Patches

Written By: Kayla Schimmel

James is refusing to make eye contact with me, and has been since I asked him to talk after dinner. He’s looking at the TV, pretending to watch it nonchalantly. His restless hands betray him. I have to be careful.

“So?” I egg on.

“‘So,’ what?” His hands stiffen, then relax.

“What can I do?”

He drapes an arm over the back of the peeling pleather couch, “I don’t know.” This is a lie. I’ve offered him solutions he doesn’t even need to work for.

“I know you’re busy,” I start, “but I’ll put in the work.”

Finally, he stops mogging the screen, but he isn’t looking at me, either. Instead, he looks past my shoulder, addressing something beyond me.

“Look,” he sighs, ”I don’t know what you want me to do. When I have time, I come over, but I have a lot going on. I’m doing my best, and you’re telling me that’s not good enough.” His version of an honest conversation.

My face is getting hot and my eyes sting. I force them to stay open, to stay still, against the gravity of my heart. The burn makes its way to my ears, and slithers down my neck. I shuffle to the sunken corner and wall my legs against him. Normally, I would tell him that I understand, that he is going through a lot, that I’m only asking him to help me help us.

What comes out is a meek, “I know, I’m sorry.” The words taste bland.

I feel a pierce in my palm, and notice my punctured skin.

Now he’s looking at me. Outside, in the silence, the wind whistles through the labyrinth of old apartment buildings, pushing cars in their parking spots. Tonight, the only audible hint of life is our breathing.

I begin to fester. My pupils no longer focus on one thing, darting between the objects surrounding his head, then wandering further to the side. The living room is way more plain than my bedroom. The walls are blank, decorated only by vent covers and a single hanging skeleton left over from Halloween. I see the magnets on the fridge, most of them we stole from the mall years ago. I eye the one of a frog in a cowboy hat for a bit. Then, I see the bowls left over from dinner, and I use the opportunity to flee.

From the living room, he breaks the silence, “Is there anything else you’d like to say?” I shake my head, but he isn’t looking. “Lorraine?” he goads.

I shudder at the use of my full name. “No, you?” I grab our dishes off the counter. His still has food in it.

“Not that I can think of.”

I throw the remnants of his bowl in with the leftovers. I always clean as I cook, leaving only running the dishwasher left before I must return to the couch. To delay my fate, I clean the sink.

Out of cleaner, I opt to use just soap and water. As I turn the handle and pick up the scrubbing brush, James turns off the TV and comes to me. All the previous tension in his body has disappeared. As if our talk was a bad dream, he saunters up behind me and snakes his arms around my waist. His weight destabilizes me, pushing my clothed stomach into the small pool of water in front of the sink. I push back to avoid it, but now he’s really leaning into me.

His hips are trying to make space for his dick between my backside. My attempts to keep cleaning are thwarted by his hands pulling the brush out of mine. As he shuts the water off, he lets his lips graze the hood of my ear before trailing gentle kisses down my neck. I’m brought back through our year together, the times he had actions behind his words. The burning transforms to butterflies in the pit of my stomach and groin, tossing with love and guilt. So, I let his head aim mine to the side, and he continues, pecking the birthmark on my collarbone.

Leaning back toward my earlobe, he whispers a request to go upstairs followed by my favorite pet names: “Lorri… My love… My one and only…”

The resolve I once had is killed. My nose cracks, and begins to bleed.

I agree, and he spins me around, picking me up and wrapping my legs around his hips.

He hustles to the stairs, almost tripping over the landing, already making out. I try to fend off his mouth in fear of falling, but he releases one of my legs and pulls my face back in.

Once inside my bedroom, I relent. Still being held, I open my mouth, disregarding the blood trickling in, and invite his tongue to taste the iron. He plunges like it’s not there, swirling our salivas and flooding red down my cheeks and chin. I can’t breathe. He throws me on the bed.

My skull splinters, and the heat rushes back to my head in a pulsing ache. I squeeze my eyes shut to negate the pain.

James pulls my shirt over my head. His calluses and jagged nails graze me, making seams at my sides. He keeps going. Like scalpels, his fingers incise my shoulders and arms as he dusts off my bra straps. Holes are punched in my back with the unlatching of hooks. He runs his hands down the small of my back, and my skin pops, detaching from muscle and sliding stickily down my spine. My senses are too overwhelmed to take it in, I only shiver.

Before I realize, the rest of my clothes are off and slits are left down my legs as the residue of his touch. Blood seeps out of every hole in an easy stream. His eyes study me intensely, but I’m not sure what he sees. With one more kiss and no words, he hoists my legs like sacks onto his chest, pulls himself out, and enters me.

My body erupts in static tingles, my stomach contracting while everything else falls asleep. He’s already moving, tangling my nerve endings, head rolled back. Each impact sounds a bang from the bedframe and a squelch as I’m jostled on blood soaked sheets—now adhering to my husk. The friction at my crotch lights my body on fire. The heat loosens my connective tissues even more, tenderising my flesh and making membranes sag. I feel my sides split like a sliced rubber ball. I let out a scream that gets lost in the gurgle of my overflowing throat.

He keeps moving—faster now. James lets go of my legs, letting them flop off the side of the bed. He leans over me, securing his hands in my hair. For the first time all night, he meets my eyes and doesn’t leave them. Through grunts, like he’s never meant it more, he moans, “I love you, Lorri.”

Trapping my lips once more, he removes a hand from the red sea on the sheets, and presses on my abdomen.

I kiss back.

All at once, the pressure that had built there burst like a water balloon. My intestines, stomach, liver, kidneys—all of my organs—are birthed from my obliques in mucusy film. My skin lays hanging like fabric on a mannequin. My eyes bulge, and my vision vanishes entirely.

When I come to, my mind is fuzzy and I’m blinded by the overhead light. The wind is still howling outside, but I also hear water. I feel damp, so he must have cleaned me then himself, I assume. I go to lift my head to see him, but am forced to stop. The movement assaults my nerves, lighting them in pure fire. The shock causes me to hyperventilate, but that only amplifies the sting.

I’m pulled out of panic by a phone ringing on the nightstand. Desperate to investigate, to know what’s going on, I strain my eyes to catch the caller ID. His phone reads ‘Mom’ and a number I can barely make out. Once I do, my breath hitches.

That’ s not his mother’s number.

When he notices me awake, James approaches, grabs his phone, and lets me know he refilled my water. I go to ask about the call, and about my dampness, but my vocal cords don’t move. My body somehow burns more.

“Oh, by the way,” he interjects, “I meant to tell you earlier, but I have to leave now instead of tomorrow.”

When I don’t protest, he starts grabbing his things. He gathers his earbuds, wallet, and car keys. Usually, he leaves some of his clothes, but he’s packing those as well. Afterwards, he carefully balances a crouch on the ground, back facing me, and collects something else.

I finally see what it is when he turns around. In his arms is carefully folded flesh.

Bewildered, I stare. Lines of black thread hold the skin together like sutures, stretching and digging into it where it's pierced. The flesh creases like leather where it folds. On one of the squares, I recognize my birth mark.

Once I’m able to tear myself from the sight, I realize he’s already going. In the doorway, he throws me a quick, “I love you, bye,” and, without looking back, lets himself out.

Kayla Schimmel: I am an LGBT, US based writer and current creative writing student at Miami University. I like to explore depths of trauma through prose and flash. I write and read fiction, with special interests in horror, body horror, fantasy, mystery, sci-fi, and romance.