"Most people are so ungrateful to be alive, but not you. Not anymore."

After enduring a torturous experience in an unfamiliar place, Amanda Young wanted nothing more than to lie in bed and cry her eyes out. Being forced to disembowel a stranger in order to save herself from a grisly fate was not exactly her idea of a good time. Her mouth, scarred and bloody, whimpered as she lumbered down the street. Onlookers gawked at the bloodied woman, her body shaking and stumbling as she tried to make her way back to the shithole she calls her apartment.

"Lady, are you alright?" A stranger approached her. He wore a torn hoodie with clean kicks and a knitted cap. She inherently backed away, trembling. She just wanted to go home. She didn't want sympathy, especially from strangers.

Amanda ignored the man and continued her journey home. She was desperate to call her mother - somebody, anybody who she could trust, even if their trust in her was nonexistent. Ever since she was imprisoned and hooked on drugs, her life had become a consistent mess. Her friends and family had lost their faith in her, her boyfriend went missing and her young life stopped short. Until today.

Why would somebody do this to me? She pondered, even though deep down in her heart, she knew. She knew that her addiction and abuse led her to the events that transpired today. The horrific bloodshed that her own actions had wrought. She knew the why, but the next question that flooded her mind was who.

Amanda stumbled into the apartment lobby, hoping no one was lingering on the dingy couches or dusty staircase. She was lucky enough to find herself totally, utterly alone. She staggered up the stairs to her floor. No one was around. She took a deep sigh of relief as she plunged her key into the lock. She opened the door and immediately rushed to the bathroom. The lights flickered as she stared into the mirror.

She wiped the blood from her lips, her lipstick blending in with the vibrant red. Tears fell from her cheeks. She couldn't stop thinking about the machine on her head. All she could taste was blood and metal. The terrifying white-faced puppet - the black and red eyes peered into her soul. That voice… raspy, cold and calculating. She didn't want to play this game, but she did what she had to do. She had to kill that man. She had to live. She wanted to be a better person and she knew that being dead wouldn't help that.

Tears and blood dripped into the sink, the water flooding it all down the drain. She shoved her face into the sink and sobbed uncontrollably, gripping the porcelain tightly. She felt strangely relieved. Relieved that she was alive and breathing. Relieved that she could still be standing in her shithole apartment, that tears could still shed from her eyes, that her messy face was still in one piece.

"He helped me."