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Kiss the Scars You Made

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I can't see. At least, I think I can't see. It's hard to tell, without my glasses. If I could have had my glasses then I can reinforce the theory of a blindfold over my eyes, covering my nose, tickling my cheeks. I can not state it as a fact that my eyes are covered with cloth, and that the blackness I saw is not caused by my own consciousness. But, since they are gone, I can not say for sure.
My wrists; raw and cut from fighting the corded restraints that bind me. I imagine my ear twisting like a dog's, or a cat's, my brain reverting to it's childlike manner, as I strain to listen for the slightest of sounds. Alas, nothing. Nothing but the ominous drips of water and the sickening feeling of eyes on mine, but, as mentioned previously, I am not be sure of my surroundings.
My shoes are tighter, and my sleeves are shorter. They are ripped; there was a struggle. But I digress, it was I who had lost - as shown by my current situation. I suspect that my feet have swelled; my face stinging and larger with the blow I had sustained across my temple. In fact, I am aware now of the beads of sweat on my forehead, mixing with the sticky blood that is currently escaping me.
There it is again.
That feeling.
I twist my neck, which hurt, into the blackness. I have no proof, no noise or vision. Just... intuition. Yes, intuition and intelligence. So, with absolute certainty, I can say there is at least a possibility that someone is watching me.
However slim, or large, that possibility may be.
"Hello?" I call, my throat hoarse and dry, my tongue moving in frantic motion as I try to retain the little moisture left inside. What comes out of my mouth, however, is starkly audible, and it should, in theory, warrant a vocal response. But all that comes of it is the shifting of sheets and my own paranoia.
I swallow.
"Please help me," I whisper. All my strength must be preoccupied, but with what, I can not say. It's as if it had shrunken away, into some deep pit inside me. I snort at the irony, feeling the price of my joy as my head begins to ache immensely.
I half suspect someone to jump to the rescue. For a handsome fellow in shining armour to lift me over his shoulder, but suspect probably isn't the right word. No... wish. I half wish that I am to be saved, but the rational part of me screams otherwise.
However, ration must be thrown away, as harshly and sudden as the blindfold is from my eyes. Ah! So It was a blindfold. I can see now, shapes, light, a blurred man. The blackness is gone.
I blink away the tears that have formed in the corners of my eyes, the exposure to the light cursing them to act up. My brow furrows in concentration as I try to make sense of my surroundings.
However, it is rather hard to, since there's someone blocking my view.
"Hello?" I repeat, but it is more of a question. There is no animosity, nor strength there, and my once timid nature creeps out again.
No answer... but there is action.
The blurred man slides something up the bridge of my nose, his face slowly coming into focus as I blink into the smudged glass.
He is my age, perhaps older, his face sharp but his eyes intuitive, curious. His hair isn't short, nor long, and once it had been shaved at the sides, I suspect. But now, the clipped locks have grown, so that no skin was visible above the ears. On his head, fluffy locks of blond curl around, dust laying on the tips. On his cheeks lay a splattering of freckles, lighter than its background, stopping at his defined cheekbones. His skin is warm, the colour reminding me of a beautiful gemstone I had once owned. What is it... ah yes! Tiger's eye.
And speaking of eyes, his are piercing. Shattered like glass, the blue orbs are the most omnipresent of all of his aspects. I could see the pain, the laughter behind them. In fact, it almost seemed like the two are intertwined.
"Thank you," I breath, steaming up my glasses, the familiar sensation so homely that I almost forget where I am.
The man studies me, his eyes narrow and his mouth pursed slightly. He doesn't answer.
"Who are you?" I ask, my voice breaking and cracking as I do so. He doesn't move.
So I sit, still bound, watching him as he watches me, blue on brown.
It makes my throat itch, and dry as he zeroes in on me. Something about him, it's all too familiar, yet so foreign. And, with the distant recognition in his eyes, I guess that I'm not too far off.
I sigh, and turn away at last, pulling at my restraints.
And then they fall loose, nimble fingers working at the knots.
He had been so swift, I didn't even seen him.
I bring my hands out, wriggling my fingers against the stale air. I smile, for the first time since I had awoken, and laughed. It's cold, and nipping, and there is no joy present. But it is there, and it seems to drive away the shadows, at least for one second. I stand up, my legs numb and wobbling.
Still smiling, I hold out my hand to the blond.
"I'm Dipper," I say, stretching my fingers towards him.
He stares at me for a moment longer, before a sideways smile appears on his face, unsure and almost unseen. He clasps my hand.