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Amanda's neck hurts, twisted to the side to rest upon the faded quilt blanket draped across the frail body sinking into the worn couch cushions. Her ear lays pressed up to the fabric, muffled white noise, not unlike that of the sea, reverberating through her skull in the otherwise silent room. She tries to envision the oceanside, but the tranquil evocation only coaxes forth a fresh wave of salted tears.
"It's alright."
The hand brought to weave its fingers through her hair is gentle, nails brushing against her scalp with a tenderness that nearly spurs her to double over once again in a heaving fit of sobs. "No, no it's not." The words bubble past her lips, each syllable half drowned in a hiccupping sob as the moisture beading on her lashes begin to sting her eyes, already no doubt rubbed red and raw from her ceaseless attempts to dry her tears. The dam she had painstakingly erected to contain the volatile mix of emotion stewing in the pit of her stomach begins to crack, impossible to stop now that it's started. She struggles to breathe as her shoulders shake, heart pounding painfully against her ribcage in a frantic rhythm. The sensation is near suffocating as each sharp inhale incites a fresh shock of pain in her chest, ebbing just enough for her to suck in a shuddering gasp before the wave crashes, mercilessly dragging her back underwater. "Please."
He doesn't offer reassurance, even now as she practically begs at his feet for the barest hint of consolation. Instead, Kramer continues to pet the top of her head in that same soothing motion she's grown so accustomed to. It's enough to steady her, at least to some degree, by the time he speaks again.
"There's nothing we can do." It is not his intention to be cold, and he knows, just as well as Amanda does, that hard truth is far preferable to any sugar coated alternative.
Amanda nearly chokes on the sob that rises at the back of her throat, managing a shaky "I know," before the last threads holding her resolve finally snap. She wants to scream and sob and yell until her voice fails her, but in the midst of her turmoil she deflates, all the wind knocked from her chest as her fingers begin to tremble. Shakily, she lifts the heel of her hand up to roughly wipe her eyes. "I know. But it's not fair."
Of course it's not. She knows all about how unfair life can be, a realization which she had become bitterly acquainted with time and time again. She recalls all too well the ways in which life delights in wrenching her heart straight out of her chest and crushing it in cruel, unforgiving hands. How it squeezes until the viscous bloody pulp drips through its fingers like the innards of an overripe fruit. The acknowledgement doesn't make it any less painful, nor does it ease that aching pit in her chest. It still hurts.
Kramer tilts his chin downwards in a motion that can barely be distinguished as a nod. Of course, Amanda still recognizes it as such. Why wouldn't she? She knows him, knows him enough to begin to decipher whatever thoughts must be running rampant in his head. Yet before she can speak up, he interjects.
"No, Amanda. It's not."
What is she meant to say to that? That she knows, that she wishes it wasn’t so cruel? More than anything she wants to cry and beg and plead for him to get better, to spit in the face of the odds and the impossibility of it all. She's never cared much for religion, but if John Kramer is anything to her, he's about as close to a God as she's ever going to get. If anyone can find a way to survive, it has to be him.
Amanda Young is no stranger to pain. Had she held less bitterness in her heart for the universe which has shown her on countless occasions just how much it is able to take from her, she may have found a way to come to terms with it all. But every time her wounds begin to heal and she manages to crawl her way out of that near infinite pit that she's found herself in time and time again, that telltale sting blooms anew as its teeth sink in to violently eviscerate the remnants of her battered spirit. Even as the pain ebbs, its shadow remains; nestling itself into the spaces between her bones, carving out her insides and swelling to fill the gaps it leaves behind. Sometimes she finds herself wondering where the grief ends and whatever is left of her soul begins.
"It's okay." John's voice is far away, cold and dead as his weak hands squeeze her shoulder in what should be a reassuring embrace.
She’s died before, perhaps not truly in the physical sense, but that distinction hardly matters. Death manifests in many forms and she has found herself staring into its gaping jaws more times than she can bring herself to count. It manifests in vivid detail, sometimes while she sleeps, and sometimes, far less often, in the form of her own personal waking nightmare. Cold metal streaked with red biting savagely into the corners of her mouth, igniting blinding pain as she wrenches the spikes from where they have nestled cruelly into her mouth, each puncture leaking blood down her throat until all she can taste is copper. It coats her tongue as she leans forward, dripping from her bottom lip as hands sticky with blood reach up to touch her face. The needle sharp pain of salt water on her freshly opened wounds throbbing alongside the frantic beating of her heart.
She can take that same pain and multiply it ten times over, and it still wouldn't hold a candle to the profound ache in her chest.
What is it that she's even feeling? When the question arises she realizes that it's difficult to tell for sure. Losses in the past have always ghosted straight through her, leaving a chill in their wake, maybe, but little more than that. This was different in a way she couldn't even begin to put into words even if she had so desperately wanted to. It was everything and nothing all at once, a gut wrenching agony wrapped in a heavy blanket of numbness. Even now she feels it writhing under the surface in that futile, desperate struggle she knows all too well.
"Amanda. I'm dying."
This snaps her out of her momentary trance, and in the seconds that follow, a quiet whimper rises from the back of her throat, so tiny and pathetic she would have cringed at herself if she had it in her to even care. "No." The word emerges from her mouth, a single fragmented syllable muffled by the snot coating the back of her throat, half drowned and mumbled into his shirt. "Please don't." Please don't. it's going to kill me when you die. I can't do this alone, you saved me, you gave my life purpose. You gave me everything. But that's all too much and she can't trust herself to not break down halfway through such a simple sentence, so instead she settles on two words, heaving them past her trembling lips as best she can. "I can't."
The hand in her hair stills, resting gently upon the crown of her head as a deep sigh rattles from the dying man's chest. "You can."
She doesn't want to believe him because how is she supposed to? He's meant to stay here, to hold her hand through it all, to reassure her whenever life begins to slip through her fingers because she knows it will. She knows someday again she'll feel like everything is falling apart and he's the only person who can hold her together. He's the only person in the world who saw any potential even when she had nothing left to give to the world. Losing John will be the thing to fully shatter whatever is left of her, but she can't bring herself to disagree and rob him of his conviction.
"Okay."
He nods again at that, and, for just a split second, in the midst of the raging tempest threatening to devour her from the inside out, Amanda manages to find a sliver of hope in the eye of the storm. She clings to it, sinking her nails deep into that hope, begging it to stay for just a second longer. But it doesn't last, whisked away like smoke on the wind, she's left holding on to nothing but John as she curls up in his arms.
The room is pitch black by now, stars hidden behind the rolling dark rain clouds hanging overhead. The gloom is almost a comfort. At least it feels real. She doesn't know if she could stomach the view of a bright night, the image of stars twinkling in a midnight blue sky is enough to stoke the fire of rage burning in her chest. She would have screamed and cried and begged for a storm, for something at least to share in her grief.
Carefully, she shifts her weight until her head rests against Kramer's shoulder, and her eyes open to see the barest hint of his silhouette, stark black against the sea of tenebrous darkness which surrounds their temporary sanctuary. It's cold and empty and the heartache doesn't stop, but at least, for now, she's not alone.