Stitches ~ Scömìche

I Thought That I've Been Hurt Before

Mitch thought he knew pain. Thought that all that time he spent as a kid falling had taught him something. And it did, but not what he originally thought. You see, all that time as a kid you spent getting hurt was teaching you that the only pain you should ever experience was from having too much fun. From not being careful. Pain shouldn't be self inflicted. You shouldn't feel it because of others. Mitch didn't know pain.
But now he does.

He was talking nonsense in Mitch's ear as he hit him. Over and over again a fist pounded him, in the gut, the arm, the face. Every inch of skin seemed to be covered in blows, but throughout it all Mitch made no sound as He hit him. Instead Mitch floated away and began to think of Scott. He thought of Scott's hair, how he loved to run his tiny hands through it. How his eyes were a beautiful shade of blue.

"Are you even listening to me?" His breath was laced with alcohol. Mitch was not. So instead of answering, Mitch just stared blankly at the drunken man in front of him.
Mitch tried to remember how he ended up here. How he had screwed up so badly it landed him in this situation.
A slap to the face brought him around again. He got really close to Mitch's face and in response brown eyes disappeared and reappeared as Mitch blinked.

"You're so f***ing stupid," He growled, throwing Mitch to the floor. Mitch's head cracked painfully on the cement floor, but Mitch ignored the pain and continued to lie in the position he landed in.
The drunken man let out a poorly aimed kick, before staggering out of the room, the sound of a rusted lock being turned followed his exit.

Mitch landed himself in this situation simply because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
In the wrong bar, drinking the wrong drinks.

He and Scott were celebrating that night. A new happy couple who had been best friends for years.
Let's go out, Scott had urged. Celebrate this wonderful night of new found love. Mitch hadn't wanted too, he had a bad feeling about drinking on that night and had an even worse feeling about going to a bar. But Scott wanted to go and Mitch was too blinded by his love to say no. So together the couple went, into the crowded bar that reeked of body order and was blasting music too loud, but Scott had laughed and drug a reluctant Mitch onto the dance floor. Mitch's bad feeling didn't go away, but he chose to ignore it as Scott whirled and twirled him. And soon they were both wasted, to drunk to comprehend what was happening.
Mitch had lost Scott in the crowd. Yes, Mitch had lost Scott and not the other way around.
It was Mitch's fault they were separated and ultimately his fault that he landed here.
When the too cold hands, grasped the tiny fragile wrist of Mitch, Mitch had turned to him, laughed then proceeded to try and pry the icy fingers off his wrist, but the stranger wouldn't let go. Soon, this situation, even in Mitch's drunken state didn't seem so funny anymore. But when the man started dancing with him, drunk Mitch relaxed and laughed again. The rest was a blur, another drink was bought, another was consumed.
Mitch faintly remembers being pulled into a gust of cold air, before being forced into slightly warmer air. Mitch had laughed again, not thinking whatever was happening was bad.

And there Mitch's memories stop, where he had passed out from the alcohol and had woken up here, one wrist handcuffed to the headrest and a killer headache.

The man who had taken him, never explained why, and never gave a name, so to Mitch the man would always be He.

He was a big man, much taller than Mitch, his face was clean shaven and his eyes were a beaded black, although in Mitch's dreams they appeared to show the deepest darkest pits of hell. Mitch had to say, if he did not hate this man, he's probably be very good looking, but he hated this man and all Mitch could see Him as was a demon. Or perhaps the living form of hell itself.
Either way, Mitch did not like Him and as far as Mitch could comprehend, He didn't like Mitch.