STITCH

“Come on, now! You found me, remember? You wanted this.”

He's angry. I knew he would be, but I can't control my body's reaction entirely. I swallow the bile that's invaded my mouth back down.

“You're right, I wanted this. I still do, but give me a break. It's only my first time.” I inhale deeply, and my nostrils are invaded with the scent of piss.

I've lost count how many times she's wet herself over the past several days. She was warned to completely relieve herself when given the opportunity to and told that the process would be a long one, but as he's said, some people are just disgusting.

The first day we used rubbing alcohol all over her back to start the drying process. That's also when we gave her, her last drink of water.

“Savor it. It's the only water you'll get here,” the nameless man said to her—I'm still irritated that he won't give me his name, but he's promised to after I finish my first. After I pass his test.

She's been given only whiskey since then.

The next day I was on my own. It had to be my design, something not inspired by his previous work, or I wouldn't pass his test. I looked at the array of instruments on the table. I chose some spring-loaded contraption that needed to be reset after each trigger pull. The part that impacted her body was the shape of an oval with the center squeezed in. My first trigger pull was on her left shoulder blade about three inches from her spine, and the second crossed the first. This created a four petal, flower shape that started off red and raised. I created six. Three flowers down each side of her spine. Twelve trigger pulls total.

I had to wait two and a half days for the bruises to color just right. In that time, I rubbed her back down every two hours, alternating between regular rubbing alcohol and a paste mixture of sea water and plain table salt. The skin needs to be dry. At least, that's what he says.

Today is the day to prove myself. I'd nearly gotten sick. Nearly failed. I'd be his canvas if I fail. That doesn't entirely upset me, but I'd much prefer to do what he does.

I bring the blade—something of a mix between a scalpel and a knife—down again. The skin makes the same sound it had before as the blade cuts through it. It's almost the sound of paper ripping but not quite. Only, this time I don't get sick. I pay close attention to what I'm doing. I don't have a pattern to follow. I pull bits of skin away from muscle, curling it under and throw in a stitch or two to hold it in place. Then I spray the area with an antiseptic spray that's supposed to help stop the blood flow. I move on to the next cut, being extremely attentive.

Hours go by, and I make my last cut, pull, curl, and stitch. It's only then that I see she's not bleeding. I stand back and admire the beautiful set of wings I've created. A couple hundred raised and manipulated bits of skin. It's hard to see the difference in the color of the bruising and the untouched flesh from all the dried blood, but it's there. I hang my head and sigh.

“I've failed,” I breathe, and the small blade slips from my hand and clatters to the floor.

“She knew the risks. They don't always make it. Even if she did make it through the process, she'd have still needed to avoid serious infection. This is an art of patience and passion, and it doesn't always go the way you want it to.”

“But, I failed.”

“No. You did everything right.” He pulls a digital camera from a drawer and snaps a picture of the dead woman's back. “Either way, we still get paid.”

He turns to walk out of the room. I open my mouth, saying the one thing that both excites and scares the shit out of me at the same time, “Can I have a couple days to choose my design and where I want it?”

“Oh, I nearly forgot. The name's Jamie. We have a new client next Thursday. This one should be easier; the guy wants his thigh done. Nothing too crazy. He asked for simple but elegant. So, go home and get some rest.”

I breathe a sigh of relief. I got the job.

     “By the way, you do beautiful work.”

This short story can be found with 14 other twisted and disturbing flash fiction pieces within my collection 'Images from a Wandering Mind'.