Hatchetfield Stories

Gotta Get You Out Of My Head

Hey look I'm not dead!!

TRIGGER WARNINGS:
-Injury
-Blood
-Stitches

Song is Stitches by Shawn Mendes (yes this is inspired by my autistic brain not understanding the metaphors at all when I was younger)

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Agonizingly slow crawl after agonizingly slow crawl, Emma dragged herself to her apartment. Her leg was on fire, and she barely had the willpower to keep going, but she did.

It took too long, and by the time she reached her front door, her vision threatened to go black, but she forced herself to go inside first. Inside she was safe.

Making her way to the bathroom, her mind wandered. Shit, she had to patch herself up, didn't she? All she wanted was to pass out, but waking up after was a close second, so she kept going.

When Emma eventually sat on the bathroom tiles, with her hand closed around the pipe sticking from her leg, her mind yelled at her to stop, but she bit her lip hard enough to taste blood, and pulled.

Fucfuckshitshitfuckshitfuck. Agonizing pain washed over her, and she cried out, still holding the bloody pipe tightly, though it wasn't attached to her leg anymore.

Through the blur of her vision, she poured some antiseptic from her medkit onto her leg, praying that was enough for it to not get infected.

After she finally stopped hyperventilating, the sudden silence was almost deafening, and she reached for the small bathroom speaker, hoping that some music might distract her, that some non-violent songs would help her to ignore the trauma from today.

Of course, the local radio was down, nothing more than static coming from the speaker, so she had to press some buttons to find another station, and finally forced herself to stop stalling and pick up the suture kit. Her hands trembled like crazy, and the swaying of her vision certainly didn't help to thread the needle.

"Up next, Stitches, by Shawn Mendes," a cheery voice came from the radio.

Emma let out a strained laugh. "How appropriate."

I thought that I've been hurt before , but no one's ever left me quite this sore.

Of course. Paul. She might've been the one to send him away, but she didn't think he'd actually go, leaving her to die alone on the beach.

Your words cut deeper than a knife . Now I need someone to breathe me back to life.

When the string finally slid through the eye of the needle, she felt nothing but dread, terrified of what she would have to do next. Nausea overtook her, but it was hard to tell what caused it; the sight of the gory wound, or the blood she continued to lose.

Got a feeling that I'm going under, but I know that I'll make it out alive.

Alive. That was the goal, wasn't it? Start a pot farm, maybe even with him by her side. God, the things she'd do to have him here, cracking jokes that she'd pretend to be unwanted, but would do a great job at distracting her.

If I quit calling you my lover, move on.

Now she might not ever see him again, and sits alone in the dim bathroom, staring at the needle in her hand. Let's do this.

You watch me bleed until I can't breathe. I'm shaking, falling onto my knees.

Flash! Bang! The helicopter went down too fast, sending her to tumble down, not even knowing what impaled her leg.