Flesh Wounds. (solo)

by **Mara** on April 24th, 2012, 8:01 pm

Winter 30, 503 AV

“Insert at a ninety-degree angle to the mouth of the wound. Drag across to the opposing entry point to insert at the same angle. Pull opened wound together firmly, with enough slack to allow for the regeneration of blood flow to the deteriorated area. All knots should remain on the same side of the stitching. Ensure the valid symmetry of entry and execution. If preformed incorrectly the wound will form a raised scar. This is the simple interrupted suture.” The tattered binding of the hardcover pulled shut, and was set aside. Trifling, unpracticed fingers reached for a shining point lying before them. They began to tie an unimpressive thread of silk through the needle’s eye with surprising ease, knotting the end to anchor it in place.
“Doesn’t seem too hard.” An unexpecting ripened fruit was reached for next. Child sized hands barely encircle its perimeter enough to hold the yarn sized ball. Its flashing ginger rind glistened in the sheen of the window’s frame. With uncertain admission the needle stabbed into the sphere, a spurt of fragrant blood expeled itself onto the practicing surgeons attire. “Too deep.”

The needle was withdrawn in a sticky puddle and then reiterated a thumb length away. No trickle of runny sap, only the pushing resistance past the peel, and an accompanying pop opposite the piece. Again, drawn out the other side and tugged to a divide to carefully knot the faux injury. The boy’s sticky fingers struggled to twine the thin strand into a suitable coil. “And again.”

He repeated the process, dotting the fruit in an assortment of gruesome stitching so that it guised as if it has been maimed into some terrible accident, only fragments of peel being able to be reattached, and there will be notable scarring.

He palmed the fruitlet holding it out before his scrutinizing crimson pools. “Well-“

The door unbolted and a ruffle of lobbed down bags was heard, and the fruit pushed to the side out of the way. A sleeve pulled over the practicing hands and wiped the counter clean of the pulping disarray. The incursion had hushed him instantaneously, and he felt suddenly self-conscious of his current actions.

The older man, a close but opposing mirror to the boy with many more years, and a glowering scowl upon his face crossed before him without a fleeting look in his direction. The child cleared his throat, and finally acknowledgement was given. “Father…” he started, straining hard to give him a sincere smile.

“Marvasa.” He replied with an arc of darkened brows.
There was hesitancy, Mara’s eyes dart away and then back to him with enthused poise. “I was going through one of your journals an-“

A groaning protest interrupted him, and he sheepishly retreated. “How many times do I have to tell you not to just go through my things like that, you mess them up. At least have the decency to ask.”

A respectful nod was given, as he swallows hard, abandoning his injunction. “Yes, sorry.”

“Well, what is it then, what were you doing with the journal?”

Mara bobbed brightening some, reaching for the miserable and sown fruit, presenting it to his father with hopeful submission. “I was practicing the interrupted suture.”

The fruit was snatched from his hand as the older man towered over him revolving it about to examine its botched surface. “This is a mess. You’ve got the concept down, but you’ll accomplish nothing just digging some thread into your food.”

The contradiction to his hopeful reaction, was not taken too arduously, he had at least given him that he had understood the concept, and that was the idea of the exercise. Still he looked over the piece hoping to catch a glimpse of what his father was seeing. He nodded mutely.

“Besides, what about the other sutures, you’re not going to get very far on anything but actual skin to work with. You know what? You want to learn so badly, I’ll show you.”

A beam spread across the rounded face, but to try and preserve the moment he said nothing as his father turned on his heels to go for his medical kit.

He drew open the kit and in a matter of flashes had knit together several fresh needles with a trail of thread. “Sit down.” He instructed.

Mara nodded and took a seat across from the other.

“Roll up your sleeve.”

His chest constricted tightly and his breath caught in the cage of his frozen ribs. “My…sleeve?” as he asked he complied gradually folding the material in layer after layer until it hilted at the bend of his arm.

“This is the only way, you’re really going to learn.” He reproached as if questioning his request was unacceptable in itself.

Mara nodded, but his father was not looking at him, like all too habitually.

“Okay?” he snapped.

“Yes sir.”

“Show me your arm.”

“….Okay.”

His offered arm stretched across his father’s lap with flexing fingers. “Be still.”

“Yes sir.”

The needle arrived, just as the journal cited at the perfect ninety-degree angle that stuck straight into the delicate flesh of the underbelly of his arm. Mara hissed, his fingers tensing in protest to the obtrusive sharpened point.
“Quiet.”

“….Yes sir.”

What hurt almost as much was the silk wriggling its way through the freshly burrowed cavity. The needle peaked out from beneath his skin in a sliding motion. He clasped his eyes shut as moisture gathered in to the brims of his paling irises. His father viewed him with an apathetic air. “Look at it. I’m trying to teach you.”

Mara nodded.

“Are you listening?” the needle slide into a renewed access point.

“Yes sir.” His fingers curled into his palm letting his blackened nails dig into the contours of his palm, as the needle jutted out in a second line. He watched with morbid fascination as the needle weaved in and out of his unmarked skin, raising circlets of ruby colored gems.

“You see, how it weaves in and out at the same angle? If there was an injury it would pull them together more beautifully than the interrupted stitch. It’s a little more difficult to keep the right amount of pull, but it lessens the chances of a noticeable scar.” He continued his zigzagged pattern for a couple inches up the reddening forearm, before leaning over to snip the cord with a sharpened tooth and a testing yank.

Quiet tributaries had slipped from beyond the curious orbs of swirling lilac and swept over his cheeks. He sniffed and nodded. “It’s the running suture, right?” he asked a sob bubbling in his gullet, his fingers trembling in his father’s hold.

“Good. See it shouldn’t be too difficult now, you’ll have the reminder right here.” His voice stayed steady, calm, as if he was immune to any plead his own child would have given regardless. He released his harsh grip leaving a ring of paled flesh around his wrist.

“Thank you…” Mara’s sincerity poured out from fear as well as genuine appreciation for the time given to show him such a feat. A sick and gorish relationship was beginning to twist in his mind. He was sure now; more than he had been before that his father was beginning to distort, pulling pieces of himself along with him.

“Now, stay out of my journals unless you ask first.”

by **Valkyrie** on September 19th, 2012, 4:13 pm

Mara :

You Will Be Collected if Worthy

If you have any questions or concerns regarding your grade, please send me a PM and we can figure it out.