needles and thread [bill x georgina]

little bill cubs

Years ago a lamb relieved himself while Little Bill gave the babe a ride on his shoulders and the smell stuck with him for months. The Cubs residence wasn’t equipped with a shower like his training center bedroom, and no matter the time he spent scrubbing his skin red in the large wooden barrel they used as a tub he couldn’t make the scent of fresh piss leave. It soaked into his bedsheet, clung to his clothes, and infiltrated every waking moment of his life.

That was how he felt after having hot soup spilt on him by the girl from 11, despite the napkins used to sop it up and the steaming shower he’d gone and taken after. Back in the training room, he still smelled chicken broth rising from his body, and he wondered if his extraordinary sense of smell was his body’s way of making up for missing an eye. He grabbed a handful of needles from first aid and closed his fist tight, letting the pinpoints prick him all over, reminding his body who was ultimately in control, reminding himself how out of control he truly was.

He took a breath and let the needles drop to the floor, one too deep and still hanging from his palm as he walked off toward the blades station. He was unsettled, frustrated, and mostly drawn to the sharp knives and swords because of his own morbid desire to destroy himself; but this wasn’t the place for that, and one slow stroke of a spear tip was enough to draw blood and quell his thirst. Little Bill stood still, needle still dangling from his hand, and watched as another girl picked up a blade, uncertainty worn on her face like war paint.