Blood bubbles through my skin, cascading waterfalls at the sudden prick. The tiny needle laying inches away, hiding its devious intention. The pain of the prick soon faded, numbness overtaking in favor. They were all over, ensuring the scars run along my feeble hands. I've been over this, days, weeks.

Thread, knot, weave, sew, stitch, cut. Thread, knot, weave, sew, stitch, cut. Thread, knot, weave, sew, stitch, cut. And repeat.

Time seemed to hinder at the actions, nestling away behind the darkened shuttered curtains. The remains of the town hidden behind the measly rugged cloth, ripped at its seam, torn in shambles. An ache shivers through my heart. At the inability to wake, to leave, to rip away from the life I live, away in these wooden chairs that caress my skin, day by day. I am unable to leave this prison of a house as I am tethered to the shackles of him.

Fog hazes my memory, capsuling the image of how I am where I am. Stars glittered the night sky, the darkness warping among the streets, caressing the creaky buildings and whisking away among the lit houses. The laughter of its owners echoing among the shallow alleys. My footsteps pounder among the glistening concrete, rain subsiding its earlier trance. A shadowy figure among the scraps, emerging, the features of his face concealed within the hood of his jacket. My vision blurs.

Again, over again, I am unable to decipher the remains of vision. It replayed again and again, stopping perfectly mannered.

I suck onto the blood, intending to stop the flow. The rustling of shackles occupying the room. Blood remains scattered throughout the blue fabric, colluding among its earlier friends. A stack of fabric lay ahead, pilling a mountain, each with the same affair. A segregated pile lay nearby, stocked with clean fabric and awaiting needles.