Hey you guys I'm back! Well here it is, the anticpated sequel to Stitches. Sue me for the corny title, I like it :P This is going to be different than anything I've ever written so I really hope you guys like it. If you've ever seen Repo! The Genetic Opera, well, you'll know where I'm going with this.

Chapter 1

For the longest time, I never really had the desire to go outside. My imagination was able to provide all sorts of entertainment, even in the confines of my room. Dad always told me that it was dangerous outside and I never questioned him. He's the smartest man in the world after all.

Still, I would catch myself looking through the bars in my window out at the world before me, hoping for a glimpse of something new.

The moon always hung eerily over Death City, almost in a sinister manner, as if it was plaguing the city with nightmares and horrors.

My house was on the outskirts of the city, so all I could really see was the cemetery from my little perch since anything farther than that was hidden by thick fog. Dad said we lived so far away because people were evil and he wanted to keep me as far away from them as possible. Since he was always right, I didn't bother to question him.

But now, with sixteen years of life experience, the walls in my room started to suffocate rather than protect, the window confining me rather than showing me my world.

Dad warned me that I'd feel different when I got older and to ignore these thoughts, but they have happened so often that it's practically impossible for me to not notice them.

Lately I'd taken to drawing in the journal Dad had gotten me a few years ago, sketching the moon and whatever else I was lucky enough to see outside my window, which only consisted of the looming trees in the cemetery or the occasional bird that flew past.

I laid on my bed lazily, staring at the beige ceiling above me. My room wasn't very colorful; Dad said bright colors hurt my eyes ever since I was a baby.

There was a soft knock at the door and I sat up, glad for something to break the silence.

"Come in," I said.

The door opened and he came in, carrying the tray with my medicine as usual.

"Hello, dear," he replied, "How are you feeling today?"

"Fine."

I'd always felt fine. To be honest, I couldn't remember the last time I felt sick. But Dad said I had a really bad heart condition and couldn't survive if I didn't take my medicine. He told me the last time I forgot to take them (when I was barely six, if I recall correctly) I went into a massive seizure and he was barely able to save me.

So, I accepted the glass of water he gave me and swallowed the pills obediently, earning an approving glance from Dad as he set the tray down.

He reached over and ran his hand through my long, black hair, his expression becoming thoughtful.

"Good, Shilo," he responded, "Glad to hear that."

I could tell he was inspecting me, making sure I wasn't pale or had red eyes or some other symptom of illness. He also liked to look at me because he said I reminded him of Mom.

Dad never liked to talk about her, but when he did he would always seem really peaceful. He said she'd disappeared when I was little, but other than that I knew nothing.

I assumed I'd gotten a lot of my looks from her like the black hair and round face. The only thing I really had that looked like Dad was my green eyes, though his were framed by his glasses. Well, I guess the stitches were something we had in common.

Dad had a lot of stitches; on his right arm, on his torso and back and even the ones that went from of his forehead to the top of his left jaw. I only had one around my left wrist and one on the left side of my chest; Dad said the latter one was from when I was little and he'd tried to fix my heart.

Oh that was another thing – Dad was a doctor. He told me he'd helped a lot of people over time and would continue to do so until he found a way to fix my heart.

He reached up and twisted the screw that ran through his head (he said it helped him concentrate) as he let out a sigh.

"I need to go to work," he said tiredly, "So I need you to stay here like the good girl I raised you to be."

"I will, Dad," I answered.

He smiled and kissed my forehead, running a hand through my hair again.

"I love you, Shilo," he murmured.

"I love you, too, Dad."

With that, he rose from my bed and went back out through the door he'd come in. I heard him lock it from the outside and laid my head back down on my pillow, sighing.

It was true that I loved Dad, but it was starting to get boring staying in my room my whole life. He said it was to protect me, but I couldn't help that it was starting to all become repetitive. My imagination had started to wear thin and all I could do was draw to keep it alive.

I turned my head to look through the bars of my window again. The cemetery hung in the distance, its misshapen trees creating a strange looking pattern as the small amount of sunlight coming through lit them up.

My black nightgown that I seemed to wear perpetually clung to my body, almost purposely tightening itself against my skin to enhance the suffocating effect my room was having on me.

There seemed to be nothing I could do to stop it; it wouldn't lighten up. No matter what I tried to do to distract myself it hung there, choking me with its inevitably of destroying me.

I continued to look out the window, hoping I could think of something, anything to distract me. And that's when it hit me. That one, poisonous thought leaked into my mind, tempting me dangerously.

I wanted to go outside.

Whew! Told you that was different!

Lot's of stuff going on here, probably lots of questions, which will all be answered in time.

So if you read the first one, review and tell me what you thought! If you haven't read the first story to this, I reccommend reading it before going any further :D