Twisted Roads – Twisted Horror Stories by Matthew Tonks

Today’s story is brought to life by the following prompt…

The Friday Reminder and Prompt for #SoCS July 27, 2024 

Your Friday prompt for Stream of Consciousness Saturday is “ends with ‘itch.’” Find a word that ends with “itch” or use the word “itch.” Enjoy!

A Needless Stitch

His fingers fumble with the needle before it tumbles from his trembling grip and falls perilously to the floor. He lets out an aggravated sigh, then arches his head to the ceiling. “FUCK ME!” he screams, tightening his hands into fists and throttling the very air with them, while his face twists and tightens. He drops clumsily to his knees and squeezes his eyes tightly into narrow slits, as a sea of sweat explodes from his brow. While his eyes scour the floor before him, his shaking hands feel across it. After what seems like an eternity of searching the minuscule area in front of him, he lets out a small gasp as he touches the cold steel of the needle with his trembling fingertips. He drops his head to the floor, presses it to one side, pokes out his tongue, squints one eye closed, and forces his pinched fingers against the renegade needle, but his desperate attempts are unsuccessful in picking it up. Growling, spitting, and screaming in a wild dash of frustration, he licks his fingers with his saliva-saturated tongue and frantically presses them against the needle. A squeal of excitement escapes his chest as the needle sticks to his fingers, but as he panickedly lifts it from the floor, it drops back again. He screams once more, arches upwards like a wild animal, and roars before punching the floor several times with animalistic aggression. He tumbles back, gripping his hand, his face awash with a scowl of disappointment. He sits there for countless seconds, which soon turn into minutes, gripping his hand while his chest heaves restlessly. Suddenly, as if he was bitten on the backside by a bull ant, he jumps forward in a desperate bid, thrusting his hand at the needle and driving its pointed end into his flesh. He grunts loudly, then pulls his hand proudly up, spying the needle poking from his dirty, tired skin. He pulls it from his flesh and grimaces as he awkwardly gets to his feet once again, then effortlessly drops himself back into the worn leather seat that sits next to his work desk.

He licks his fingers and picks up the wiry thread that lies on the benchtop, then holds the needle’s eye out. He tightly squints one eye, gently pokes out his tongue once more, and thrusts the thread at the needle. He grunts and repeats this same process another three times, before sticking the thread in his mouth, flattening it straight again with his tongue, and thrusting it against the needle several more times, until finally it springs through the other side. He smiles proudly, quickly pulls the thread through the eye, and holds the threaded needle towards the light, as if it were a drink, and he was toasting a fellow adventurer off to see the world.

He grimaces, grabs the open bottle of Grant’s whisky from the desk, and takes a healthy mouthful, before turning to the mirror, arching his head to the side, and pouring the whisky on the open gash that is torn across his throat.

She looks at him in the reflection, her eyes wide and petrified, and he grimaces once more, as he digs the needle into his flesh and begins to stitch the tear shut.