your hands steady, more steady than i think i deserve, as you thread the needle through the wound like it's just another night, another injury, another thing we don't want to deal with but have to anyway. i know you hate this. i hear it through every breath you take. i feel it as your fingers press just a little too hard against my back, just enough to let me know exactly how you feel about all of this. you don't ask questions, you already know the answers. i couldn't go to a hospital, they would expect explanations i can't give. normally, I wouldn't ask you to do this either, but this is one of those spots i just cannot reach on my own. you know that too. you're willing, of course, you are stitching me back together even as you sit here annoyed that i need stitching at all. neither of us wants to be here, but sometimes things are beyond our control, sometimes you do what you were called to do, even if this is the price i have to pay.
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unholy babygirl (or anya forger)
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