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Superficial.
That's what the love was. Superficial—appearing to be true or real only until examined more closely.
Amanda had come to terms with it long ago. At least, that’s what she thought. Until she sat down beside John's bed and had a lengthy talk with him. Well, less of a talk and more of a listen. His condition was worsening and he had nobody else to talk to, and Amanda loved him more than she had ever loved anyone, so she would sit and listen to his troubles.
A part of her appreciated it. She was proud that John put so much trust in her. He had promised her the Jigsaw legacy, given her so much responsibility that Amanda couldn't help but smile when thinking about it. But another part of her...
Amanda was frustrated. John’s love was superficial. He claimed he cared about her—in truth, he only wanted a disciple. Not a daughter. A son, maybe.
That was something Amanda carried heavy with her. She had been an accomplice to the death of his unborn son. The guilt ate her alive. Amanda would lay in bed, covers over her face as she sucked in deep gasp after deep gasp, wishing to disappear, wishing to go back in time and change what she'd done. Of course, it never worked. So she pulled the box out from underneath her pillow, collected her blades, and got to work in turning her skin into a beautiful cutting board.
Another thing she kept from him.
There was a lot she hid from John. Her part in Gideon's death. The strawberry gashes on pale white skin. All the smoke clogging up her lungs. And all the alcohol stashed under her bed.
Amanda knew that if she were to ever tell John about those secrets, she'd never be able to turn back. He would look at her differently, treat her differently. If she was lucky, he might actually care—or act like it, at least—and try to help her. If she was unlucky, and Amanda always was, she would be punished. Maybe another bear trap. Or needle pit. Sometimes, the scars and puncture wounds still ached. The worst punishment, Amanda knew, would be the look of disappointment that would settle into John’s gaze as she confessed the truth to him. Relayed every time she cut, burnt, drank, smoked, killed.
So, she kept it hidden. Amanda kept it deep inside of her, pushed to the fartherest corner of her heaving heart so she would never be tempted to spill such horrors from her lips.
John had his own problems. That's all it was, really. To some degree, Amanda was protecting him. Yes, she was sheilding him from the truth, so he could focus on staying alive as long as possible. But his condition was worsening...More and more with each passing day...
The smallest, stupidest part of Amanda wanted to tell him everything. Everything she had done, wanted to do. She wanted to reveal herself to John, peel away each layer until he was looking at her bare soul. Amanda wanted to offer herself up to him, a juicy morsel for him to bite into, so he could devour the real her. And when the crimson juices dripped down his chin, Amanda hoped he wouldn't wipe them away. Realistically, he would vomit her back up again. Realistically, John would shun her forever.
There was no choice but to keep it all inside. Keep going like she was, quietly holding her pain in her chest—though it felt like the weight of an entire piece of scrap metal was heavy on her. But that's how she worked. She took her pain and turned it into something horribly beautiful: traps. Amanda took her pain and her grief and her anger and her guilt, and she worked until her fingers were bleeding and her brain was fuzzy and her nerves were numb.
Anything to keep John happy.