The Seamstress

Safe

The girl stares at her hand, seeing the red hole slowly stitch itself back together. And then something catches her eye--a glint on the floor. A black needle.

She knows she's changed, and she won't ever go back. She bends down, picking up the needle, and slips it around her neck, where it belongs.

Then a shadow falls upon her face, every part of her a shade darker than it was before--the burden of being a Seamstress. The burden of the constant need to kill others, to extinguish every bit of life she can find.

This is her life now. And she won't ever go back, not without pain of death.

*

I feel hands on my back, rubbing soothing circles, comforting words being whispered into my ear.

But I hear nothing. I feel nothing.

"Hey, look at me," the woman's voice says. "Please?"

I snuffle and look up into the woman's pale blue eyes. There is no danger in them... she's safe.

"C-Can I u-use your ph-phone?" I say, my lower lip trembling, threatening to make my emotions spill out again.

"Why? What happened to you? Do you want me to call the police?" she asks gently, helping me stand up. "What happened to your face?"

I shake my head, too limp to step away from her. She feels warm, comforting, reminding me of my mother. "The police won't help," I insist. "Th-they won't understand."

The woman runs her hand up and down my arm. "That's what they're here for, to help," she tells me. "Why are you bleeding?"

But I only shake my head. She won't believe me. No one will believe me.

I'm alone.

Not safe.

"But you are safe," the woman says.

Did I say that out loud?

"N-No, my sister," I begin.

"Your sister? She did this to you?"

"No!" I cry. "Just let me use your phone. Please, let me use your phone..." I feel every bit of energy drain out of me, along with my will to live, and I collapse to my knees once more, white snow and gravel nearing my face as black creeps around my vision until all I see is darkness.

*

I open my eyes to an unfamiliar place--a living room, one with beige sofas and pink walls that make me feel slightly sick. My stomach churns as I move, sliding off the couch. I look down at my hands, seeing strange white spots on them, then see it's from the chandelier's reflection.

I look up and see four people at the other end of the room--the woman, and three police officers.

She called the police.

I don't want to talk to them.

I don't want to talk to anybody, anybody except my dad. I want to talk to my dad. He's safe, I know him, I know his voice.

I want to see someone I know.

The woman turns around and sees me. "There, she's awake," she says. I walk over to them, my head pounding mercilessly, growing worse with every step.

"Hello, miss," the police officer says, not unkindly. He's addressing me like I'm an adult. "Would you please explain what happened to you?"

I hesitate, then shake my head.