Stitches Graphic Novels & Stories

I don't have any plan o participate, my honour depends on it. "I." Wright. Reid frowned and wrote ‘I’ on the second line. "O." Eugene. Reid's face narrowed even more. He wrote ‘O’ on the fifth line. "S?" Eugene guessed again. Reid smiled and scribbled the first ‘R’ on SURRENDER. "L?" Wright's guess. Reid's smile widened and he snapped the second 'R'. "N?" Eugene. Reid stepped aside and wrote ‘N’ on the third line.

Funny how karma was coming to bite him back in the ass. When Julian found Sia in her home office, carrying a plate of snacks from Martha as his excuse, she was busily working on a fabric draped around a mannequin with a few pins in her mouth, held between her teeth. A box containing a similar set of pins was placed nearby on a stool next to her for when she ran out of them as she now worked on creating pleats and frills while pinning the fabric together to form running stitches.

Barely noticeable—unless you knew where to look. There, in the left shoulder seam of the gown, a double stitch had been drawn. Two tiny, purposeful dashes. She hadn’t included that in the original sketch. It was something her mentor used to mark as a hidden sign of tailored armour—a metaphor. Invisible from the front, but strong enough to hold the entire structure. Her mentor used to call it *the ghost stitch*. Ximena felt her blood still. Only two people knew about that symbol: her, and— No.

he said with that stupid grin. Stella froze for a split second before pretending to laugh it off. “Always playing.” Jonathan looked at me weirdly but said nothing. Later that day, my arm started to ache again. The wound from before hadn’t completely healed. Stella noticed immediately, of course. “Sit down,” she ordered, pulling the first aid box closer. “I’m fine” “Sit,” she said again, voice firm. I sighed and sat. She held the needles gently by feeling them touch my skin as she kept looking at the stitches and examining them as she knelt beside me. Her hand was calm though each of the nerves of my body responded as though it were the first.

Niko There is no painkiller available, so I brace myself as Sven takes on the critical task of patching up the jagged hole left by the bullet. With a steady hand and an unwavering focus, he threads a needle, meticulously preparing to stitch the two sides of skin that have been forcibly separated. Every prick of the needle feels like a sharp jolt, each tug a reminder of the shot endured. I grit my teeth, forcing myself to maintain composure as I watch the world around me blurring in and out of focus through bleary eyes. Bianca's earlier theft of the medical gear now weighs heavily on my mind, amplifying my discomfort as Sven deftly works, weaving the sutures with expertise honed through exper

Alston’s life depends on this. Finally, the last stitch is in place. I tie off the thread and cut the excess, leaning back to survey my work. The wounds are no longer gaping, but they still look angry and red. I grab the bandages, wrapping them around his torso to protect the stitches and keep the wounds clean.

Danica said her voice was mellow and calm. He wasn't ready. He looked over the wound once more before deciding he was going to put one stitch in the widest most middle part of the wound first to help keep a center and hold the skin together as he worked. He pinched the side of her skin with the forceps and pushed the need through the skin. The needle piercing her skin and the thickness push back of it on the needle made him cringe. He glanced up to study her face but there was nothing. It was like Danica had shut everything out and she wasn't there right now. He brought the needle and suture across the wound and pierced the skin on the opposite side. He pulled the suture through and grasped

When we arrive home, everyone hurries in. “Bring him to my room, Mom,” I say, guiding her upstairs with Anthony. I get a first aid kit as Mom sits Anthony on the bed. I walk back over to him, and I remove the shirt Mom has over the stab wound. “It’s pretty deep. I know how much you hate needles, but I have to stitch it, Anthony,” I say. He nods his head, beads of sweat dripping down his face. I thread the needle, and Anthony sits through the stitching like a champ, laughing and talking through it all.

And then he saw it—a red stain seeping through Davina's shirt, right on her stomach. "What is this?" he asked, his voice starting to panic. Davina looked down, her eyes avoiding Marco's gaze. "I... I didn't want to tell you." Marco didn't wait for permission. With careful but firm hands, he opened Davina's shirt. And what he saw made his blood run cold. On Davina's stomach, there was a rough, messy stitch mark. The skin around it was red and inflamed, and blood was still seeping through the gaps in the stitches. The stitches looked like amateur work, done in haste and without proper care.

For a stupid, unprofessional, un-Kir moment, his other hand, the one that’s been steady on my hip through all of it, presses just a little harder. Not for my sake, he does that all the time. This one is for his. He needed that to be over as much as I did. "Can I see it," I say. "When you are closed up. Two minutes. It is very gross though." He goes back to work. The saline rinse is cold and clean. The thread goes through the first time, a sharp pinprick in the edge of the numb patch, and the tug as the skin is drawn together. Two stitches, he said.