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Blood stains your white shag carpet, and the thought that the stain might never come out gnaws idly at the back of your mind; how would you explain this to the landlord? That was a problem for future you, however, the bigger concerns taking precedent. Your attention was mostly drawn to the man who just welcomed himself into your house. He’s splayed upon the floor, wallowing in the puddle of blood he’s left in the living room. You know he’s human, but with the way he’s so still, unmoving, showing no sign of pain, he seems like something incomprehensible.
You were supposed to be saving this bottle for a special occasion, but you’ve found that things don’t always go according to plan, when you’re, well, you . Getting drunk off your ass wasn’t really your scene either, so there’s little lost. Besides, the dream of relaxing, let alone having a drink was far, far off into the distance anyway. Your breaths are unsteady as trembling fingers open your sewing kit, dusty from lack of use, and pull out a thin needle that would suffice. After snaking thread through the eye, it’s submerged in the alcohol for a moment, and you fish it out, taking care not to prick yourself.
You unzip his coveralls, now heavy with red, and reeking of metal. It seems far more suspenseful than it should have been, pulling his zipper down, and stopping at his stomach. His undershirt is soaked, and he reeks. You hold a breath, out of fear of how bad his wound would be, and not out of distaste for his scent for once. It looks bad. But, you’ve done it before, and you’ll do it again; not that you wanted to. It was never easy.
You trail fingertips to the edge of the wound in an almost fond way, and feel him give a sharp inhale.
“This might hurt a little - nothing you can’t handle, I’m sure.”
Your voice breaks thick, heavy silence that weighed uncomfortably on your shoulders, but it doesn’t help much. He doesn’t respond. The room retreats back to eerie calm.
This was how things was between the two of you. You kept to yourself, tried to lead a semi-normal life, and he visited when he had an open wound. Often, as sick as it may be, you hoped for him to get injured, just so he’d have a reason to come visit. Some days, you were afraid he’d leave, and not return. Other days, you wish that would happen. No matter, you were at his mercy, and though you would vehemently deny it, you would be there at his beck and call. He’d say nothing, do nothing, and you’d still somehow be spellbound by those piercing holes in the mask.
You wondered how his real face must look, what scars littered his cheeks, and what riveting stories they would tell. You would never ask him to take it off, though; you’re already pushing your luck as it is. You’re almost content with the stone cold, emotionless, constant gaze that may or may not be trained on you at any given time. The temptation of tearing his mask off did not escape you, though, and when you think about the things he's done, you're filled with the urge to tangle your fingers in faux hair and rip the damned thing off his thick skull, just to see that there really was a person under there. A person who felt emotion. A person who felt pain. The only sign that he felt anything at all was how he tensed every time the needle, shaky in your harsh grasp slid through already agitated flesh, bringing sweaty, parted skin back together.
“I’d ask who did this to you, but I figure that wouldn’t really get an answer.”
You were correct.
“I’m done with the first part - you know what comes next.”
No response; but he doesn’t try to move, so you assume he heard you. Fingers, lightly coated in his blood curl around the damp towel, and douse it with the rest of the alcohol from your bottle. You don’t warn him prior to placing it upon his wound, and he bucks away just enough for you to barely notice. The more time you spend with this man- the monster, the more human he seems, with his little mannerisms; the tilt of his head, the occasional flex of his fingers. It didn’t take you long to realize you’ve found… something in those actions that were uniquely him.
It makes you sick.
“And, we’re finished.”
He tries to stand, an attempt which was met with your open palm against his blood caked, scrunched up undershirt, and gently, you push him back down. He feels warm. You can feel his heartbeat, and for a moment, you can't quite breathe. If you were any smarter, you’d say he looked indignant, even with the mask covering unrevealed features you longed to view; perhaps out of more than a childish curiosity.
Perhaps, for longer than appropriate.
“Take it easy, big guy. It’d be a pain if I had to stitch you up again. I’ll get you something to eat, okay? I’m willing to bet you haven’t had a good meal since the last time you were here.”
You lie, perhaps in hopes of enticing him to stay a bit longer; you had barely enough food for yourself, let alone enough to feed a beast of (what you assumed to be) a man. Despite this, you flash him a cheeky smile, and in reply, he just continues to stare. As always. You return his gaze, wringing the towel stained with his blood in fingers sore from being tensed around the makeshift medical implement.
“You can stay the night, if you want.”
You don’t want to see his response, because you know there won’t be one. As you turn heel to head towards the kitchen to scrape something up from what little you had in your pantry, you hear the door slam.
Your chest constricts.