It didn’t look good, I realized as I gently pulled at the edges of the wound.

The bleeding had fully stopped, only a vague brown wetness remaining as I dabbed at the exposed flesh and muscle with a hot towel. I expected the pain, even the constant aching as it healed but the persistence and intensity had been getting worse.

I had half a thought to start taking extra painkillers, but dismissed the idea. This would probably take longer to heal then they’d prescribe them to me for my hand. It was deep, and there were several ragged edge where the knife had been twisted.

Still, I doused the towel in the freshly boiled water again and gritted my teeth as I cleaned away some more of the half-dried blood. I was going to stitch it closed on the surface at least so I could move more naturally without worrying about reopening it as much. Normally Apollo would do this sort of thing, but I didn’t have him here. I was on my own and probably would be for the rest of my life.

I still grimaced as I fished the needle and thread from the bottom of the pot. I was sitting on my toilet, but the angle was still awkward as I pressed my back against the lid and stretched my spine as much as I could while I took the needle and inserted it under the skin.

It was a sharp pain, followed by burning as the thread followed through. I started in the middle, securing the skin together there before going half way between to make another stitch and so on and so forth until the wound was closed. It was ugly. In my experience not even professional doctors could make the soft fleshy parts of human skin look nice after getting stitched back together like that. There was just something… unnatural about it.

Still, I was relieved after the eighth stitch and relaxed, dabbing up the little bit of blood that had come up from the fresh injuries before cleaning all of the evidence away. I even put a bandage on over it, appreciating the security. My body could just focus on healing that injury now without trying to stretch closed over such a wide space.

With a sigh I stood and discarded the needle and now stained thread in the trash. Then I dumped the remainder of the hot water. Id been careful not to have any of my blood or anything come in contact with the water itself so the pot could safely continue to be used for cooking and I'd carry it down later when no one was looking.

I left the cramped bathroom and settled in my bed with the English class homework, I tending to read, but my nerves were on edge. The pain was fresh now and each creak of the house sent me into a few seconds of panic until my conscious brain acknowledged it as the house settling.

After a fruitless hour, I tried to take a nap knowing that not sleeping wouldnt help the healing process, but the same thing occured. Every few minutes a creak or a pop would make me bolt upright, hiss as the pain in my side exploded, then slowly lay back down, futilely thinking maybe I could finally pass out. That wasnt going to happen.

I sighed heavily. I was exhausted, behind on my work and the constant pain was getting very old.

At this rate things were going to fall apart.

I got myself to school, though my entire being just wanted to go and curl up in a hole somewhere and pass out for a few days. I tried to play it casual though, holding the need to hide and the want to just be left alone at bay. There had been no meaningful sleep, and probably wouldn't be for quite a while. This meant that, as I had three separate teachers inquire about my missing homework, my situation wasn't going to improve anytime soon.

There was also the follow up question of, “oh my God what happened to your hand?” Once they noticed the bandage.

I kept to my fell-on-some-glass story and tried not to make eye contact after so they didn't try to ask more questions. The pain on my hand was negligible, even when I was actively using it, compared to the burning in my side. It was a deep pain and felt hot like I had actually burned it somehow. But healing pain was to be expected. I’d gritted my teeth through similar injuries without any painkillers so it was nothing new. But I also couldn't just lay down and hibernate for a few days like I used to. Even the director, as high as his expectations were, gave us time to heal after getting stabbed or shot. Having to hide this was killing me.

Mia, Vic and Sarah were happy to see me at lunch at least. Mia shifted over on the bench to make room as I sat down, slowly and cautiously. To be honest, I was pretty sure I'd done more damage than good when I gave myself the stitches. They were essentially controlled injuries.

“You doing okay?” Mia asked.

“Yeah, everything's fine,” I answered automatically. I wished I could fast forward a few weeks until the worst of the healing was over. The pain would pass, though, and I would survive. Most importantly I wouldn't have to keep lying to everybody.

They chattered as I worked my way through a couple protein bars. My stomach was nauseous so it wasn't the easiest thing to do and the food didn't really help. But I had a feeling I'd have to run pretty soon, away from my life here. The director knew the area I was in now. Unless Hermes has died, which I doubted since I only stunned him to get away, there would've been a report back that I had escaped. Which meant they'd be looking for me. My injuries were stabilized now, so I could flee with relative safety.

But to where? The camp and the house were the only places I'd ever called home. And I didn't understand how most of the world worked. I wasn't one of those contractors expected to venture out for days at a time either so my wilderness survival skills were non-existent.

Which meant… I had no where to go.

“You doing okay, Taylor?” Mia asked.

I flinched at her words, rather startled.

“Huh?” I asked.

“You look like you might cry,” she elaborated.

Vic and Sarah turned to stare at me.

“Oh no, I'm okay,” I hurried to explain. “Just got something in my eyes, I think.”

I rubbed at them, but they actually felt rather dry, but warm and puffy.

“Are you sure?” Mia asked.

“Yeah,” I answered not entirely convincingly. It was starting to dawn on me, I was going to die. I was going to be terminated by the director one way or another and I had half a thought to at least make sure he didn't torture me before hand… but that wasn’t a good thought. I couldn't give up, as rational as it might sound.

There had to be another way. 

Mia continued to watch my expressions as I tried to piece my scattered thoughts together. 

There wasn't anything I could tell her other than, “I’m fine.”

AN: fun fact, I got sucked into playing project zomboid which is known to be an incredibly punishing game. Another fun fact, video games give me lots of dopamine but little serotonin. Writing books gives me serotonin but little dopamine. So naturally I play too many video games and write way too little.

(This being said, seeing people enjoying my work gives big dopamine hit. So feel free to favorite comment and or follow because the little red notification bubble definitely feels so good.)

(TBC dopamine is the instant satisfaction one but serotonin is the fulfilled life one.)