Stitches

As I sat there, getting stitched, I wondered why it did not hurt. Your hand, firm and purposeful,  moved without any sign of hesitation. But the fact that it did not cause me any additional pain, meant  that you were doing the job well. The traces of thick, coarse  thread, going in all pale and white, were coming out burgundy. A little red had dripped on to those fine shoes, but surprisingly, the red that appeared a pale color on a pale thread, looked devilishly shiny on a pair of  shiny shoes.
Sitting there, I could not help but notice how high the ceiling was, the ceiling of your chamber. And I could not help but imagine how the red would look on that high ceiling. But then I knew, that no matter how invigorated I feel, I would not be able to reach those ceilings. Those high ceilings protected you and those with you, and you protected those high ceilings right back.
Watching your needle work its magic on my body was no less enchanting that watching  you. Your unfazed expression and your focused eyes, vigilant and scanning for minutest of details gave me an eerie comfort of being looked after. Stitch after stitch made you me feel better, and Stitch after stitch made you feel stronger.