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God, they were exhausted. They couldn't remember falling asleep. In fact, they couldn't even remember arriving home from their tedious job that day, and yet their heavy eyelids suggested they'd somehow made it home, crashed on their couch or stumbled through their shitty one bedroom apartment, collapsing onto their bed and letting sleep consume them. Somehow, some way, they'd gotten home safe, right?
Slowly opening their eyes, Jordyn found themself not at home like they'd previously assumed, but instead in an unfamiliar room, the scent of grime and tight restraints around their body snapping them out of the sleep-induced trance they were in. Fear shot through their body as they tried to jerk themself forward, desperate to grasp an understanding of their current situation. Luckily for them, they were able to spot the saw blade in front of their neck, and instead leaned backwards against the chair they'd been tied to. Their chest rose and fell rapidly, their shallow breaths the only sound in the room. That was until an old looking TV in a far corner of the room turned on, a tape beginning to play.
"Hello, Jordyn. You don't know me, but I know you. I want to play a game. Though you may not yet know why you're here, I’m sure you remember what happened a few years ago. The night you tried to take your own life. You cared so little for your own existence, ready to throw it all away, and in the process, took the life of someone who cared for theirs, letting them burn to their death. Today, you will learn to cherish the life you have. You'll notice that around your neck is a saw, and beside you is a blowtorch. You have three minutes to burn the skin from your exposed limbs, or else you will be decapitated. Will you finally learn to appreciate the life you have, or will you perish? Live or die, it's your choice. Good luck.”
A rather ugly looking puppet spoke, its face somewhat recognisable to Jordyn. As the words echoed throughout the dimly lit room, a pit developed in Jordyn’s stomach, a wave of nausea washing over them as they processed everything they'd just heard. Looking down, they noticed their shirt had been cut, the skin of their arms and chest now visible. To the side of them just within reach sat a blowtorch, and the pit in their stomach only deepened.
Their eyes scanned the room desperately, looking for some sort of exit or key, and that's when they spotted the timer. A minute had already passed. Shit. Sure they were suicidal, but this isn't how they wanted to go. They weren't ready, not yet.
Having no choice, they extended a shaky hand, picking up the blowtorch and pressed the button, watching as the harsh flame hissed, lighting up the area with a small blue hue. Biting their lip, they held the blowtorch near the skin on their arm, far enough to not do severe damage, but close enough to still burn them. Pressing down the button, they let out a blood-curdling scream, their skin beginning to char a gruesome black. A foul scent wafted around the room, almost like rotten meat had been left in the room somewhere. But as much as they wished it was, Jordyn knew it wasn't some old meat — it was their own skin. Blood began to ooze from the wounds, their skin barely hanging on as the flame continued to burn it to a crisp. The original searing of pain soon faded to complete numbness, and though the relief that the agonising sensation had disappeared, Jordyn knew this wasn't a good sign.
The nauseating scent only grew, as did their burns. They wanted to just give up, close their eyes and await their fate, but no matter how traumatising the sight was, they couldn't bring themself to give up. Instead they continued to press the flame against their exposed skin, repeating the cycle of agony, gore, and numbness over and over again. Their skin continued to burn, bubbling and scorching, falling with a squelch onto the floor.
Five.
Fuck.
Four.
The blowtorch continued to hiss, damaging their arms and chest beyond recognition.
Three.
Come on, surely this was enough. How much more agony did the sick fuck that put them in here need to see?
Two.
That was it. They were dead.
...
The restraints clashed to the floor alongside the piles of searing flesh, freeing Jordyn. All they could do was sit there, tears blurring their vision as they collapsed to their knees, the blowtorch escaping their weak grip and rolling to the corner of the room. As they looked down at their mutilated body, the sight alone was enough to make anyone gag, but paired with the awful stench of burning flesh was too much. Involuntarily lurching forward, their stomach expelled whatever contents it had — which wasn't much, considering they'd been unconscious for god knows how long before being put in here, and had hardly eaten in the past few days anyway — onto the tiles in front of them.
A noise caught their attention, and though they couldn't make out much through the constant streams of tears, they could see a door opening, and an unrecognisable figure stood in the doorway. The figure didn't say a word. It simply walked over to Jordyn and helped them up, mumbling about how they'd survived, how they now appreciated life, how they'd get them fixed up. Jordyn wasn't paying attention to any of it. Instead, they were trying their best to stay conscious, make it out of that god damn room alive. They weren't even sure if they wanted to be alive anymore.