Page 35 of Stitches

“It’s a cute parlor trick,” I said, wincing as I pulled the needle through my skin. “Nothing more.”

“You hear his voice in your head. You hear each other just by speaking aloud. It’s weird.”

“Well, we’re weird. What can I say.” Another stitch.

“Was it always that way? Your whole life? The voices?”

I breathed out and did up another stitch before answering him.

“Maybe. I don’t know. If it was, we just didn’t realize it. I was about five when I first heard him. Maybe it was the trauma. Being locked and beaten for being different can take its toll on a kid.”

“Is that when you got branded as crazy?” He was still watching me, his arms folded over his chest. The blood had dried on his face, and the cuts he’d given himself on his arms were barely trickling now. His chest was a fucking mess with Sirena’s name carved into it in big letters. The bruising was terrible, and the stitches were ugly. He was going to have a hell of a scar.

“No. It wasn’t until much later that I got the brand,” I muttered.

“Sirena?” he asked, his voice soft.

I finished off the stitches and began cleaning up, the ache very much fucking real in my arm.

“Sirena,” I murmured, turning to him. I leaned against the bathroom sink. “I completely lost it with her. She was my best friend. The voice of sanity. She kept me grounded our entire childhood together. She’s. . . everything to me.”

To us.

I sighed, ignoring the voice.

“Then Asylum came out to play,” he said. “What was it like finding out what happened?”

“Devastating,” I whispered. “There was so much blood. Her blood. On everything. Mom saw it, and we packed up and left. She never asked whose blood it was. She knew though. She always knew. She answered the cop's questions, but she never told them she knew who had hurt Sirena. Her love was different, but loyal. I suppose that was a good thing.”

“Did you miss her? Sirena?”

“Do you?” I countered, eyeing him.

His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Can’t miss what you never had.”

“Liar.”

He looked down at his feet and was quiet for so long I didn’t think he’d answer. When he finally did, his voice was low and shaky. “The truth is, she’s too good for someone like me. It doesn’t matter my feelings, especially now. None of it matters. I accept that I’ve lost my family over my actions. I don’t blame her. I don’t blame them. This is on me. I accept that. I’ll try to right my wrongs and hopefully earn forgiveness. I don’t expect to ever fully go home to them, but if I could get somewhere in their lives where they don’t hate me completely, I would be OK.”

“And her?”

He looked back to the floor again. “I deserve whatever punishment she deems fit for me.”

“Do you want her, Sinclair?”

He let out a deep breath. “I need to get some sleep. I’m sorry about your arm. I’ll, uh, do better next time.”

“No more punishments.”

He nodded. “Well, no more big ones. I think I should be doing something every day though. Doesn’t feel right not to.” He left the room, leaving me alone.

Sighing, I bandaged the wound since it was still bleeding a bit and swallowed down some pain meds.

Tomorrow would be a new day. Hopefully, a better day.

We were getting closer to things finally going right, and I wasn’t about to let Sinclair Priest fuck it up.

We were all going home.

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