Stitches ~ Scömìche

Intstrumental

Mitch watched his own blood drip slowly from his hand into the crimson puddle on the cement floor. His head rested on his shoulder and he was sprawled on the bed, watching his blood slowly fall from in between his fingers. The cut from above his eye matted his hair and the extra blood made another puddle. A small river of blood slowly snaked it's way towards the first puddle.
Mitch closed his eyes, suddenly very tired.

~

Scott opened the metal door, the lock suddenly broken. He rushed towards Mitch's broken figure, ignoring the blood on the floor and the blood smeared on the metal frame of the bed.
Scott scooped up Mitch's broken figure, Mitch suddenly seeming smaller in his grasp. Mitch, not quite in control of his body, just rested his head on Scott's chest as the larger man cradled him.
Blood dripped from Mitch's nose, staining Scott's shirt.
Mitch looked up yearning for blue eyes, his lips already forming words of apology.
Just as Mitch's eyes got to Scott's face, his faces morphed, blue eyes now red, face stretching into that of a demon. Mitch screamed, but no sound came out. His mouth gaping in terror and the demon's nails curled into claws, digging into Mitch's soft white skin. Trails of red leaked from his arm and Mitch tried to thrash, but his body defied him and Mitch didn't move. The nails dug in and Mitch could only silently scream. The dream roared in pleasure and started dissolving, Mitch started falling and while he fell the demon dove into his gaping mouth.

~

Mitch woke, his throat sore from screaming, his eyes dry from crying.
It was just a dream He kept reminding himself. It was just a dream. But to him it was more than that. To him it meant he was breaking, falling deeper and deeper into this trap He had laid out for him. Mitch drew in a shaky breath. He sometimes had dreams of Scott saving him. It was those dreams he so desperately wished were true. Each dream would start the same, Scott would scoop him up in his large grasp and Mitch would feel safe, then he'd run. Sometimes they'd only get a step out of the room. Others it was down the hallway, maybe even outside, but before Mitch was saved, Scott always dissolved and Mitch would wake up. Still trapped in the room. And still alone.
It wasn't that Mitch was lonely. He's rather be alone than with Him. But even those who despised human contact still wished for somebody and that's how Mitch felt now.
He wanted somebody, anybody, other than Him. Mitch could live without Him.
Mitch didn't see Him too often. Only weekly, or so Mitch assumed he had no sense of time, he started by counting the meals, but soon those got random and he was no longer sure how many times he was fed, or if it were day or night. So Mitch slept when he was tired, ate when he was hungry, which was always, He was a forgetful person and Mitch did not get fed regularly.
When He did show up Mitch started off acting strong, like he was the tough guy here. And then the beatings got worse, and Mitch dropped the tough guy act and instead acted as he was, terrified and timid.
He seemed to like making Mitch feel afraid. When Mitch would cower, He only laughed and tangled his fingers in Mitch's greasy hair, before doing whatever He pleased, Mitch to frail to stop him.

~

Mitch pushed himself into a sitting position, trying to ignore the black spots that formed in his vision. When his head swam, Mitch, out of instinct alone, put his hand back, gripping the metal support frame of the bed. Something sticky prodded at his hand and Mitch tore it away in disgust. His hand was now covered with his own blood. Mitch tried to brush the half dried red off his hand and some flaked down onto the dirty sheet, but the rest just stuck to the fingers he was trying to clear his palm with. Sighing Mitch crawled to the end of the bed and took the scratchy sheets to rub the blood off of his skin. The effort left a red stain and Mitch, afraid of what He might do, quickly folded the sheets in such a way that it would hide it.
Then as fast as his head would let him, Mitch walked, a hand bracing himself against a wall at all times, to the lone toilet in a corner of the small room.

At least Mitch thought as he starred at the rusted thing. It's not a bucket.