood in her mouth, the trap pushing down on her gums so hard that they bled easily. Discovering that she might have only a few more minutes to live.
It was understandable that, in spite of all appearances to the contrary, Amanda suspected the worst. Her eyes remained tightly shut.
But her involuntary movements did not go undetected. She could feel, if not hear, someone walk over to where she lay. She bit her tongue, hoping the pain would stop her from screaming.
A hand landed on her shoulder, completely taking Amanda by surprised. She let out a high pitched noise that a passerby might have mistaken for a frightened dog or cat.
Her eyes involuntarily sprang open.
A old man hovered over her, looking concerned. His age could have been anywhere from fifty to one hundred. Her face was pale, sunken. Wrinkles had begun to form. His eyes seemed attentive, not threatening. Short blond hair came out of the bottom half of his head, disheveled yet clearly thin. Balding.
The man's appearance surprised her. By the look of his clothes (black sweatshirt and jeans), he was not an orderly. Perhaps he worked for the police?
Amanda tried to sit up and found that she could do so without much trouble. As she did so, she noted the color of the top blanket on her (dark blue, almost navy) and saw that her arms did not appear to chained. Nor did the upper half of her body. As for the bottom half…she moved her legs discreetly and did not feel anything that shouldn't be there.
She ran her tongue around her teeth. Nothing was hooked onto them this time.
She breathed a sigh of relief and started to look around.
Just as Amanda was starting to calm down, she saw a needle connected to a plastic tube in her right arm. She squinted and turned. The tube was connected to some bag and then to a medical device not five feet away from her.
It didn't hurt her, but it was enough. She let out a low groan.
Great. It's another game, she thought, resigned. At this point, she just didn't care.
But why was he here? Why not just send the instructions via the puppet, like he had done before? Amanda sighed and tried to prepare herself for the worst.
The worst never arrived.
The man's hand had remained on her shoulder this whole time, and he was now murmuring soothing yet unintelligible words. The hand pressed forward on her shoulder, as though trying to get Amanda to lay still. When this did not work, the other hand had joined the same shoulder, not forcibly restraining her, but making it that much harder to move. Amanda, already weak, decided it was not worth it to make the additional effort. She stiffened.
Having achieved its purpose, the second hand loosed its grip somewhat and then began to move back and forth in what felt like a comforting manner. Then the hand pressed against her forehead. Bits of hair stuck temporarily to the clammy hand when the man finally removed it. Amanda whimpered. Still terrified, Amanda's heart began to pound and she could feel her chest moving against the blankets as she struggled to fill her lungs. Tears began to fill in her eyes.
"Stop..." she began, then stopped. She could hardly hear herself speak. She began to cough. Had he poisoned her?
The same hand pressed against her shoulder. She winced.
"It's all right. I won't hurt you, Amanda."
His voice was gentle. But how did he know her name? Of course, Amanda could easily guess. She was just feigning ignorance to remain in the dark.
But he didn't have to know that.
She tried, yet again, to speak but found she could only cough. She cleared her throat and tried again. Throughout this, the hands remained on her shoulder. She did not know whether to feel consoled or terrified by this.
"Who are you?" she managed.
"I'm John Kramer." The voice, though familiar, was soft and lacked any menacing or evil quality to it.
"Where am I?" She knew her voice betrayed her panic.
"The exact location does not matter." Her eyebrows shot up in alarm. "You're at my house," John added quickly, as though attempting to pacify her.
Now she remembered. Just moments into her high, he had opened the door to her room. No, the closet. Right. He had started to say something but, somehow, Amanda had collapsed. She was pretty sure he hadn't caused it. He must have taken her with him while she was out and couldn't protest.
Nausea filled her. He was going to put her in another trap. Or "game", as the police had explained he called them. Never traps, because trap made it sound as if there was no way out. A game, on the other hand, made the test sound enjoyable (misleadingly, of course—no one had fun during the traps except Jigsaw) and with a good chance of victory.
"Oh, God," she murmured. Usually she would have used expletives, but Amanda's brain felt too slow to come up with good swear words. All that she could think of was "crap", and that was just lame. She felt herself cover her face with her hands. "What did you do to me?" she whimpered.
John removed her hands, gently, and once she could see, she noticed that he had raised his eyebrows. "You should thank me. Whatever drug you took sent your body into some kind of shock. I was lucky to arrive when I did."
As he spoke, he walked across the room, found a chair, and with great effort dragged it next to Amanda's bed. Breathing heavily, he sat down. Amanda couldn't imagine why it would take such concentration. The chair looked fairly light. Dark red with a large cushion positioned in the middle. Couldn't be more than thirty pounds. But she knew that in her current state, it wouldn't have been much easier.
Amanda shook her head and tried to recall what had happened before passing out. Of course. The heroin…
Amanda had kept a stash of heroin in her room, locked away, in case she couldn't get out for a few days. She could have sworn it was the expensive stuff, the pure stuff, but she had bought some from a cheaper guy several months ago. That had been when she was hospitalized for the overdose. It must have gotten mixed with her reserves and Amanda had forgotten to throw it away when she came back.
Liz had taken Amanda to the hospital the first time. They classified it as an overdose and said she was lucky her sister got her there in time. The second time it happened, it must have been this guy who had saved her life.
Given that he had tried to kill her before, Amanda felt mildly freaked out by this realization. She knew that she was going to pay for it.
"Thank you," she muttered, still trying to hold onto what little self control she possessed.
John smiled. "I took you to my house and gave you the necessary medicine for stabilizing your body. Then, you started to go through withdraw so I started you on other medications. That's what you're on now," John added, nodding to the needle. "You were unconscious for several days, aside from a few moments here and there. I gave you food and water at those time so you wouldn't dehydrate." He paused. "I was beginning to worry about you, but then you woke up for real just now."
"W-why?" Amanda shook her head. None of this made sense. First, he had tried to kill her. Now, if she believed him, John had gone out of his way to save her.
She was trying hard to ignore the obvious question running through her brain: what had he been doing in the apartment?
"I was concerned for you. I didn't want you to die," John replied, as though that explained everything. "This is the first time you've been awake, truly awake, so the medication seems to be working. I'm not a doctor, so even with textbooks, I could only guess."
"What are you going to do to me after I'm well? Put me in another game? I didn't learn my lesson too well the first time."
Amanda knew she shouldn't taunt him but couldn't help it. She was angry, angry at Jigsaw for what he had done to her that night. Angry with him for the nightmares he caused. Sure, he had saved her, but he would probably make the next game that much harder. She should have died from the overdose.
But John was shaking his head. "No more games," he promised gravely. "I just want you to get well."
"Why?"
No one's motives were ever that pure. Especially not serial killers.
He didn't answer right away. When he did speak, it was about something else entirely.
"Are you warm enough? Or are you hungry, thirsty?" He was walking around her bed, smoothing down the blankets and tucking the edges under her body.
Amanda couldn't remember receiving this kind of care from anyone except her parents (and that had been when she was much younger, and rarely) and Mike. It was alien, and it freaked her out.
"I'm fine," she stated, wishing he would stop. Then she realized that wasn't the truth. "I am kind of hungry. And thirsty," she added, not looking at him.
Was it safe? Would he poison her? Anything was possible. But poisoning was probably quicker, and less painful, than playing one of his games. So maybe she should hope for that.
"I'll be right back," John promised, now brushing back some hair from her forehead.
No one had done that since she was a child, and Amanda wanted to enjoy it, but she couldn't. She shivered under his touch and pulled the covers up against her chin.
John sighed, left, and she looked around lazily. The room was not exactly bare, but her bed was in an empty part of it. She saw now that it was pushed against two white walls. When she had sat up, her back had brushed against one of these walls. The bed had no boards that typically marked the head and the foot.
The machine Amanda was connected to made a rhythmic beeping noise and she thought it must measure her heart rate. Green lines showed what she assumed was a normal pulse.
Mistrust filled her as she recognized her opportunity. Should she try to make a run for it? Amanda didn't know what drugs were connected to the needle in her body. Without them, she could die within minutes. Maybe. Was it worth it to take that chance?
Before Amanda could make up her mind, John had entered the room holding a tray with food. She could smell eggs and saw that her favorite food in the world, pancakes, were also there. Orange juice was next to the plate containing the pancakes and the eggs, poured in a tall glass. A straw sat in the middle of the glass. Next to the eggs were strawberries, and off to the corner sat a glass of water with a few sunflowers poking out.
John sat the tray in front of her, moving the legs so that it stood on its own, and then resumed his seat. Her stomach growled. Tentatively, Amanda took a small bite of the eggs. Somewhat cold, but normal tasting. She tried the pancakes and discovered the same. He had probably made the food before she woke up. Still, the fruit was good. As was the juice.
Starving, Amanda devoured everything. She couldn't remember the last time she had eaten a full meal, and even the cold factor didn't stop the eggs and pancakes from going down easily.
When she had eaten all of the food on the tray, John carefully removed it and placed it on the ground beside her. Amanda tried to smother a yawn. The effort to eat had exhausted her. Or was it the effort to try to discern John's motives?
But she wasn't sure if it was safe to sleep. Or even if Jigsaw wanted her to. She turned to him, as though seeking permission with her eyes.
"Thank you," she mumbled, realizing he probably expected thanks for his hospitality.
He knelt down next to her and wrapped his arms around her, clearly trying to give her a hug but succeeding only in almost suffocating her. Throughout this awkward display of affection (or was it?) Amanda remained still. John sighed, moved a hand up to her forehead once more, and brushed the hair out of her face. It felt soft, but very cold.
"You need your rest. Sleep well," he told her. Before she could reply, he had left the room.
Troubled, Amanda fell into an uneasy sleep. John remained a few inches from the open door, watching intently.