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How long had it been since he was chained in here? Three days? A week? Time within the shut bathroom passed differently than in the real world. There was no way to keep track of time either, as the batteries in the clock died a couple of years back. There was no reasonable way or need to keep track of the time anymore. Mark Hoffman was going to die in this bathroom one day or another, and he wouldn’t even know it. No one would even find his body.
However long he was stuck in this damn bathroom was driving him crazy. Game over ran through Mark Hoffman’s head when he wasn’t sleeping or contemplating how he had gotten to this point in his life. Though his contemplation was overshadowed by his rage and insatiable hunger for bloodlust, there were moments of clarity planted throughout the however many days he had been here. Mark Hoffman had been a good man, as one good as one could get. He cared about people, took damn good care of his sister before she died. What had happened to the man known as Mark Hoffman?
The metal door scratches the tiled floor, being pulled open from the outside in. It draws the man out of his thoughts as a result. In such a weakened state, Mark tugs on the chain as light trickles in from the dimly lit hallway. The shadows hit the figure just right to make them look like an angel descending from the heavens above. Was this angel going to save him, free him from the hell he’s made?
The figure steps forward, leaning heavily on his cane. His face comes into full view now. Lawrence Gordon: his jailer, his angel, his former love who had come to hate him throughout twenty-years of on and off connection. A growl escapes from Mark’s throat and the chain clings as he sits up against the wall. The rotting corpse chained to the pipes nearby has been the closest thing to a connection he’s made within this godforsaken place. Casual conversation happened between the two figures, with him doing all of the talking.
Mark’s gaze softens as his eyes draw over Lawrence, who is coming ever closer to him with the click of his cane against the tiled floor. A hand reaches out to grab his ankle, fingers gripping at his slacks. His fingers tremble under the amount of effort he gives to even have a grip on the man. “Lawrence,” he attempts to say, throat parched and mouth dry; craving some sort of hydration as he had been for the last while. “Let me go.”
With some proper adjusting, Lawrence is able to kneel down and get to Mark’s level. A hand cups the injured half of his face, the wound left from the reverse bear trap inflamed and infected due to the dirty environment. He holds a soft gaze for the man begging to be let go, and that was going to happen today. Mark had been in this bathroom for too, too long and needed to be freed. Lawrence only knew of one way to do it.
“I’m here,” it’s a soft whisper as he lets go of Mark’s face, crawling on his aching knees to get behind the man. Mark moves in response, lifting his body off of the wall so that he could make his way behind him. The doctor’s shaking hands wrap around him, squeezing him and feeling the warmth radiate off of him in this cold environment. He tucks his head onto his shoulder. They could share this one last time together without arguing, without their relationship crumbling to bits and pieces because they both had their issues and couldn’t stay apart from one another.
The two men were bound by a red thread, as some would say. Perhaps attached by the hip. Twenty plus years of knowing one another, and one (Lawrence, usually) would come crawling back to Mark as if nothing had happened before. As if their relationship from the days of their youth hadn’t ended solely because of him and his need to fit in with the crowds surrounding them. As if Mark’s heart hadn’t shattered into pieces that day, and the resentment and jealousy built up inside of him manifested as a beast that would slowly consume him throughout his life.
Men encased with grief become beasts or clumps of dust left to blow in the wind. One could let his grief turn into rage, into vengeance, and allow himself to hide behind this wall he has built for protection. Murder was the first step, attempting to slip away unharmed, unknown by the Jigsaw killer himself. Oh, how Mark Hoffman failed all due to an inferior metal. A few years later, and his grief-turned-vengeance brought him to be disillusioned with the man’s philosophy. The rationality slipped out of Mark’s mind a while ago, and now here he was, chained to the pipes in this bathroom, Lawrence’s origin, being held by his lover.
Mark leans back into him, feeling so vulnerable that it would drive him insane if he wasn’t starved, dehydrated, and sick from the poorly stitched wound on his face. His head shifts to the side, lips pecking the side of his face.
Lawrence winces, the stench of the bathroom and the memories blossoming in his mind starting to get to him. It’s the tenderness of the destroyed man that’s getting to Lawrence, but this had to be done, and he had to make it as quick as he could.
The doctor’s hands untangle themselves from Mark, reaching into his pocket for something. Plastic crinkles between his fingers and rubs up against the fabric of his pocket. Mark is left blissfully unaware for the time being, reveling in the affection and connection from his former lover, head turning back to face the door. Vulnerability brought him to this state, and well- he had to take advantage of it.
There’s pressure building close to the doctor’s eyes, the waterworks already starting to work. He holds the plastic bag in his hand, building the motivation to free Mark. Just as Amanda freed Adam, he’d do the same for him. It was the least he could do, and was certainly more merciful than letting him rot in this bathroom.
“I’m sorry,” Lawrence whispers close to Mark’s ear, which is what startles Mark; makes him more aware of what’s going to happen to him. He shifts the slightest bit, and all that energy that had been building up inside of him to do it launches out of him. One hand grabs Mark’s jacket, trying to keep him still as the other wraps the bag over his head. And tightens, restricting any air from getting in or out of the bubble he’s made.
Mark heaves for breath, body starting to thrash against Lawrence to be let go. To be freed in a different way than what Lawrence was thinking. His angel was doing this to him, snuffing his life out in such a pathetic way that he’d rather take a gunshot to the head and call it a day. Less pain, less time left suffering.
He reaches for the edge of the bag, trying to rip it from the doctor’s-- the angel’s grasp and fails in doing so. Adrenaline courses through his body as the last effort to fight against this attempt, though he’s not winning this one. Unlike all the fights he’s had before, there’s not much else he can do. His body still thrashes as the bag fogs up around his head, but he’s still fighting.
Lawrence finds it difficult to keep holding on, but he forces himself to. After all the years that Mark’s called him angel, he’s come to be an angel of death to said man. ‘This is how it has to be,’ he reminds himself as one of Mark’s thrashes makes his head bump against the wall behind them. His fingers clench tighter onto the plastic, refusing to let go; to power through this and just know that Mark wouldn’t have to rot here and slowly die of dehydration and starvation.
Mark’s starting to lose the energy he previously had from the adrenaline, head becoming hazy as he’s now lacking air. It’s getting harder to breathe, and his lungs burn for salvation. He lets go of the edge of the bag, and part of him accepts his fate. He deserved this, and at least, at least he’d be reunited with his sister again. He wonders if he’s disappointed her. There’s no more energy in him to keep fighting back.He pants into the plastic bag, and any remaining rationality in his brain is panicking due to the lack of oxygen. His vision becomes spotty, blackening out in the corners, but there’s no reason to fight anymore. Out of all the people to kill him, Mark’s thankful that Lawrence is the one doing it.
His angel, his beautiful, handsome angel from their youth is the man to take him down as Jigsaw and throw him into the disgusting bathroom he once was trapped in. His angel is the one to suffocate him, sniff the remaining light out of him and apologize before doing so. It hurts him. He knows the man well enough to be well aware of the fact that Lawrence isn’t enjoying this, and Mark takes the little remaining comfort in that fact.
The remaining, rage-filled part of his mind wants the doctor to suffer-- to realize what he’s done and who he’s done it to. Love fades, but Lawrence held him just as he would oh so many years ago. It doesn’t matter anymore, as the pair is forever intertwined in their own ways and they don’t even know it.
Anything else that he’s thinking starts to fade away, and his vision goes back. His vision goes fully black, the need for air disintegrating all the same. Nothing hurts anymore.
The air lays stagnant between the two men. With shaking hands, Lawrence slowly removes the bag off of Mark’s head and places it down on the ground beside the both of them. Instead of slumping back into the wall, the killer’s body falls forward; head hitting the ground with a crack.
The doctor scrambles to lay onto his side and set a hand on Mark’s shoulder. He’s able to push him onto his side, and is immediately greeted with lifeless, blue eyes meeting his own. The sight makes his stomach turn, but in an odd turn of affection, he caresses one side of his face with the back of his hand.
“Oh, Mark,” Lawrence laments, cheeks wet with tears. His stomach shifts once again, but the muscles in his chest constrict on themselves. Something has broken within him, and has now drawn out heartbroken sobs from the remaining, living man within this damn place. Fingers dig into the still warm cheek of the man he has loved for all of his life. Did he deny it at times? Of course, who wouldn’t, but they still came back to one another despite the horrible trajectory their lives had taken.
“Forgive me, honey. Please forgive me--” It’s spilling from his lips, but you can’t bring a man back from the dead. Not after sucking all the air out of his lungs with something as simple as a plastic bag. Lawrence wishes he had done it with his lips instead, to give a more pleasant end to the man he called his love. They meant everything to one another through different points of their lives, and yet--
He leans in, close to Mark’s face. Despite his eyes being wide open, he looked peaceful. He wouldn’t have to suffer anymore. Lawrence presses their foreheads together in one last show of affection for the man. Unlike the repeated vows of ‘till death do us part,’ they wouldn’t be separated from one another anytime soon. Life nor death could tear these two men apart from one another. It never had, as they always found their ways back to one another.
“I love you,” Lawrence whispers to Mark’s body, lips ghosting over his. He leaves the gentlest peck he can before going still. “I love you.”