Amanda stared at him for a moment, not moving, hardly breathing, not comprehending. Then she blinked a few times and John wondered if she was trying to hold back tears.
She tried to speak but couldn't figure out what to say. Amanda guessed the reason behind her own trap, now. Having survived it, John probably wouldn't want to put her in that kind of danger again. So she was safe with him—John obviously cared enough about her to nurse her back to health.
It explained the other traps, too. Amanda only remembered pieces from what the police had told her. One guy had to climb through razors. Another guy had to get medicine without catching on fire. Or something like that. The punishments had an eerie way of matching whatever crime the person had committed. Somehow, John learned what people did behind closed doors and punished them for it.
And now, he said, it was because he was dying and others were somehow shortening their own lives without realizing it.
She knew she had been living with a murderer but since agreeing to remain with John, Amanda had hoped that he had changed. Maybe, after seeing Amanda overdose, he realized that life was more important than people appreciating it. That people didn't always change and who was he to decide which ones should be punished and which ones shouldn't?
Now, it seemed like her hope had been a foolish one after all.
She let out a deep breath. "I'm sorry," she whispered.
It did not seem like the right thing to say, but was anything right in this situation? Perhaps if she had a cure and could give it to John, that would be better, but she knew that this was impossible. Besides, she didn't know if John deserved a cure after killing so many people. He could hurt others.
John put his hands around her arms and pulled her close. She could smell his faint sweat coming out from his shirt; evidently this had been difficult for him to say. The smell made her sick. She let him hold her, but did not return the hug.
"I know you're angry at me, and you're scared of me," he said in a soft, low voice, "but can you ever know what life is, and what you're missing when you waste it, if you do not have some knowledge of death's certainty?"
Amanda closed her eyes and pulled herself away from the hug. John looked hurt.
"It's not that easy," she whispered. "Besides, the police showed me the others. Most of them don't survive."
John was silent for a moment, then spoke slowly. "Do you believe me to be a murderer, Amanda?"
His tone was neutral, but it felt ice cold. Her eyes burned. Everyone, at some point, had turned away from her. Now John was doing the same.
Of course he was a murderer. But how could she say that? He would put her through another test, or kill her, or do something else just as bad. Amanda knew that John was aware of his power around Amanda. Physically, he was only a little taller, and not incredibly strong, but mentally, he was overpowering. If he was faced against ten Amanda's, he could take them all down without blinking.
Amanda turned away from John, facing the wall instead. A small hole several inches below her eyes caught her attention. She willed herself to focus on that instead of the figure sitting next to her.
How did it get there? She wondered. Then, how long has he lived here? Who lived here before him? Did they cause the hole? Did he kill them?
She suddenly felt ill. She covered her mouth with her hands, trying to hold back the impending vomit.
"Euggh…" she managed to say through gagging.
John, though unable to see her, clearly recognized the symptoms. At once, he lifted her out of bed without effort, and walked quickly to the bathroom. As soon as he placed her in front of the toilet, Amanda could feel the vomit burst out. Most of it fell inside the toilet but small pieces stuck to the seat.
It lasted over a minute. Amanda, who hated throwing up more than almost anything in the world, whimpered throughout it, and wondered if perhaps John had poisoned her food after all. But he stood behind her, holding her hair back with one hand and running his hand over her back with the other. He murmured comforting words until, at last, it was all gone.
Amanda turned from the toilet, sickened, not wanting to see what just came out of her. John, still holding her hair back, moved her towards the sink and began to turn on the water. He reached for the cup Amanda used sometimes and filled it partway with water. Soon, he was holding it to her face, urging her to drink.
Amanda took the cup with a shaky hand and willed herself to swallow the water. It helped get rid of part of the nasty taste, and most of the nausea, but it was hardly enough. Still, she didn't complain.
John, anticipating her needs as always, realized this and spoke. "You need juice or something."
Amanda knew from past experience that John was right, but she didn't think she could hold anything down. Before she could say this, John was speaking again.
"I'll make you some tea. That should help." He paused. "Stay here in case you need to vomit again."
He left.
"Okay." Her voice was meek, reflecting the complete exhaustion and surrender she felt. At this moment, she did not care about John's life history or his goal. She just wanted the sickness to go away, the pain to end.
Even if it meant dying.
A razor sitting in another glass, no doubt what John used to shaving, caught her attention.
Could she do it? She knew how to. She had cut herself before. But she might not die before John came back. How long did it take to make tea? Probably ten minutes, if that. Less if John didn't boil the water and just used the microwave. No, it was too risky.
She vomited again into the toilet and when she was finished, stared at herself in the mirror. A tired, very pale girl with dark hair stared back at her. She had seen herself that pale before, but usually that was after doing drugs. This ghost image had always scared her, so of course Amanda had to look closer.
She was still staring when John came back with the tea. She saw his reflection in the mirror as he approached her, set the drink next to the sink, and take her arm.
"Are you through?" he questioned, sounding sympathetic.
She nodded. "I think so."
He steered her out of the room with one arm, leading her to the bed, and held the tea with the other. It smelled good, like a mix of peppermint and raspberry. Once seated, John handed her the cup and she took a small sip. It wasn't too hot and tasted better than it smelled. It was calming.
John, who had been standing across from her, took a seat after Amanda swallowed a few more sips without becoming ill. He sat quietly, not saying anything as she drank. When she was finished, he took the cup and put it on the table beside her.
Perhaps he had put something in the tea because Amanda suddenly felt overwhelmed by exhaustion. She hated it. She was just starting to spend half of the day awake. Napping constantly, she felt, was weak. She wouldn't get better…she would fall into his hands more easily.
She struggled to keep her eyes open. "I don't want to…" she began, fighting back tears.
"I know. It's all right." He ran a hand over her forehead again. He pulled off the covers and made her lie down. "Just for a little."
Part of Amanda wondered if John was going to try something. He wasn't moving to take her clothes off, so rape was probably out of the question. But what if she woke up in another trap? Or something else, worse?
When Amanda did wake up, she heard herself screaming and panting as though she had run a mile.
A/N: Yup another cliffie. And kind of short chapter...sorry about that. Next one will be kind of short, too, but I will try to make them longer.
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