Stalked By A Serial Killer

Chapter Fifty-One: Stitches and Second Chances

Chapter Fifty-One: "Stitches and Second Chances."

AN HOUR or so later, and the doorbell to Tyler's house rings.

Bryce stands from the couch to go and grab it, while Tyler sits beside me, holding a damp towel against my gash. To say the pain stopped would be a lie; it's unbearable, and I'd like to think it's because the towel keeps on sticking to the flesh, making it sting badly when Ty tries to readjust the fabric.

"Stop moving it!" I cry out, and out of instinct, I grab his hair.

"Ow!" He screeches. "Not the hair!"

I don't hear the footsteps come to the living room until someone slaps Tyler on the back of the head and makes the towel drop on my lap.

"Hey! That's child abuse." Tyler grumbles, backing away from in front of me but instead sits himself on the couch beside me.

"It's not child abuse unless I leave a mark."

She still sounds the same. Her voice hasn't changed at all since almost two years ago, and when I meet her eyes reluctantly, they seem to be softer than before. She doesn't have an annoyed or worried or angry look like she usually had when she would come home after work. They look happier; more full of life and free than they ever had been.

Well, that makes one of us.

My mother is wearing light skinny jeans, and a dark maroon spaghetti strap shirt with a white cardigan over it. She has a wheeling case at her side, like one a health nurse would have at an elementary or high school, and is wearing comfortable maroon coloured ankle Converse.

For someone not even forty yet, she looks to be in her late twenties and has the body of said twenty year olds. I can tell she's been working out a lot, since her body was never this skinny when she was around me. Whether it was for herself or she's pleasing someone else, I wouldn't know, but I just hope that if it is someone, then they're nothing like my father.

She's barely recognizable if she didn't speak or wear her hair in a loose bun like she's always done.

"Touché Mrs. Peters." Tyler sighs, rubbing the back of his head, where my mom slapped him and I pulled his hair.

Man, I guess he's getting bullied a lot today.

Oh well. Now he knows how I feel.

"So, what's happened?" My mom asks, walking over and pulling a footrest out in front of me. Bryce takes a seat on the chair beside me, and mom situates herself on the footrest.

"Apparently I need stitches." I sigh in reply.

"What happened?" She asks softly, grabbing out her suture kit, some alcohol, and cotton balls.

"I cut myself." I answer, giving Tyler a dirty look in the process. Had he not been an asshole, I wouldn't be forced to call my mommy to fix my fucking boo-boo.

"Where?" She asks, putting on gloves. I move the towel, and immediately mom notices the gash on my crease. Her eyes widen, and a flash of pain and remorse passes through her eyes and I hold back a scoff. "That's a pretty deep cut, Morgan."

"It's Kelly." I tell her.

"What?" She asks in confusion, looking up to meet my eyes. Unlucky for her, though, my face is stoic.

"My name. I changed it."

"Why?"

"Witness Protection Program. Safety precautions."

"Are you in trouble?"

"I never got out of it, mom." I sigh.

"Is it. . . is it him?" She asks softly, and I nod again. "I'm sorry, honey, I really am."