469820
Caroline Martin
“I thought you said you knew how to sew!?”
“Yeah, clothes and stuff,” she threw her hands up in the air, “not human flesh!”
At their knees, the bloody body of a young boy laid before them. He looked to be around sixteen and had a nasty gash. Pools of crimson seeped through his white shirt, creating a jagged line extending from his navel to his neck.
“Alright,” he panicked, “we need to get him to safety Maia!”
“Safety!?” Maia looked at him foolishly, “now why didn’t I think of that?”
He sighed, “Maia, I-”
“Let me just call up the doctor,” she pretended to punch in numbers on her hand, mimicking a phone, “oh wait, Cyrus, he was slaughtered a month ago!”
The boy writhed and muttered in pain.
“Hey,” Maia placed her hand on his shoulder, “be careful.”
His dark eyes widened in fear, probably wondering who these two strangers kneeling in front of him are, and why he’s bleeding out.
“Don’t worry, it’ll be okay,” Maia said a convincingly as she could.
Cyrus retched in the background. He was always queasy when it came to blood and guts.
When the news first came of the war, both Maia and Cyrus wanted nothing to do with it. Both had witnessed millions of propaganda advertisements rallying for support and fighters. It worked, just not on Maia or Cyrus. They did not want to ever be involved, let alone ever acknowledge it. They pretended like a war ravaged country was normal, and continued on as best as they could with their life. But when the enemy has invaded your town, it becomes a little hard to avoid.
“Mama,” the boy murmured.
“Shh, I’m going to see what I can do to help you,” she whipped her long locks around, “Cyrus! I need your help.”
He wiped his mouth and braced himself for the horrid sight.
“I need some scissors,” Maia instructed twirling her ring nervously. 469820. It was her family’s number engraved in metal. Her most prized possession. She would go to her grave before she would sell it.
Cyrus rummaged through her worn out satchel. It had everything you could want, from rubber bands to a measuring tape, but no sight of scissors.
“You’re taking too long,” she yells while urging the boy to stay awake.
“I don’t see any!”
With a grunt, Maia ripped open his shirt, destroying all the seams. As a seamstress, it made Maia cringe. She knew that it could take hours to resew a shirt together, and it could all be undone with a tug.
Pushing the white cloth to the side, Maia studied his torso. It was sliced open, but not enough to kill him immediately. Whoever did this to him wanted him to suffer.
The boy’s face grew paler, and so did Cyrus’.
“Hmph,” the boy moaned. His face was sweating, plastering the dark hair to his forehead.
“Cyrus! Help him relax!”
She understood that was a far fetch, but he obliged.
With shaking hands, Maia went to work. She weaved her needle and thread through his broken skin closing up the gash. It was by no means perfect, but it would be substantial until they could get him safely back to her house.
Working her way up to his sternum, she noticed a faint mark still hidden by a shredded piece of cloth near his shoulder.
Trying to keep her breaths steady, she disregarded it. Maia had bigger priority than to marvel at some tattoo or mark.
Eventually, his chest was sewn up like a voodoo doll. He had tears in his eyes, but he managed to stand with the help of Cyrus and Maia.
Her house was empty and cold inside. No one was home, like usual. They brought him to her bed and gently laid him down. He was panting, desperately out of breath.
“Cyrus,” she called out, “can you go grab my medical supply basket from the cupboard?”
“The big one or the small one?”
“God Cyrus, which one do you think?”
He walked out of the room with his hands raised in defeat.
The boy was able to slow his breath.
“What’s this tattoo you got?” She questioned him.
He looked directly in her eyes as she got closer to look at it. There on his shoulder, written in faint gray, was a number.
469820
Maia’s eyes widened in disbelief. She read the number ten times, making sure she was not hallucinating this.
It matched.
Maia’s heart was pounding. She was about to scream for Cyrus when the boy moaned.
Ever so carefully, he propped himself on his elbows and leaned forward. His dark eyes, no longer fearful, met her lights ones.
Slowly, the boy closed his eyes and pressed his lips to the cold metal on Maia’s finger.
Awestruck, she yanked away her hand. “Who are you?!”
He rested his head back on the flat pillow and closed his eyes.
His voice clear of pain and smooth as caramel replied, “What do you think?”