[align=center][div style="width: 400px; font-size: 9pt; font-family: arial; text-align:justify; "]"I can't—I can't do it." What if he messes up? What if he doesn't do it the right way and ends up hurting her? There's too much pressure on him.
"Listen—listen to me, Burnabee." The mentor grips his upper forearm and Burnabee wishes he didn't feel so weak, so vulnerable when he faces him. The man's eyes are firm. "There's no other way. Get it done."
The teenager takes an unsettled breath (Stand tall, Burnabee. Don't look down). He nods (Don't show it, don't show it) and looks back down at the arm, takes the needle and begins to stitch. His mind doesn't clear, in fact, it becomes so muddled he has no other choice but to focus on one thing so he doesn't lose his stomach.
His hands are steady, his face is stony—it's easy to call up that barrier like a circuit in his brain that's worn a groove so deep, it'd be impossible to forget. But his insides are as shaky and when he cuts the stitch off the needle, he feels like he's dying.
"Well done, Burnabee." He gets clapped on the shoulder. It doesn't fill him with pride; it only solidifies the growing stone of fear in the pit of his stomach.
"You've fucking traumatized him! He can't even go back in that room without shutting down. Do you see the look on his face when he goes in there? Completely blank."
"I was only doing what we're supposed to do—"
"You were supposed to teach him, guide him. Not force him to do something like that when he wasn't ready."
He probably shouldn't be hearing this. This conversation isn't meant for him—but it's about him and so he stays, and listens with his fingers tugging at each other to try and settle his nerves.
"So he stitched a scar up. So what?" He hears a sound that resembles a scoff. "It wasn't a scar. It was a tear in someone's arm and you made him look at that and stitch it himself?" Another angry sound reaches him. "You goddamn idiot. There's a reason we're going slow with the apprentices—"
Wouldn't he have just seen something like that anyway? But he's already backing away and leaving down the hall. He goes to his room and throws himself on the bed, before curling up with his knees close to his chest. He tugs the blanket over him and shuts his eyes, hoping he'll never have to see that much blood ever again.
"Listen—listen to me, Burnabee." The mentor grips his upper forearm and Burnabee wishes he didn't feel so weak, so vulnerable when he faces him. The man's eyes are firm. "There's no other way. Get it done."
The teenager takes an unsettled breath (Stand tall, Burnabee. Don't look down). He nods (Don't show it, don't show it) and looks back down at the arm, takes the needle and begins to stitch. His mind doesn't clear, in fact, it becomes so muddled he has no other choice but to focus on one thing so he doesn't lose his stomach.
His hands are steady, his face is stony—it's easy to call up that barrier like a circuit in his brain that's worn a groove so deep, it'd be impossible to forget. But his insides are as shaky and when he cuts the stitch off the needle, he feels like he's dying.
"Well done, Burnabee." He gets clapped on the shoulder. It doesn't fill him with pride; it only solidifies the growing stone of fear in the pit of his stomach.
"You've fucking traumatized him! He can't even go back in that room without shutting down. Do you see the look on his face when he goes in there? Completely blank."
"I was only doing what we're supposed to do—"
"You were supposed to teach him, guide him. Not force him to do something like that when he wasn't ready."
He probably shouldn't be hearing this. This conversation isn't meant for him—but it's about him and so he stays, and listens with his fingers tugging at each other to try and settle his nerves.
"So he stitched a scar up. So what?" He hears a sound that resembles a scoff. "It wasn't a scar. It was a tear in someone's arm and you made him look at that and stitch it himself?" Another angry sound reaches him. "You goddamn idiot. There's a reason we're going slow with the apprentices—"
Wouldn't he have just seen something like that anyway? But he's already backing away and leaving down the hall. He goes to his room and throws himself on the bed, before curling up with his knees close to his chest. He tugs the blanket over him and shuts his eyes, hoping he'll never have to see that much blood ever again.