12 | Stains

Scarlett's Point of View

I love to let my mind wander inside of books, especially ones that take me from this world. When I'm inside the world of a book, I can become someone else, even for a trickle of a moment. For once, my brain stops and I just read. Sometimes it's nice to just read.

My heart rattles within my chest as the door to the lobby bursts open. A tall dark figure stumbles through the opening and lands on the ground. I peek over the desk and notice a bruised and battered Ricky sprawled across the ground.

"Shit, Ricky, what the hell happened to you?" I throw the book onto the desk and run around to meet him.

Ricky clutches his bleeding leg as he hisses something inaudible through his teeth.

"The job went south," he replies. "Some bastard slashed my leg during the fight."

His bloody hands are clutched around the top of his thigh in an effort to stop the bleeding. All the while drips of his warm blood splatter onto the carpet creating a new stain among the other ones.

"Can I see your leg?" I inquire.

"I feel woozy if I take the pressure off," he replies.

"Does that mean you need stitches?" I ask.

"I don't know." He huffs. "I didn't get a good look at it."

"Then how can I help you if I can't see your leg?" I slam my hand into his shoulder.

"You can't beat an injured man, Scarlett," he mutters.

"Then move your hand so I can see what I'm working with." I frown.

Ricky's pout falls from his lip. He hesitantly moves his hands to allow me a small glance.

"So?" he prompts. "Will I need a staple gun?"

"No." I shake my head. "You're going to need stitches."

"Fuck." He groans.

I remove his bag from Ricky's shoulder and toss it behind the desk. Then, I hook his arm over my shoulder and tug his body upwards. Ricky stumbles to his feet and we wobbly begin our journey to the kitchen.

His weight dawns heavily on my shoulder, but I keep pushing. One more step. I put one foot in front of the other because dropping Ricky on the floor isn't an option.

When we make it into the kitchen, Ricky grabs the metal bench and hauls himself onto the clean space. He stretches out but remains clutching his leg.

"I'll just." I huff. "Let me get something for your bruised eye."

I take a deep breath and trug towards the freezer. Yanking on the door, I find a packet of hamburger meat shoved behind a box of steak pies. I toss the bundle in his direction, then return to my own task.

"Thanks," he chirps.

The first aid kit is tucked away in one of the cupboards. I reach across the bench and pull the box down. The first thing I grab is the painkillers despite knowing they won't work, but it will give Ricky some relief.

With a clean set of gloves on, I grab the scissors and begin chopping his blood-soaked jeans. Then I clean the wound with a disinfectant wash. Ricky grumbles about the pain, but I ignore his comments.

When the open wound is cleaner, I take a deep breath in an attempt to calm myself.

"The pain is only going to get worse," I warn.

"I know it's going to fucking hurt, Scarlett," he mutters back.

I smack his shoulder and frown. "Don't get cut then."

Grabbing the needle and thread, I begin the daunting task of stitching his leg. My hands shake despite the fact I've done this before. I've stitched his skin together but it doesn't get any easier. 

I have to tell myself I can do this. I need to do this. I don't have another choice.

I push, tug, push, and tug, until the broken skin comes together. It doesn't look neat but it'll do.

There's blood everywhere. Across the bench, on my hands, his leg, and on me.

Just like Ricky's bedding, my shirt has stains too. We carry these stains in the form of marks on our bodies or the memories locked inside us.

Just like Ricky, I have scars too. They run deep, they are horribly patched and painful. We cannot escape our past when it is written on our bodies.

I wish I wasn't marked with stains, but I am.

"Are you almost done?" Ricky asks.

He bites the meaty section of his hand as the needle plunges into the tender skin.

"Almost," I reply.

When I'm finished, I tie the end of the stitch, then throw the gloves and needle into a waste container.

I wish I could throw my past away like trash. Forget about how he beat me just for fun, how I was a convenience when I wasn't an inconvenience.

"Done," I announce. "Do you need help getting to bed?"

"I should be fine," he answers.

Ricky pulls himself into a sitting position and gets off the bench. He hobbles down the kitchen with the help of the bench.

"I'll check on you soon then," I call out.

"Okay."

"Don't die on me either," I tease.

"I'll try not to." He laughs.

Once Ricky is gone, I grab a new pair of gloves along with a set of cleaning products to remove the blood. I spray the bench with disinfectant before going in with a cleaning cloth to soak up the substance.

"What the hell happened in here?" asks Peirce. "Who'd you murder?"

"Ricky ran into some trouble," I mumble.

"Oh, is he okay?"

"I hope so." I shrug. "Or I'll kill him myself."

Pierce stands in the middle of the walkway, unsure of himself. He crosses his arms and gazes at me. I flicker my attention towards the bench and continue my efforts to reset the kitchen to its original condition; blood free.

"When you're finished cleaning, do you want to get out of here?" he questions.

"I can't." I shake my head. "Someone has to keep Ricky alive."

"No, it's fine. We could do something here then?" Pierce suggests.

I don't know where it comes from, but rage begins to swirl within my belly. It annoys me that Pierce gets to act like things don't matter, when in fact, they do.

We're not built the same; I can't pretend I'm okay when I'm shredded on the inside. I wish I could tell myself to stop feeling the way I do, but I can't, it's not that simple. 

Despite wanting to feel numb, I'm broken. I feel too much and it hurts.

"I can't Peirce," I say. "Because I don't get to pick and choose which moments I live through."

"Oh –"

"I've got shit to take care of and you're getting in the way," I add.

"Scarlett, I'm sorry to have upset you," he whispers.

"Just forget it."

"Fine." He shrugs.

"Good! Because you'll never understand."

"Once again, Scarlett, you are correct. I will never understand," Pierce grumbles.

The moment he flashes out of sight, guilt soaks in like blood to a rag. I shouldn't have snapped because this isn't his fault, it's mine.

Instead of chasing after him, I take the spray bottle and begin cleaning the mess. 

There's a small part of me that wishes Pierce will run back. I need him to say something to give me hope that there's more to life than this because I can't stay alive knowing I have no hope.

I have nothing because I am nothing.

"I'm also an idiot," I mutter. "And there's no cure for that either."

Unfortunately, I am not metal, I cannot be washed clean and I will never be stain free. Instead, I am like material, soaked in blood and covered in stains.

I hope that being stained isn't a warrant to be thrown away, but I can sense it deep inside. There is no place in Peirce's world for a girl wearing stains.

Are you like metal or material?