Twisted Hopus Story

In Stitches

TEN YEARS LATER

Harry sighed as he scrubbed the floor silently under his 'father's and 'brother's gaze. They all hated him – the only reason they kept him was so they could lock him, so that he wouldn't harm them . . .

"Scrub faster, Harry. We haven't got all day!" sneered Dice as he kicked his already bruised stomach from previous beatings.

"I'm trying . . . "he whispered, scrubbing faster with his deathly skinny, weak and frail arms. His dingy white hair hung in his face, covering a fresh cut across his delicate, freckled cheeks, his bright blue eyes shining with unshed tears of pain.

"We should've killed you or at least let you go." Hissed Mike scornfully in his ears with pure hatred, as Charlie snickered. For the two of them knew what their 'father' was thinking.

"Then why don't you?' Harry shot back in his quiet voice, still not daring to look up, as he was scared they all might see the tears dancing around his eyes. Mike and Charlie smirked and quietly walked upstairs, pretending to each go to their rooms, but, they were actually at the top of the stairs to witness the torture to come.

"HOW DARE YOU!?" Harry winced and dropped the brush, trying to get away in a desperate attempt to avoid the beating that was practically calling his name.

"How dare you question me, you demented freak?! How dare you?" Dice hissed furiously, walking towards Harry.

The first few blows were to his face, the red marks and purple bruising already standing out vividly against his pale skin, mingling with those from days before.

Dice grabbed a dagger from out of his pocket and lifted it up to his face, the metallic scent filling his nose, a cringe playing around his small lips.

His eyes were sunken, yet the blue still glowed softly with tears, his skin was pale, pulled tightly over his handsome face. But that wasn't what drew people's attention. The stitches did. Stitches from the corner of his mouth to the edge of his cheeks, tattered and wonky stitching sealing the two parts together, across his skinny shoulders, littered across his stomach, running down his back and legs, stitching of where they'd cut him up, slid the knife to remind him that they were in control. Two more were made today, once across his chest, the other running the length of his back, adding to his grotesque collection.

He never said a word throughout the whole thing. Even as he dragged the knife down his back, careful not to touch his spine, not a sound escaped his mouth. Just silent tears of blood that ran down his cheeks and stained the floor beneath his feet.

As soon as he was done, King Dice stood over his bleeding body, bloody dagger in hand as the two mischievous boys smirked from behind.

"Stitch yourself up, then clean these floors. We cannot by any means have your dirty blood tainting our beauteous ground." He snarled, spitting on the ground next to him, as a pool of began to blood formed.

Silently, he scrubbed the floor, his tattered body stinging and aching; it was best not to anger them though. Angering them only made it worse, only made more stitches

The Chelsea smile was the first one he got; it was after Dice had adopted him in hopes that it would scare his 'other side' but it only caused that side to get angrier.

After he mopped up his blood, he stood up, hunched over due to the pain shooting up and down his back, limping silently towards a small door in the corner, a small trail of bloody footsteps left in his wake.

He'd have to do this quickly, before he saw the footprints; that would only him hurt Harry worse.

Behind the door lay a staircase, sharp, narrow and steep, leading into a pit of darkness below. He stumbled down the stairs, tripping and slipping on his own blood, dripping down his back and running down his chest until he made it to the bottom.

He lit a small candle with a matchstick in his apron, the dim yellow glow illuminating the room. It was fairly big; a small fireplace- containing the cinders, where he used to run and hide when Dice was enraged, earning his name from being covered in the sooty dust when he finally emerged; Cinder-boy

He still saw the dried blood from where he first cut him, telling him to always 'put on a smile', before ripping his cheeks into this wonky, false smile.

He slipped off his light blue, aqua green shirt and apron, revealing a patchwork of skin, drawn together by thick black stitches, infected scars running across his body, some places stained with blood from previous torture, some purple and green from bruising. He heard a sudden 'meow' and turned to the corner seeing a sooty, white cat as it shook the soot off of it. He smiled genuinely and picked up the small, female cat. "Hehe. Hi Venus." He said as Venus licked his face. Venus was the only friend Dice allowed him to have in his times of loneliness. Despite Venus not liking Dice, she only allows him to bathe and feed her but stays with Harry otherwise. "Alright Venus, I have to sew myself together." He said as Venus hopped out of his arms and leaped onto a small stool.

On the other side of the room was a dungeon. A cage built into the wall, steel bars encasing it and a small barred window up high in the corner. It took up about half of the room he was in, and laying on the floor were thick shackles, chains thrown messily across the floor, shining with a bright ruby liquid.

The boy took the needle and thread that lay next to Venus' tail as she licked her paws and got to work. Standing in front of a mirror, spotted with age and soot, he turned and began.

He slid the needle under his skin, pulling through the thick string; the only thing Dice would give him to mend himself. The string made the wounds worse-adding to most of them, but the cuts he made always made the skin separate, and if he didn't sew it together he would surely fall apart.

In and out the needle went, skin stretching painfully as he pulled the stitches tight. He quickly got to work on his chest, the same grueling process repeating itself as fresh blood ran over his pale skin, staining the floor with his amber liquid.

As soon as he was done, he tugged his tattered shirt and small apron on, scuffling back up the stairs; he was still hunched slightly, limping a little from the pain, but if he left the bloody footprints there his 'father' would only hurt him more... always hurt him more. . .