Stitched

A woman’s loud, sorrowful cry muffled through the locked closet door. Little light passed through the gap, submerging the interior in blackness.

“What was that?” murmured Filo.

“Keep quiet,” whispered a voice from the back.

Filo hated darkness. He preferred bright rooms, peaceful music, and people passing by. He couldn’t handle the stuffiness inside the closet. The woman’s cry turned to shrieking. A rush of fear made Filo curl up.

“What’s The Tormentor doing to that poor woman?” he thought. “How unlucky was I to be picked by her and locked up with lunatics? Who in their right mind would think this is a great place to stay?” Filo wanted to get out, but he found himself trapped between the maniacs, unable to move. He tried jiggling.

“Stop it!” said an angry voice, and “We’re still sleeping,” said a grumpy one.

No matter how hard he fidgeted, he remained stuck.

“What’s your problem?” said a sweet, yet annoyed voice.

“I don’t belong here.”

She sighed. “It’s the new one.” There was a pause. “You’ll get used to it.”

“Didn’t you see what The Tormentor did the other day?”

“The Tormentor?”

“Yeah. One of you—the green one—was all joyful and fat when she fetched him. Hours later, he returned all worn out, barely hanging onto life.”

“That was me!” said an old-sounding voice, followed by a dusty cough.

“She’s lovely,” said the sweet voice.

“Right. Which one are you?” Filo sounded disgruntled.

“The yellow one," she said as if you could hear her eyes rolling.

“Well, Yellow. You’re brainwashed. It’s not normal what she did to Old Green.”

“She didn’t torment me,” said Old Green. “I was worn out, but in a good way—like after a hard day’s work.”

“How can that be a good thing?”

“Oh, shut your…” said Yellow, interrupted by heavy, muffled footsteps from outside.

Filo coiled up. The closet door swung open, letting in a blinding light. The Tormentor eclipsed the window, overshadowing Filo and the lunatics. A shivering terror darted down to his middle as he looked up at her ginormous silhouette. Her astronomical hand magnified as it came closer. She picked him up. “She’s got me!” Filo wailed.

“Stay calm!” shouted Yellow.

“What has she got planned for me?” he thought. Panting, he glared at the lunatics in the closet. Suddenly it felt safer back with them. He watched Yellow, Old Green, and the others on the shelf disappear around the corner. The Tormentor entered another room. Filo turned his focus on the crying woman who sat hunched on a chair.

“You didn’t deserve any of this,” he whispered.

She sat Filo upright on a desk, giving him a full view of the room. On the right sat the sobbing woman, face in palms; on the left, a table with machinery and sharp tools for inflicting pain; and in the middle, The Tormentor, approaching the weeping woman—probably to agonise her. Cut pieces of cloth lay across the floor. Filo sank to the sufrace of the desk, paralysed with fear.

“I have to get out of here,” he muttered.

“Where to?” said a metallic voice close to him.

Filo startled. “Who—What are you?” he said, gawking at a thin, steel figure with one eye, standing on a cushion.

The figure chuckled. “Don’t fret. I’m a needle. A thread like you is just what we need.”

“A thread? What for?”

“You must be the young one Green mentioned.” The needle faced The Tormentor, who lifted a tall white dress in the air with both hands. It had a gut-wrenching tear on its side. “We need you for that.”

“She destroys everything!” blurted Filo, retreating behind his cylindrical spool. He’d roll away to make an escape, but The Tormentor outsmarted him by grounding him on his flat side.

“Quite the opposite,” said the needle. “She’s repairing it… with you and I.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Your colour is a match. With your thread and my eye, we’ll repair the dress.”

“That’s repulsive,” said Filo. He loosened some of himself from the cylinder, gliding back and forth, thinking of a way out. “I refuse to be used for such things.”

“But that’s your purpose. You were created to be more than just a thread.”

“Just a thread?” Filo sniggered. “I’m complete as I am. What more can I be?”

“Buttons, zippers, wedding dresses...”

Filo shook his head. “No thanks.”

The needle gave a coarse chuckle. “Oh, you have yet to see the wonders.”

“I don’t care,” said Filo. “I want to go back to my bright room.” He slithered over his loose self and leaned against the spool.

“I’m afraid you don’t have a choice,” said the needle in a soft voice. “The seamstress chose you.”

“The seamstress? You mean, The Tormentor.”

“Why do you call her that?”

Filo slid towards the needle. “She took Old Green out of the closet. He looked pretty beaten up when he returned. Also, in her one hand, she carried two monumental blades that she used to cut him to pieces!” He gestured at the crying woman. “And look at what she’d done to her.”

The needle let out a breath. “You’re misunderstanding it all.”

“You’re working with her, aren’t you… to destroy us? I’ve had it with you!” Filo sped back to his spool. A sudden pull from behind made him smash into the desk. He glanced back where he felt tension and saw a twisted ball. “What’s going on?!”

“It seems you tied yourself into a knot,” said the needle.

Filo squirmed, but the knot didn’t budge or loosen. “I can’t get it out.”

“The only way out is to trim it.”

The memory of Old Green cut in pieces snapped into Filo’s mind, giving him the jitters. He looped himself around the spool, retreating behind it. “Why me? I did nothing wrong.” he whimpered.

“Now, now,” said the needle. “You’re just blinded by your youth. You’ll learn to see the beauty that follows.”

“I don’t want to become anything I’m not.”

“You won’t. No matter how short you get, you’ll remain yourself.”

“I don’t see how that’s possible with parts of me spread out all over the world.”

“It’ll make sense in time. Enormous joy comes from giving.”

“Why aren’t you worn out or shorter?”

“I’m not as special. I’m just a sewing needle. My only purpose is to guide you.” The needle smiled. “I get oily fingers, but I prick them too. My reality is always returning to this cushion—as a needle. You get to share yourself in dresses, badges, fancy jackets, and sometimes underwear. Unlike me, you become greater.”

“I’m scared.” Various kinds of torture ran through Filo’s mind.

“I’ll be with you all the way,” said the needle.

Filo noticed a shadow clouding over them. “The Tormentor!”

She picked Filo up. Helpless, he screamed, “Please no! Noooo!”

She held him close to her intimidating, balling blue eyes, and frowned.

When Filo saw that, he went numb. “This is the end of me.”

The seamstress pinched his head between two fingers, gripped his spool with the other three, and stretched him out. He felt the twisting of the knot getting tighter. The grinding screech of steel blades opening from down below whispered a promising death.

“The cutter!”

The colossal blades rose up, coming in from the side. Filo prepared himself to be beheaded. He shut his eyes.

“At least I’ll be out of my misery,” he thought.

The scissors closed with a sharp ‘SHHK.’

*Snip* The knot fell to the ground.

Darkness overcame Filo, but only because he still had his eyes shut. He blinked, and saw the seamstress smiling. She picked up the needle and put him with Filo.

“I’m still here,” said Filo.

The needle chuckled. “You just experienced what humans call a haircut.”

Filo felt the weight of dread slide off. “What now?”

“The fun begins.”

The seamstress forced Filo through the eye of the needle after a wet lick, which he thought was weird.

“It’s normal,” said the needle.

She pulled Filo through, gripped the needle, and pushed them into the torn part of the dress. The texture of the dress scraped against Filo as he got pulled out the other side of the tear. Back in they went. He felt tightness growing in various places the more they cycled through—like multiple knots at a time, but in a good way. Through and through he followed the guiding needle. Up, down, back and over—repeatedly as the seamstress stitched the dress.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” he said.

“You’ll get used to it,” said the needle.

The seamstress finished stitching the dress, and snipped Filo one last time. Back on the desk, Filo felt thinner and lighter; and tired but still himself, just like Old Green described.

“See? You just lost some weight,” said the needle.

The woman on the chair jumped to her feet and hugged the seamstress. Instead of crying, she rejoiced. “Thank you, thank you!” she said. She changed into the dress and observed herself in front of the mirror. “Glorious. Now I don’t have to cancel the wedding.”

“Remarkable,” said Filo, staring at the wedding dress with twinkling eyes. “Where’s the tear?”

“We fixed it,” said the needle. “A long part of you went in there that made it whole.”

“Wow,” Filo exhaled. A tender warmth ran through his entire loop of thread. "That's amazing."

And so it went since that day. Filo became friends with Yellow, Old Green and the rest of the threads. Whenever the seamstress opened the closet door, he wanted to be picked. Not only did he get to help others, but he also got to spend time with the needle. They remained best friends until Filo’s very last day—when he was old and coughing like Old Green did back in the day—with only a few loops of thread left around his spool.

“We had some fun times,” said Filo in a raspy old voice.

“You finally got to be part of someone's underwear,” said the needle.

Filo laughed. “Here she comes. Gotta go.”

“Nice knowing you, friend.”

The seamstress picked Filo up for his last job. “Farewell, my friend.”

THE END