Stitches ~ Scömìche

Your Words Cut Deeper Than a Knife

If your precious Scott loved you, he would have come by now!
That's what He had yelled to Mitch after slamming the door.
Mitch sighed, sitting against the wall and tucking his knees up to his chest.
Perhaps He was right and Scott didn't care, perhaps Scott was doing everything he could to get Mitch back, maybe Scott thought he had died and moved on.
He knew there was a good chance Scott thought he was dead.
He should be dead.
Yet he hung on, by threads in this horrible place, with only memories of Scott to keep him alive.
Someone who probably thought he was dead.
"Scott doesn't think that," Mitch said out loud, his voice raspy from disuse. "He just said that to get me thinking these thoughts, to mentally break me."
Mitch opened up the gash above his eye brow, using the blood that rushed out of it to from letters
I-'-M A-L-I-V-E
"I'm alive," Mitch said out loud to himself. "I'm alive, I'm alive, I'm alive."
And although he was, Mitch didn't feel alive. In fact, he felt quite dead.
Empty inside. He wanted someone w could care for, someone who would be with him forever and never leave. But all he had was Him and he could never love Him, for the hate he felt was too strong. Nor did he want to love Him. He was keeping Mitch here, and for that alone Mitch hated Him for. If Mitch was fed properly, he could over come the beating and find a way to escape, but Mitch was dehydrated, and could barely move without his head swimming. So to Mitch escape wasn't an option. For it was simply impossible. Mitch fell asleep in the corner, to tired to make and effort to crawl to his bed.
When he woke the blood had dried, staining the floor that rusty red color that Mitch had come to know so well, too well.
There was a time that Mitch would of scrambled to clean up the mess his blood made of this floor. Would of rushed to cleanse the floor of his messy scrawl.
But now Mitch couldn't care. His life was almost worthless to him. Yes he wanted to live, but what drew him to life was Scott, the idea of being held in his broad arms kept him alive.
And how Mitch missed him so. It was all the man longed for. He couldn't even feel regret for drinking that night, couldn't even be mad at himself for being such a pushover, couldn't even be mad at Scott for making him go there. No all Mitch could feel was loss and longing. Longing for Scott, and loss of Scott.
Mitch sat in the corner of the too cold room, realizing what he really wanted wasn't Scott at all. He wanted to be happy, and Scott, just happened to be the source.
Mitch stared at the words written on the floor.
"I'm alive," He said again, a small smile growing on his face. "I'm alive and I'm damn sure I'll stay that away." Mitch then laughed, oh how good it felt to finally laugh out loud, but he was alive and there is no greater joy in the world that that.
Mitch decided that possibly one day he's work up the courage to ask for some paint.
But, today was not that day, and besides, blood wasn't the worst substitute.