Chapter 24: Why Do I Do This To Myself?
383 6 13
X
Reading Options
Font Size
A- 15px A+
Width
Reset
X
Table of Contents
Loading... please wait.
Fun fact: Nothing happens when you put metal in a microwave. Just don't turn it on with metal in it.

Also, this chapter is basically filler. I was a lot busier than I realized and I put off writing a chapter long enough, so I'm just going to pump this one out for now. Sorry.

Wow, that convenience store is great! They didn't have everything I was looking for, but they had everything I needed. How ridiculously convenient. Too bad the store can't just fix up my stab wound. I have to do that myself. So, with my zero experience of sewing stitches in myself without any opioids, I decide to perform a professional medical procedure on myself in a deserted, dirty alleyway. I don't want to bother anyone, and I don't want Chloe to freak out if she finds out I've been stabbed, so back alley first aid it is... Why is my subconscious so adamant on causing me pain? Do I seriously hate myself that much? Why do I honestly believe that torturing myself in private is a better idea than showing weakness in public and getting help? Come to think of it... why I did I not even object to this entire operation when I knew damn well it wasn't a good idea...? Eh, my psychoanalysis is future Seraph's problem. Right now, I have to stitch my self up.

In a dimly lit alleyway, I sit down with my back against the wall and place down the small, grey plastic bag filled with materials from my little shopping trip. I take them out of the bag with difficulty (I think the bones in my hands are fractured) and line them up in front of me, in the order I plan to use them. From the left, there is: a packet of fifty sewing needles, three hundred meters of fishing line, two hundred millilitres of hydrogen peroxide, conforming bandages five centimetres wide and four meters long, and a packet of one hundred safety pins. My whole shopping trip cost $19.50. It's a lot, but it's significantly cost less than a fortune, which is what I think I would've been charged if I went to a hospital. 

I unzip my jacket and place it to the side. Then, I untie my blood soaked scarf around my abdomen and drop it to my other side. My shirt is stained with blood around where I was stabbed, but miraculously, the blood hadn't dried yet, so my shirt hasn't stuck to me. I take off my shirt with ease (with as much ease as I could with two maimed hands, anyway) and plop it next to my scarf. So long as no one takes a shortcut through this alley, no one should see me. I'll be fine. I open the pack of sewing needles and take one out. In my other hand, I take a strand of fishing string. I now have to thread a needle with damaged hands in the dark. Perfect. This is gonna be such a-oh hey, I did it. It was a lot easier than I thought. I'll just put this threaded needle on top of... the roll of fishing line. And now for the fun part.

I take the bottle of hydrogen peroxide and unscrew the lid. Now... how should I go about pouring this acidic substance into my open and bleeding wound? Really wish I didn't have to resort to H2O2 to clean my wounds, but desperate times call for desperate measures. H2O2 itself kills off any and all bacteria, including the good ones, so it can delay the healing process. Since it has bacteriostatic properties, it can inhibit the growth of any new tissue, so H2O2 really should only be used as an antiseptic to treat a minor abrasion, if at all. I'm sure it's highly unrecommended to use it to clean large open wounds or deep cuts, like, just at the top of my head, a gun shot or stab wound, for example. This night has been nothing but one terrible idea after another, hasn't it? Okay... so as to pouring it on, I reckon a little sploosh should be good. Actually, maybe a splish should do. A tiny splish. Just gotta tilt it a bit...

Gently...

GENTLY... 

ARGH, FUUUUUCK! When I said a 'tiny splish' I meant, like, a drop or two! Not half of the fucking bottle! ARRGH! It burns! It stings! It stings and it burns and everything in between! I drop the bottle and most of the remaining hydrogen peroxide spills onto the ground. I'm still going to need that, so I'm grateful that there's still a little left. At least the sizzling fizzing in the wound is fun to look at. Go, my H2O2. Go and oxidize. Destroy the bacteria cells. Take the electrons from their cell walls and smite them. And to the catalase enzymes in my blood: strike the invading hydrogen peroxide, and break them down into dihydrogen monoxide and oxygen. Allow the oxygen to escape in the form of fizzing bubbles, and let the fizzing clean out any invading dirt that may have infiltrated my innards.

"Okay... okay, I'm good. I'm fine. I'm good," I breathlessly reassure myself. It does nothing for me. I exhale deeply in resignation. "Now this is where the fun begins," I say sarcastically, looking over to the needle I threaded. I reach out and grab it with a quivering hand. I shakily place the pointy end of the needle on the edge of my wound. I breathe deeply in an attempt to steady my hand and calm my nerves. Come on, Seraph. Just do it like you did last time. Don't be a chicken's pussy. It's just a simple continuous suture pattern. With one last deep breath, I grit my teeth and stab downwards into the apex of the wound.

I don't handle it very well. The needle goes through my flesh, over the laceration and straight out the other end, but not fully. It's stuck under my skin, connecting the two sides of the cut like a little bridge. An immense, scorching pain is laser focused on that point, and I let go of the needle and reflexively clutch at my wound. It's agonizing. I grind my teeth and tears start welling up in my eyes, but I don't cry out. I need to endure this with silent stoicism. Nothing good will happen if I try to reach out for help. Nothing good has ever happened when I reached out for help. I have to do this alone. I endure the hurt and grab the needle by the opposite end, crudely yanking the rest of it through, with roughly ten centimetres of leftover string that I bite off. It hurts. 

I tie a surgeon's knot with the string as tight as I can, keeping as much tension as I can across the suture line. Blood is beginning to run from where I've inserted the needle. It hurts. I move the needle back up and, half a centimetre down the first bite, insert the second suture. It hurts. I grab the needle by the opposite end and yank the rest through. It hurts. It hurts. I taughtened the string and close that area of the wound. It hurts. With blurry eyes and bloodied fingers, I make the third incision. I do it a fourth time. Then a fifth. Then a sixth. For the seventh and last suture, I tie another surgeon's knot to close the wound, using up the remainder of the string to close the wound. It's roughly done and the skin is crinkled a bit, but it'll hold. 

Silently crying, I take the bandages and wrap it firmly around my abdomen thrice, keeping as much pressure on it as I can handle. I secure it with one of the safety pins I bought. Then, to be safe, I wrap my scarf around it, keeping it out of sight. I throw on my baggy shirt, and it hides the fact that I have a scarf around my waist. I put on my jacket, and now everyone is none the wiser to my pain. I still have the hole in my hand, though. Easily remedied. I pour everything that's left of the hydrogen peroxide into it, and after it stops sizzling, I wrap bandages around it three times. Since I have my hands in my pocket more often than not, I don't really have to worry about anyone seeing the bandages. I chuck the empty bottle of hydrogen peroxide and put everything else back in the plastic bag so I can reuse it later if I need to.

BAM! I'm good as new! Well... maybe not as good as new... it's more accurate to say that I look as good as I did a few hours ago; which is terrible.

13