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Underjoyed. Maybe that's the word she could use to describe her condition: a feelings of unpleasantness, submerged in dissatisfaction; lacking happiness.
Her whole life had been a piece of shit. As a kid, she'd have to listen to her mother's berating, have to take her father's gropes without complaint, have to bite her tongue when bullied. Then, when she was older, she was thrown in prison for something she'd never done—thought she'd never do—and whilst she was being harassed, attacked, she latched onto one thing that could relieve her pain and bring her euphoria, a foreign but delicious feeling. And when she attempted recovery, she relapsed and relapsed and relapsed until the night she fucked up, killing a child. Not long after, she found herself with metal in her mouth and blood on her hands. A part of her wished the reverse bear trap had gone off, springing open and ripping her jaw apart, finally ending her pain.
But no, she survived. Still, Jigsaw couldn’t leave her alone. He came to her apartment, offered a purpose for her life. Greedily, she took it. She took and took and took—doing anything John Kramer asked just for a few words of praise or simple pat on the back. Amanda abducted people, mutilated them and rigged their tests; killed them. She was a fucking murderer.
Her whole life had been a piece of shit—and now she was a piece of shit. Amanda was the entity ruining her own life.
It was kind of funny, actually. She was done with everything, to the point she didn’t care anymore. Her future? Back in jail or gagging on her own blood, if she decided to take the 'easy' way out. Her present? A vigilante with nobody to care for her. John claimed he did. He did not. Saviour, she called him. Saviour, he was not.
The underjoyed filled Amanda like a sharp needle to her veins, like nails digging into her tits, like scarlet liquid running down her wrists.
She wasn’t sure how she'd survive. The answer was, she supposed, she wouldn’t. Amanda would kill herself. Or her own self-destructive tendencies would take her out. If she picked up drugs again—she'd sworn herself off of it, but the temptation was growing bigger—or if she cut too deep. Hell, maybe if she smoked enough, she'd get cancer like her father, then she and John could die together. Unloveable hand in unloveable hand.
Maybe...maybe Mandy was just bored. So damn bored. That was probably why she had to hurt herself. She was never good with emotions. If it was annoyance for others, it was fury for her. If it was sadness for others, it was grief for her. If it was boredom for others, it was numbness for her.
Something was wrong with her brain, she knew that. But nobody was willing to listen. She kept it inside, shoved all her emotions into a box, locked it, kept it in the deepest part of her heart—until it resurfaced, exploding in her face.
For now, she pulled the razor blade over her wrists, again and again. The stinging, for once, took her by surprise. It hurt but no longer in a good way. In a scary way. A constant pricking, an itching, at her scarred skin. Simply, she slapped a plaster over it, then pulled her armband over the top. She could pretend it didn’t exist then. She could pretend she hadn't fucked herself over again.
Another problem for another day.