Sam/Sockpuppet, Life on Mars, PG-13, 241 words.
Sam used a small darning kit he found in the medicine cabinet. He supposed it belonged to the tenant before him --- another remnant from the past, along with the peeling wallpaper and mysterious mottled stains on the carpet. A needle, some black thread. He took a couple buttons off the green shirt Toolbox Terry's thugs had mutilated with an iron.
It was only ever meant to be a back-up. Should the voices stop again. Should he be here alone forever. It was only meant to sit there, looking consoling. But as Sam stretched the fabric over the soft skin of the back of his hand. As he looked into those white passionless button-eyes --- Something stirred within him. Forgotten memories of illicit self-abuse in the cupboard under the stairs, surrounded by old toys, of which there was a puppet; an old childhood friend called 'Mr Sockley'. He recalled that day when he'd needed a little more friction, too tired and angry from fighting to expend more energy than was required, how he'd felt so wrong, yet so right.
Sam almost yanked the sock off his hand, pulling at the carefully applied woolen hair. But he stopped. He stopped and popped his jeans, breathing shallowly as the rasp of the zip filled the mid-afternoon air. Sam closed his eyes and revelled in the sensation as synthetic and cotton fibres brushed against him.
It was only ever meant to be a back-up.
