"Scratching at Old Stitches"
Chapter 1
"The first curve in the Downward spiral."
There's… darkness.
Darkness all around him.
Why can't he… see?
He's… on his knees, the floor cold under his limbs.
His heart beating at an alarming rate, cold sweat covering his face like a second skin, hands shaking...
He's… panicking. W-Why is he-
He hisses as pain explodes behind his eyes.
There is… ringing in his ears.
Why… why is there ringing-
He stopped, eyes wide though still unseeing.
There is something in his hand.
Something... hauntingly familiar.
Something he felt every night, heavy in his small nine-year-old hand, for fifteen years in his darkest nightmares.
The… tool was cold.
Cold enough that he can't let go.
He reaches out with his other hand, to try and pry it off, and feels something wet and sticky on the tool once his fingers finally brush against it.
A part of him knows he should recognize that substance.
Another wishes he never did.
Giving up on trying to pry the unwanted… tool away from his grasp, he slowly lowered his free hand to the ground, in an attempt to feel his way around him and hopefully figure out where he is.
Because he just can't... remember.
He freezes again, as his palm hits the floor, his heart skipping a beat in silent terror.
There is a puddle of something wet and sticky.
Right in front of him.
Shaking now, he lifts the stained hand to his nose, praying that, for once, his esteemed logic will be wrong and someone simply spilled soda on the floor. That this is nothing more than his imagination fueled by fear.
With his heart in his throat, he takes a careful sniff, and immediately all his hopes came crashing down.
The smell was metalic and sweet.
Blood.
He swallowed, pushing the hand away.
It was blood.
Fresh, if the wetness he feels at his knees is any indication.
Hand shaking even harder, he reached out beyond the puddle, deducing that the source of the blood must be somewhere in that direction.
His hand nearly shot back when he felt hair under his fingertips.
A body.
There is a body.
He forced himself to explore further, running his hand down the victim's head.
He found the cause of death, a bullet hole in the middle of the unfortunate soul's forehead, when he accidentally pushed his pointer finger into it.
The tool firmly grasped in his other hand, weighted more on his conscience, than in his hand.
He knew what it was.
He just hoped he was wrong.
Reaching with his hand beyond the head, to distract himself from feeling that weight in his hand, he felt something sickeningly familiar when he got to the neck.
There was something tied around it.
Something that's not a tie.
Something he would recognize everywhere, even in this darkness...
For the exact same thing adores his own throat at this very moment.
He moved away from the body, the movement jerky as if he was burned, his free hand immediately going to cover his mouth.
"Jesus..." He breathed, voice raspy. "Did… Did I-"
The door behind him opened, and the room was showered with bright light.
"Mr. Edgeworth! What happened?! Are you alright?!"
Ignoring the burning sensation in his eyes, as well as the person that pushed the door open, he zeroed on the body.
Even with his glasses missing, he could still recognize the familiar, silver hair and the haunting dark-blue suit.
'Yes.' A tiny voice answered the unfinished question, from the back of his mind.
'You did.'