Stitch Up

✠ prologue ✠

The needle pierced my flesh like it would butter, pinching and pulling my skin taut. He fed the string through, ignoring my wince of pain.

Pull. Wince. Puncture. Repeat. Burn.

"What have I told you about going out on your own?"

I ignored him. My skin was on fire, and he was angry enough to leave me that way. 

His idea of punishment, I supposed.

My eyes absently followed his deft hands, tracing his swift, precise movements with childlike fascination.

The tell tale tingling dancing up my arm told me he was nearly done. I could never truly describe what the sensation resembled - his condition, for lack of a better word, was something completely alien to me, and yet so familiar.

A stray tingle got particularly sharp towards my collarbone, deep in my chest, and I hissed in a breath. Goosebumps crawled and bubbled across the bared flesh of my shoulders and torso, until I had to hold back a shudder. I didn't want to ruin his work. 

Not like last time.

"Are you nearly done?" I asked, just to fill the pregnant, stretching silence. It was throbbing in my ears.

He released his breath on a sharp exhale, tugging unnecessarily harshly at the string, pulling it tight before knotting the end and securing the stitches.

I grimaced, expecting the pain but not quite able to hide it like I wished I could. The burn that followed was always the worst part; it was always something that caused me shame.

He opened his palm, stretching it out before unceremoniously placing it directly over the newly stitched wound. One second ticked by, and then he applied pressure.

My chest surged from the steel table, thrusting into the air like an offering as I gasped in a strained breath. The burning spread from the tips of his biting fingers, dripping into my blood stream, coursing through my veins like a scalding wildfire until I could barely stand it.

It was so cold it seared me, and it was all I could do to swallow a scream.

The metallic taste of blood exploded on my tongue, and I realised I'd bit my lip in my efforts. Unable to escape the near maddening sensation, I attempted to wrestle my arm from his grip.

It was too much.

He held fast, his grip tightening until I knew I'd bruise. I knew it was futile - hell, it was even in my best interests to just put up with it, but by fucking God, it hurt.

Tears pricked my eyes. Logically, I knew. I knew that the moment he stopped touching me, I'd be released from it, and it'd be like taking a deep breath of cold air after being cooped up inside for far too long. It'd be relief, as well as a another tiny silver scar.

Another to add to the collection.

The pain continued for what seemed like an eternity, the intensity growing until I felt like I would implode. Then, without warning, his hand was gone.

I collapsed feebly against the table, winded, too scared to breathe for fear my lungs would collapse. I could feel his eyes on me as I pulled it together. I knew what I looked to him, knew what he would see. A mess.

Chest heaving with uneven breaths, skin flushed bright from exertion, damp hair matted to my temples and a thin sheen of clammy sweat beading on my torso. I pretended I couldn't feel his probing gaze taking everything in, drinking it all up.

I glanced down to my arm, and wasn't surprised by what I saw. A brand, spanking new silver scar. Thin and perfect, as always.

Finally feeling more courageous now that the lingering pain was dissipating, I lifted my eyes to meet his. "I guess I should say thank you."

He ignored me at first, instead choosing to lean back in his chair and appraise me intently.

"What am I going to do with you, Baby?"

I flinched, feeling the weight of his tone like it had fallen physically on my shoulders. 

Disappointment. Anger. Bitterness. All there to tug at what was left of my heart strings.

"I didn't mean to--"

"Don't be coy. You knew what you were doing, and you did it anyway."

I nibbled on my lip, forgetting I'd split it, fighting to find the right words. "I just wanted to get out, to see if--"

"To see what, Baby?" He grew more aggrieved with each word that left his mouth until he was unknowingly leaning towards me, his lips a firm line of displeasure. He tore his eyes from me, as though the sight of me hurt to bear.

"To see if you could leave me?"

Guilt clawed at my stomach until I felt queasy. I tried to catch his eyes, feeling an unwanted surge of desperation tug at my gut until it pressed onto my lungs. I hadn't wanted to upset him again. I had just needed to get out. I don't even remember the reason I left, or what I had been planning to do. I had just seen an opportunity and grasped it without thinking, but as I saw the pain etched into the lines around his eyes and lips, I trembled with the sudden severity of the situation I found myself in.

Knots. So tight.

Suddenly the burning from before didn't seem nearly as painful.

This was agony.

I didn't have words. He wanted me to deny it, to assure him I hadn't been leaving him. That I would never; I couldn't. Frustration joined the confused elixir of emotions bubbling away inside me. I didn't know what I was doing, I didn't know what I could do.

I couldn't choose to do something I didn't understand.

"This is my fault," he muttered to himself, raking a hand through his short hair. "I shouldn't have done this."

Panic, like a physical being, rose in my dry throat, and I shakily swallowed it down.

"You regret me?"

Our eyes clashed, and I couldn't look away. Dark blue irises shadowed by a lifetime of grief seared into me, almost as paralysing as what I'd just experienced. They were so deep, I finally understood why people in books describe that you could drown in a person's eyes. I could drown in his.

I was.

Conflict dominated his features, tightening his expression into hard, unforgiving lines. His handsome face appeared worn and haggard with exhaustion.

I had done that.

Knots. Tighter still. Was I going to be sick?

"I regret a lot of things, Baby. I don't regret you."

He sighed, a heavy sound that seemed to age him beyond his years. He stood slowly from his chair, glanced briefly at my arm to check it had healed and turned his back.

I remained where he'd left me, half naked on the table, not daring to utter a word. Exhaustion held me down, but fear of not remedying this had my heart throwing itself against my rib cage in terror.

"You'll feel better in the morning, just don't move that arm too much. Goodnight, Baby."

The tears that pricked my eyes earlier were finally given free reign, and they came relentless and heavy, drenching my cheeks as he flicked a switch and left the room.

"G-goodnight, Ash."

I've done it this time.