Stitches ~ Scömìche

Got To Get You Out of My Head

The dryer finally beeped and Abe dressed Mitch in his own clothes. Abe then moved Mitch back to his own room and left him restrained there. Mitch let his head hit his chest and large tears fell out of his eyes, dripping off his chin and wetting his shirt.

"Where are you Scott?" He whispered turning his head to the ceiling. "Why haven't you helped me yet?"

~*~

"What do you mean I can do anything?" Scott yelled. The detective in from of him said nothing as if he was waiting for Scott to wear himself out. "I've been waiting for weeks and guess how much progress you've made? Why haven't you found him yet if you're doing everything you can? You are pretty f*cking terrible at your job since you can't find him! So what do you mean I can't do anything? I could probably find him faster than you pieces of shit!" 

"Are you done?" The detective asked raising his eyebrows. 

"Yes!" Scott yelled and crossed his arms, sitting down with a huff.

"Thank you," The detective placed his folded hands on the table that separated them. "You cannot help because you are not trained in these matters, if we were to send you loose you could end up getting hurt and possibly killed. It is better if you let someone who is professionally trained handle this matter and I promise we are doing our best." 

"Well," Scott spit getting up from the table. "Your best isn't very good, is it?" 

~*~

Scott downed another cup of coffee. He put his head in his hands and groaned. Why was life against him? Why was life against him and Mitch? 

"Why does life suck?" He said outloud, staring into his empty coffee cup. The waitress came back with a full pot.

"Tough day?" She asked pulled the cup away from him and pouring more coffee into the mug. Scott had been at the diner ever since he got back from talking with the detective and had drank more than seven cups of coffee. Not counting how much he had in the morning.

"You could say that," Scott replied and took a sip of the bitter liquid. 

"You know," The waitress said. "Talking about it always helps."

"I don't think talking will help with this problem," Scott said and the waitress shrugged before scribbling something on a napkin. She slid it towards Scott.

"In case you do want to talk about it." She then walked off to fill someone else's mug and Scott looked at the napkin.

The waitress, Nicole, judging what the napkin said, winked at him as he glanced up at him. Scott sighed, but slipped the napkin with the waitress' name and number into his pocket.