|Survival of the Fittest
Author: Franky G Fan PM
The night before he got abducted, thoughts and feelings of one of the most unliked characters in Saw. Xavier. Also includes an alternate ending; what if Daniel really HAD succumbed to the nerve gas?Rated: Fiction T - English - Horror - Xavier C. - Chapters: 3 - Words: 1,904 - Reviews: 2 - Follows: 1 - Updated: 10-19-12 - Published: 04-21-12 - id: 8045219
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
AN: I won't bore you with the details of my week or whatever the hell I was planning on rambling about. All I know is I haven't written for the Saw section in forever. Therefore, I felt compelled to write this. It's another Xavier story. Go figure. Oh, Adam has a tiny cameo in this. Lol.
I don't own Saw. I'm not that awesome.
It was raining; water coming down in relentless, bitter torrents. And, unfortunately, he was forced to stand outside in that horrid weather. He really didn't care, actually. He lifted his weary face to the sky, closed his eyes, and let the water soak his skin. It didn't matter that he was wearing naught but skimpy clothes. He was reveling in the freedom. The freedom he'd longed for. The freedom he'd been wanting ever since he'd been locked up. Another surge of fury blazed through him; it was that one dick, the one cop, Eric Matthews or something, who'd busted him and sent him to jail.
His hands clenched and his knuckles twitched. Oh, how'd he like to get his hands on that scrawny son of a bitch.
He shook his head; it didn't matter now. Or, at least, at the moment. He was going to have to go inside. The power of the rain was increasing and he felt a strike of hail tear against his revealed flesh. He shoved his hands in his pockets, eyes narrowed against the rain, and shuffled on down the sidewalk, heading to his shitty apartment complex.
He arrived and shoved his way into the small lobby. The man behind the desk (a scrawny 45-year old) stared at him apprehensively from behind the counter, and he had to hold back a satisfied smirk as he climbed the stairs. The old man was afraid of him. Good.
He stalked down the hall, nearly bumping into a young man (a kid to him; he was 40 himself) who was smoking a Marlboro. The kid had a backpack slung over his shoulder and he stared unblinkingly at him.
"Got another one?"
The kid finally blinked in surprise. "Sure…" He replied hesitantly, shuffling around in his pocket and whipping out a package of cigarettes. He withdrew one, lit it, and handed it to the older man.
Sticking it between his lips and inhaling with relief, he moved on, not even bothering to thank the kid. Cigarettes were as never satisfying as drugs were, but his supply had been taken away. He twitched angrily again, but shoved it off and continued to walk down the hallway until approaching the last door on the right.
He didn't even bother to use his key; he aimed a kick and it swung right open. Shitty door. He was going to have to replace it. He just didn't have the money.
His apartment was alien to him after spending the last few years in a dark, damp cell. Not to mention it was freakishly clean. He was a slob, after all. And seeing the bed made, all the trash on the floor deposited neatly into the trash can, the drapes covering the windows, the bathroom restocked with rolls of toilet paper just made him shake his head.
Oh well. He was tired. He took another drag on his cigarette before rubbing the butt out on his tiny dresser, leaving an intense, gray/black smear.
He tossed the cigarette in the general direction of the trash can, frankly not caring whether he made it into it or not, and plopped down onto his bed.
He stretched for a brief moment before rolling onto his side and fading away into sleep.
He was awoken, seemingly just seconds after he'd laid down, by the creaking of the door swinging open.
He sat up abruptly, sliding off of his bed, attempting to be stealthy for once. He opened one of his drawers and whipped out a rusty switchblade.
He wielded it and cautiously stalked towards the direction of the muted footprints from whatever intruder had crept into his apartment at the dead of night.
"Who's there?" He demanded, and then, as an afterthought, added, "I'm gonna fucking kill you."
He didn't mean it, of course. Well, maybe he did; he was prone to short bursts of temper that would harm the others around him. And, besides, he somewhat wanted to kill this intruder.
But, little did he know, the intruder had the advantage of being smaller, lighter, and quite faster.
A figure leapt from the shadows, and before he could spin around or even hold the knife up, something (a syringe, maybe) was jabbed into his jugular vein, and he collapsed to the floor, rendering himself unconscious.