subject 13 // h.s. au

chapter nine.

"Just let me see your hand," 12 murmured, cracking his knuckles nervously. He deliberately avoided my eyes, instead looking at my hand resting on the bed.

I was angry. I was hurt. I was confused.

But I also knew that the sooner my hand stopped bleeding, the sooner I could focus on getting out of this place and getting the hell away from these people. So, I nodded, the wicked look in Harry's eyes repeating in an endless loop in my mind.

12 cautiously began to walk towards me with a small black bag swinging from his shoulder, and I thought of all the questions that had been left unanswered. 

Why did he leave and never come back? How were all these people still alive and why was he with them? Why was he the one dealing with my injury? Who was Asher, and why was he so important?

And Harry.

Why did he make me feel as if I was drowning, the pressure on my lungs unbearable,

and why did he also make me feel like I was breathing for the very first time?

12 stopped at the side of the bed, gingerly lifting my palm upwards to inspect it, a look of concern crossing his face. His pulled away and unzipped the small black bag pulling out disinfectant, gauze, a needle, and nylon surgical thread. He then laid them on the bed before lifting my hand once again. He sighed as he picked up the bottle of disinfectant, finally looking up at me.

"I know you have a lot of questions," he remarked, as searing pain shot up my arm when he applied the disinfectant to the largest gash on my palm.

I gritted my teeth to avoid yelling out as the pain continued.

"I also know that you won't ask any of them," he continued in a knowing tone, now attempting to wipe away the blood from my hand. He used his foot to drag the small plastic trashcan by the bed closer and threw away the discolored cloth gauze.

The pain in my molars returned as I continued to clench my jaw.

"So, I'll answer some," he said, hesitating as he grabbed the needle and thread, "and I know it won't make a difference to you, but I need to explain."

He paused again as I continued to blankly stare ahead.

"This is gonna hurt," he muttered, the empathy and kindness clear in his voice, before he set his knee on the bed, placing my hand on the top of his thigh.

"Ready?" he questioned. I wasn't sure if he meant for the stitches or for the answers to my questions, but I wasn't ready for either.

I closed my eyes as I felt the prick of the needle, shuddering involuntarily as the buried memories of the bunker rose to the surface. You never knew who would get called for treatments, or when, and the anxiety seemed to lurk around every corner. 

One of the Doctors, usually Dr. One, would lead you down what seemed like an endless hallway, illuminated in a perpetual red glow, before reaching a black door. He would look at you with a cold smile, and that was it, you'd wake up in your bed with your arms tightly wrapped in bandages. None of us ever remembered physically being in the treatment room, but even from a young age we all had a vague sense of what was happening. 

Subconsciously, we must have had some memories of the room, because we all cowered around needles.

I tried to focus on 12's soft disembodied voice as my eyes remained tightly shut, my hand searing in pain,

"I wouldn't usually be the one to do this," he mumbled, "but our doctor isn't here right now."

He must have noticed that I had frowned at the word doctor because he quickly corrected himself, "she's not our kind of doctor."