#cw ... nosy/dusk situation

[lifesver]

@meatriarch said: [ patch ] - for sender to patch up receiver's wound/s + ❝ i know this hurts. you’re gonna be okay. ❞ ( mama luda, les' say nosy/dusk vibes c: )

he just trembles, like some shell-shocked animal. silent, staring into the yellow-white wallpaper patterns of the hewitts' kitchen. the radio is droning an indistinct old song, blurry as the edges of his vision. the room is sticky-hot in the texas afternoon, and he can feel the sweat at his hairline, with the remainders of dabbed-away blood.

he remembers when he had first been sat down at this table. struggling and thrashing until he'd exhausted himself ― sure he would die. she had waited patiently for him to tire himself out. and then she had asked him if he was scared. had told him, much less kindly; that he had no idea what being scared was. not yet.

not yet. the words reverberate senselessly in his skull, again. when would he know? if not when imprisoned in a basement for days on end. if not when anticipating the now-familiar bite of a knife under his skin. he wondered if he was allowed to claim an understanding, now.

his fingernails curl into his palms. wrists rub uncomfortably against the rope keeping his hands in front of him, tied firmly to the kitchen table leg. once, earlier on, he had slipped the bindings, and had made it as far as the front door, before he'd run in with the big motherfucker ― thomas, on one end of the hall, and luda mae, disappointed behind her spectacles, on the other. he quickly found out that he didn't have it in him to use the kitchen knife in his hands on her, after all. leland's eyes flick sidelong toward the edge of the room; it wasn't really worth trying again, when there was that same mountain of a man watching his every flinch, from the doorway.

he looks away again, and tries to remain still. the needle pierces his cheek, and he bites his tongue, brows crunching down softly. the thread pulls through the wound ― aching, and unhealed ― again and he just sniffs, and then forces his expression to steel. it doesn't hurt as badly as it used to, at least.

luda mae hums lowly along with the radio as she works, and he finds himself lulled, oddly comforted by the sound. if he listened to that, and to the birds outside, he could breathe properly for a moment. his nerves gradually settle. and he felt like he was losing himself, sometimes ― when this was kindness. a type of love, really. like the ripped stitches themselves, and the cloudy purple-red bruise under his eye. after all, hadn't he told you he was proud of you, when you got back up? that time, hadn't his hands been gentle afterwards, too ―

he blinks, registers her words in delay, surprisingly sympathetic, surprisingly gentle. for a stupid, delusional moment, it felt like his mother's touch, warm against his cheek. like aunts that he had visited as a child, who would fuss and scold, and then gently dab the dirt from his scraped knees. a tough exterior, and tougher love ( he could guess why she needed to be that way, from what he'd seen of this family ) ― and still with a motherly gentleness. because still ― tied to her kitchen table ― he felt safer than he often did, here.

❝ sorry, mrs. hewitt, ❞ he manages, from a raw throat, when she pauses her ministrations. tear tracks slip down his cheeks unchecked, but he keeps his voice even; ❝ ― for pulling them, again. i … didn't mean to. ❞ he hates how weak he sounds ― like a child getting reprimanded, instead of a captive, a stray dog that could overstay its welcome at any moment with these people. how powerless he feels. how stupid it felt to impulsively apologize, for what was inflicted on him. when he would be back here in this kitchen getting sewn up again, soon enough.

he thinks maybe she's come to not mind him, so much ― his presence on the property, as one of johnny's little projects. supposed it counted for something ― that johnny was kind enough at all, to hand him over to someone to fix in the first place. he swallows the bitter taste, of acid and iron beading new inside his cheek. his teary-eyes are plainly earnest when he peeks up at her;

❝ i ― i didn't mean to cause you any trouble. ❞