carefully but doesn’t reach for it because his hands are shaking too badly to even grip the armrests properly. “Thread it,” he prompts rather than admit as much out loud.
“You’re not serious.” I shake my head. “You’re not going to—”
“Thread it.”
I select a spool of pale pink thread, rather than argue—maybe the color choice will convince him more than anything else how insane he’s being?
But it doesn’t. “Hurry up, bunny.”
I lick the end of the thread and attempt to shove it through the needle’s eye. Once I finally do, I hear the cushions protest beneath a shift in his weight, and there’s a sound like that of fabric being torn.
“Look at me…”
I don’t. I can’t. I’m oddly fixated by the process of carefully tying off the length of pink thread. It’s just a simple stitch, Hannah, I tell myself while mentally running through everything I’ve learned about sutures from watching medical dramas on television. Just a simple stitch…
“Hey. Look at me.”
The stench of blood sears the air when I finally gather up the nerve to obey him. Rafe’s legs are spread far enough apart for me to make out the gash. God, it’s about the length of my thumb and dangerously wide. It’s laughable to even hope that a little bit of pink thread will make him whole again.
“H-Here.” My fingers tremble as I attempt to offer him the needle, but he shakes his head.
“I can’t.” With a groan, he manipulates the bottle of sake and pours enough into the wound to make him howl through clenched teeth. “Fuck!” When he catches his breath, his eyes meet mine again, their expression fathomless. “I need you to do it. You can consider this paying me back, bunny.”
He makes it sound so logical. You do it. Like I’m the irrational one for jerking backward, shaking my head furiously. “N-No! I can’t—”
He spits out a single word as if uttering it pains him more than the injury itself. “Please.”
That request alone shouldn’t be enough to erase every trace of logic that warns me to run…but for some reason, I’m on my knees in an instant, crouched between his. The indecency of the position briefly runs through my mind, but by then, my hands are already covered in his blood. I can taste it—the smell is so thick. In the space it took me to grab my kit, he’s torn the sleeve of his pant leg all the way down to reveal the skin around the wound. It’s slippery and cool to the touch as I pinch as much of it closed as I can.
“It’s all right,” he coaxes, brushing my forearm with sweat-soaked fingers. “It’s okay. Pick up the needle. That’s it. Good girl.”
I struggle to control the needle with my free hand, lowering it…
Doubt descends, scattering my thoughts as the insanity of this entire situation sinks in. I can’t…
“Do it!”
My hand jerks, plunging the tip of the needle through flesh. I’ll never forget the sound he makes. It’s unrestrained and savage, despite being smothered beneath his fist. He bites his knuckles, sinking his teeth into the flesh. “Don’t look at me!” he chokes out once he notices me staring.
I glance down and find that the needle is still in his skin. Almost robotically, I grab it and pull. Again. Again. After a while, the simple motions become monotonous. Stitch. Stitch. Inhale. Stitch. Stitch…
On the fifth one, he shifts, and suddenly, his hand is on my shoulder. The fingers squeeze, their nails gingerly raking my skin.
The next stitch comes out lopsided as a result, and I have to make another just to get the flesh to line up properly. Eventually, the surge of my own pulse drowns out the sounds he makes. The groans. The grunts.
I don’t even realize my fingers are shaking until I finally tie off the last stitch and cut the thread with my teeth.
“Holy…shit.” He mutters a few more words that are barely coherent. His eyes are unfocused, dancing around the room. “You did good, bunny.”
The compliment feels hollow, all things considered. Almost on autopilot, I drop the needle onto the lid of my makeshift sewing kit and then carry the entire case into the kitchen. Streaks of blood splatter the basin of the sink as I methodically wash my hands beneath a stream of hot water. Then the needle. It’s almost laughable how easily the blood washes off.
But the same can’t be said for the floor. Or my armchair. Or…