Teen Ink

Stitch-work

He gathered the plates, and left, presumably to the shed. It was dark now, the shadows from outside filled the room. When he came back he looked at me awkwardly like he didn't know what to expect from me. It was almost like he was nervous in his own messed up way. He closed one door, and then the other, latching them with a thick board he picked up. He gave me the same side-glancing nervous look and took off his bloody shirt, I cringed into the corner though he was not going towards me, but the dresser. As he was pulling out some wiry string, scissors, and a needle, I noticed all the other scars on his back. They were long and thick, some of them carried all the way down to his pants line. He looked at me head on, and I saw he had the same scars all across his torso, there was barely any space left clean of them. Like my scars, only worse.
“Do you know how to sew?” he asked roughly, his eyes cold.
“Yes-well sort of-” I stammered.
He handed me the needle and thread, keeping the scissors away on the nightstand. He eyed me skeptically, tearing off the gauze from his shoulder wound and then startled me, as he inched onto the bed watching me closely with the needle. He slowly laid on his back, his eyes not missing a heartbeat.
What could I do with a needle? I decided quickly that I should play along and try to get his trust so that I can run away.
“H-have, you cleaned it?” I asked, looking the deep wound over for any sign of dirt.
“It's clean.” he muttered.
Thankfully it was on the shoulder nearest to me and so I didn't have to lean over him. I started tying a knot in the string and since my fingers shook, I decided to make some conversation.
“So...how did you get all those scars?”
“My father. People.” he answered, his eyes cold.
I figured I shouldn't pursue the subject.
“...What should I call you? Wha-”
“You can call me Raiden.”
I finished the knot. I looked at his skin, if I hurt him would he kill me?
“Is that your real name?”
He was silent. And then, “It's like my real name, only different. Go ahead and start stitching.”
I looked over the wound again and because it was so deep I figured it should have deeper stitches than the regular shallow gashes.
“Okay, I just want you to know that I'm going to have to make the stitches deeper since the wound is so deep, so the skin holds the wound good and it doesn't rip open.”
He nodded gruffly. And without wanting to drag it on, I pierced through the skin. Little red dots appeared around the stitching as he let in a sharp intake of air, and then seemed deep in concentration on hiding the pain.
Unsure of what I was doing, I still made the stitches about a fourth of an inch thick, and used the same length as the depth to space them. I just hoped this was how I was supposed to do it, if it got ripped or infected he would probably be blaming me for it. And I wouldn't know what would come after that. I noticed his fists were clenching, but I did it as fast and meticulous as I could.
“Done.” I said after the last stitch. “Just have to tighten it,” I had been making tight stitches but I didn't want it to get infected. He cringed as I pulled it together tight. “...and tie the knot.”
Once the knot was tied, he grabbed the scissor and since he moved fast I slammed myself back into the wall. He looked at me and grabbed the fallen needle, “Skittish?” he asked, grinning tortuously, and cut the thread. He got up nimbly, and pulled open the bottom drawer of his dresser to get some bourbon, he hissed as he poured it over his wound.
“Ah...” he exclaimed in pain before taking a drink. He tossed it back into the drawer, and took a jagged piece of mirror out of another one, examining my work. Then it dawned on me and I felt stupid for it's lateness. I was still on his bed.
“...where will I sleep?”
He glanced at me, “On my bed, unless you wish to take a chance with the scorpions?” his eyebrows were raised in a tense manner, and I thought of why he left the doors open since I woke up-could it have been for that very reason? Maybe he wanted me to to sleep on the floor and get bit.
I still couldn't decide whether to say I preferred the floor. If I did would he kill me? He took my silence as an affirmation. Apparently pleased with my work, he tossed the mirror on the dresser and took off his pants. I started wrenching against the rope tying my wrist, but it held strong and so I inched away from the corner so I wouldn't be pinned.
“Your winy boyfriend...he's not dead. If you plan on him surviving the night, I wouldn't be trying anything if I were you.”
“And what about you? Will you be trying anything?” I accused, unable to hold back my venom.
He chuckled, “That depends.”
He turned off the light and everything was dark. I felt him moving onto the bed, and felt him staring my direction. Finally after some minutes of pure terror he moved onto his back and underneath the covers. I swallowed the lump in my throat louder than I'd wanted. He was constantly keeping me on edge. He wanted control, and this must be one of his tactics.
He just laid there, stiff as a board and I knew he was awake. He was either waiting to make his move, or for me to settle into a sleeping position-or both.
“Lay down.” he commanded.
“Why?”
“So I'll feel you move if you try to knock me unconscious like you did the last time, remember?”
“If this is some-” I screamed as he lurched up and grabbed me, tossing me down on the bed.
“Lay-down!”