A Deadly Bite

48 || A Simple Tale

The needle is tiny, a fragile sliver of metal that rolls unsteadily in my shaky grasp. Pinching it between my thumb and forefinger, I wriggle onto my stomach, ribs and elbows jammed against the hard floor as I attempt to tease the miniature blade through the scruffy scraps of cloth pressed down underneath my other hand. Stabbing the hole is easy, but yanking the long, tangling loops of thread through always takes an age. I capture my tongue between my teeth, fighting the jarring thrum of impatience, and weave the needle back up through another hole barely an inch further on.

Up, down, up, down. Progress miniscule and every movement painstaking. That's what the last four weeks have felt like. That thread spooling out haphazardly across the floor's creaky wooden slats is the passage of time, mixed up and chaotic and snagging on every crack and ridge. I have to keep dragging it through loop after loop, coaxing it onward, hard as it is. If I let it lie there still, I end up stuck.

Which is exactly what's happening right now. Sucking in a breath through my teeth, I spin the needle over my fingers, an unscratchable itch crawling underneath my skin and prodding at my restless flame. My splayed-out legs shift. Shoulders tense, I crane my neck to dart a glance backward.

The door to mine and Fiesi's room hangs daringly ajar, rocked slightly by the wintry wind that rattles the window panes. Beyond that, however, it remains wrapped in cold silence. My stomach twists. It hardly unknots these days, and every look in his direction only squeezes tighter.

Four weeks. Has it really been that long?

A sharp pain in my fingertip slices the rocky thought. Failing to bite back my yelp, I drop the needle, cradling my hand close as blood beads crimson at the spot where I pricked through the skin. Four weeks should've been long enough for me to learn to stop doing that. It serves me right for losing focus.

A laugh trails around the doorframe as a figure swings out of the house's second bedroom. "Can you not go a few minutes without injuring yourself?"

Warmth pools in my cheeks. Drawing from the fire in my core, I drag up a thin, violet sliver of my power to sew the tiny wound shut. "That's an exaggeration. It's been longer than that."

Cody sniggers. He has a couple of cloth bundles thrown over his tucked-in arm, likely half-constructed garments like the one laid out on the living space before me. He surpasses me in both skill and practice and has far nimbler fingers than I do; I often see him working on several articles of clothing at once. I'm only a helping pair of hands trying to earn my keep, sewing together a few simple patchworks that he'll fashion into something more complex later on. When I asked, intent on offering some kind of payment, it's all he could think for me to do.

It still can't be enough, and I don't help anyone by getting myself distracted in thought so frequently. I hesitate, force myself to lick the blood from my finger, and return to my work. The coppery taste churns my stomach as it grates down.

"You can take a break if you want."

I don't look up, though I can feel Cody hovering beside me, his shadow blurring fabric and thread together, forcing a pause long enough to listen. With a sigh, I roll onto my side to look up at him. "I'll finish this first. I had to unpick some stitches yesterday, and I know--"

"It's fine." His smile is soft, though it doesn't quite cover the lingering sorrow in his eyes. I wince. I wish he'd stop inflicting that pitying look, but I know he uses it only out of kindness. He bounces the clothes in his arms. "I have some to sell for the market later already, and I don't care anyway. You help plenty. You can... go and check on him if you want."

As if checking on him changes anything. I swallow. "Thank you." I clamber up onto my knees, resting back on my heels as the words roll around my mouth. "For all of this," I add, smaller, hanging my head. "You never needed to let me stay."