RHYS

02.

Q: Do you like shorter chapters, or longer ones?

Chapter 2 | Stitched and stolen

✦ Renee ✦

I grab a needle from the box and sit, putting as much distance between as I could. Which is like, 2 feet of distance. If he jumps me I hope I don't end up in hell because I'll be pissed.

"This is gonna hurt like a bitch, and you're probably gonna get infected, and you're gonna die with your blood on my hands," I warn.

He nods.

I backtrack, "I mean, I can kill you, I don't mind killing people if they're in the wrong. I mind but like, I will. I mean, I won't. I'm just saying I don't kill in vain, y'know. As long as you don't try anything," I steal a quick glance at the gash which is even bigger up close. "Heheh... uh, what's your name?"

He furrows his eyebrows, either confused or slowly dying. "Rhys."

"Damn, I'm sorry to say this, Rhys... but you're dead."

A pause.

Then he exploded. "WILL YOU FUCKING GET ON IT ALREADY?"

"I'M TRYING OKAY AND YOUR YELLING ISN'T HELPING!"

He groans, cursing in flying colors under his breath about how he had to end up with the dumbass of the south streets.

Okay, Renee, on the count of three-

3... 2... 1...2
...2...

He sucks in sharply as the needle pierces through his skin but surprisingly holds his cool.

Ten minutes pass by as I experiment with sewing a living human's flesh - such a nice essay for university applications its going to be, please note the sarcasm - and I don't think I breathe once the entire time.

I drop the needle on the table and spring up as soon as I finish. I run my hands through my hair and down my face as if I could scrub the horror away.

I'm lightheaded, I want to vomit and I am certain I've killed someone.

Nah, he's still breathing, albeit meekly.

So what now?

"Can you... call someone?" he mumbles answering my unasked question.

I debate if I should insist on calling an ambulance but for some reason I decide to respect his poor questionable choices. I dial the number he tells me, handing him my phone.

He looks at me pointedly. "A little privacy would be great."

"Nah, don't push your luck too much or I'll kick you out. With the wolves and shit."

He rolls his eyes calling my bluff, and puts the phone to his ear, "Pick me up. Ended up on the south streets. No. Yes. The pizza cafe- yeah, that one. I won't," his eyes flick up to me, "I don't want to talk to her. I'll fucking kill you, dude. Just track the phone or something."

I flash him the finger.

Wait, did he say track the phone? What is he, in the CIA?

I use his distraction to check him out, for legal purposes of course.

Dark ripped jeans that I thought were out of style, doc martens and a black eye. He's hot, I'll give him that, one of the most good looking guys I've ever seen. Contrast to his ugly ass reeking personality.

But It doesn't matter anyway. I'm never going to see him again.

And if I do, I'll make sure to never see him again.

Grabbing the first aid box, I return it to where I found it in the kitchen. It was the first thing I had asked the place of when I arrived, to which Tammy looked at me in pity. I hadn't know she knew about my stepmother because she didn't attempt to talk to me about it. But I guess it was a too farfetched wish to assume they wouldn't tell her when she adopted me.

When I walk back to the living room, the guy's gone, only leaving a bloody mess behind.

It takes a second longer to register that my phone is gone, too.

"FUCK!" I scream in frustration, running out onto the streets.

He couldn't have been long gone - I was in the kitchen for seconds. I see a black Rolls-Royce that clearly didn't belong in this ghetto neighborhood and rush for it. But I only reach it just as it speeds down the road, revving up smoke in my face. I hear a loud guffaw as I cough, trying to see past the smoke at the culprit.

This is what I get for being a good person to someone who clearly doesn't deserve it. I knew I should've left him to die.

"You messed with the wrong fucking person, Rhys! I'll hunt you down if it's the last thing I do!" I yell to empty streets. From the corner of my eyes, I see my neighbors peak through curtains and some blatantly gape at the new nutcase, but I don't care.

He really, really messed with the wrong person.

wc: 815