Patchwork Boy
One of the lights in the bathroom was flickering just a little bit. Jack hunched on the shower floor in the weird, vibrating light and hissed, the cloth wrapped around his bloodied hand held tight. He was shirtless, sweating, his hair stuck up in random places and clumped together in little dark icicles on his forehead from the perspiration.
Another swig of the Jack Daniels, the peeling and faded masking tape on the side bearing sloppy Sharpie writing that read "FOR EMERGENCIES ONLY." A splash on his wound, and he cried out through clenched teeth at the sudden pain.
He'd been stupid, of course...when on his daily sojourn into the city, he'd decided to flex his parkour a little; it had been a while since he'd scaled the rooftops. But when sticking one of his landings, he'd slapped his hands down onto the concrete roof and found that someone had broken glass there. A treacherous shard tore a jagged gash on the heel of his palm, and now here he was trying to patch it up again.
He took yet another swig before setting the bottle aside and stuffing a roll of clean socks into his mouth, fingers shaking slightly--the nails bearing the last vestiges of what had been a romp with black polish--before jamming the sewing needle into the flesh of his palm with a muffled scream.
This sort of thing never got easier.
Stitch after stitch, drink after drink, splash after splash of cleansing, burning, searing alcohol he slowly repaired himself.
He was about halfway when he heard the door open; Les was home. Shit. There was a lot of blood.
