Lucas's vision was blurred, a throbbing pain radiating from his bruised eye. His right eye was nearly swollen shut, reducing his depth perception and making the world around him feel uneven, as if reality itself had tilted off its axis. He blinked hard, trying to clear his vision, but it was no use. The swelling was too severe. Resigned, he turned his attention to his good eye, relying on it to navigate the dimly lit hallway.
The pain in his eye was sharp, but it wasn't enough to drown out the deeper ache gnawing at him—the persistent, twisted hunger for control that had been his companion for so long. He needed something to focus on, something to quiet the turmoil in his mind.
As he moved through the Morton's house, Lucas's thoughts were chaotic, but his steps were deliberate, almost methodical. He made his way to Mrs. Morton's room, his senses on high alert. The house was eerily silent, every creak of the floorboards under his feet magnified in the stillness. It was as if the building itself was holding its breath, waiting to see what he would do next.
He hesitated for a moment outside her door, the memory of her lifeless body flashing in his mind. Pushing the door open, he entered her room, now a cold and impersonal space devoid of the presence that once filled it.
Lucas's gaze swept the room, settling on the small sewing kit sitting on the dresser.He crossed the room in a few strides, his movements quick and efficient. The sewing kit was old, the lid slightly worn from use, but the contents inside were neatly arranged: needles of various sizes, spools of thread in muted colors, small scissors, and a thimble.
His hand throbbed in rhythm with his heartbeat, a steady, relentless pain that pulsed through his entire arm. The bandage was soaked through with blood, the wound still open and raw. Without hesitation, he pulled out a small bottle of alcohol he swiped from the kitchen in his pocket. Unscrewing the cap with one hand. The harsh scent hit his nose, sharp and unforgiving, a reminder of what he was about to do.
Lucas didn't flinch as he poured the alcohol over his wound. The liquid hissed as it met his torn flesh, the pain immediate and intense. It was a searing, burning sensation that shot up his arm, making his muscles tense and his breath catch in his throat. But he welcomed it, letting the pain drown out everything else, using it to ground himself in the present moment. His body shook with the intensity of it, but his mind was already distancing itself from the sensation, pushing it into a corner where it couldn't reach him.
With his good hand, Lucas selected a needle from the kit, his fingers steady despite the pain. The needle was small, delicate, the kind meant for mending clothes—not flesh. But it would have to do. He threaded it with the ease of someone who had done this many times before, the thin, black thread slipping through the eye of the needle in one smooth motion.
He held the needle up to the light, examining it for a moment. There was a strange satisfaction in the act of preparation, in knowing what came next. The familiar ritual of self-inflicted pain was something he could control, something that made sense in a world that so often didn't.
Lucas positioned his hand over the dresser, the wood cool and unyielding beneath his palm. His skin was pale, slick with blood, the deep gash in the center of his palm still oozing crimson. He brought the needle down to the wound, pressing the sharp tip against his skin.
He inhaled deeply, steadying himself before he pushed the needle through his flesh. The pain was sharp and immediate, the needle piercing his skin with a sickening resistance. He bit down hard on his lip, his breath hissing between his teeth as he forced the needle through the other side of the wound. Blood welled up around the needle, dark and thick, spilling down his wrist.
He pulled the needle through with a slow motion, the thread following in a smooth, unbroken line. His hand trembled, but he kept going, refusing to let the pain overwhelm him. Each stitch was a brutal reminder of his own fragility, of the flesh and blood that bound him to this world.
Lucas worked with mechanical precision, his mind detached from the pain. The thread pulled his torn flesh together, each stitch a small victory over the chaos that had been gnawing at him. The wound was jagged and uneven, the flesh torn and swollen, but he kept going, each stitch tighter than the last.
The final stitch was the hardest. His fingers were slick with blood, and his vision was swimming, the pain in his eye and hand merging into one dull, throbbing ache. He tied off the thread with a deft twist of his fingers, pulling it tight enough to make his hand throb anew.
He reached for the bottle of alcohol again, pouring it over the freshly stitched wound. The pain flared bright and hot, but Lucas didn't flinch. He watched as the blood washed away, leaving the dark thread stark against his pale skin.
He wasn't finished yet.
Reaching into the sewing kit, he found a small pair of scissors. The metal gleamed dully in the light as he snipped the thread close to his skin, leaving a neat, almost surgical line of stitches across his palm. The wound was messy, the stitches crude, but they held. That was all that mattered.
Lucas leaned back, his breathing heavy, the pain in his hand a steady, grounding force. The blood on his fingers had dried to a sticky, dark red, but he ignored it. The pain was sharp, intense, but it was his. It was real, tangible, something he could control.
And in that pain, Lucas found a twisted sense of calm.A sinister smile erupted on his face.The emptiness was still there, gnawing at him, but it was muted now, overshadowed by the raw, physical ache that pulsed through his body.