User:Cywren Vilinax

Creepypasta: Patch

They call me Patch.

Why? Because I wear clothes that seem poorly sewn, ripped and ragged, threads hanging everywhere to the point where the tips touch the ground. Some small patches sewn here and there, the only purpose for the ripped holes scattered across the plain, mud-stained garbage I call clothes.

I sewed them myself.

Im not a very good sewer as you can tell. My real name is Skylar Wyatts, and 'They' are the people who tug on my hair, pull on my clothes, trip me over, and call my sewing ridiculous. They go to school with me. Can't you tell I have good friends?

Now, more about me. My parents abandoned me ever since I was well... Young. I don't quite remember. Some witch took me in called Annette Kasrater, and she 'raised' me ever since, and by 'raised', I mean beat. She never bought me clothes, she just took some threads and needles, bunched them together and said, "Here ya go, hurry up and sew up some clothes, Im not wasting any money on some idiot I found on the street."

Maybe I wasn't meant to live a life like this. I dunno. But everything changed after one night...

Walking home was a drag, it was raining ever since I showed up at school. Soon I found myself running up the steps of the old, run down house, my shoes sloshing with water, as I was knocking on the door repeatedly. I tried looking through the window, wiping away the cold droplets of rain, and peering through the glass. Through the window, I saw Annette sitting on the red, worn-down couch, in the living room, snickering as she was watching TV, ignoring the loud knocks heard at the door. "Ugh!" I cried out, slamming my fists into the white, pathetic door, the white paint chipping off, the color ebbing away into a grayish color.

"Time to go around the back door again." I muttered, spinning around in an angered manner, walking down the stone steps, and turning the curb, heading to the back-yard. As I approached the back door, I let my hand touch the cold, silver knob, and turned it, opening the door as an unpleasant sound came into earshot, the sound of my step-mom snickering and snorting as she watched a 'funny' old game show that she watched non-stop. She turned around to find me walking in when she heard the door creak open. "Finally, you're home! What took you so long?!" She demanded, landing her right hand in her hip, waiting for an answer. "Sorry I took long, it was raining and-" "'Sorry' ain't gonna cut it girl, I'm starving, go make something for me." She ordered, turning back around to enjoy her TV show. I huffed with exhaustion, walking over to my room, which was a closet. I opened the door and set my pack on the floor. Walking out, I headed over to the kitchen which was next to the living room, the sound of my step-mom chuckling soon getting on my nerves. I decided to make a sandwich, pulling out slices of cheese and ham from the small fridge.

Soon, I finished making the sandwich, laying it on a plastic plate, taking it to the wooden table next to the back door. "Annette, your food-" I was interrupted once again as Annette began snickering loudly. "Annette-" She chuckled again as I walked over to her. "Annette, your food's ready." I said, gritting my teeth. "Wha? Oh, hang on- Hahahaha!" I rolled my eyes, realizing that I forgot to bring a napkin. As soon as I retrieved the napkin, I approached the wooden table and found Annette standing in front of her seat, staring at me accusingly. "What is this?" She gestured with a nod of her head at the sandwich placed upon the plate. "A sandwich..." I replied slowly. She smacked my shoulder, making me stumble back from the blow. "Don't play dumb! What is this? I told you to make me pasta!" She accused. (Haha, thats funny, comment if you know why that's funny) "What?" I began, "No! You just told me to make you something!" I retorted. Another smack to the face. I held my cheek, stepping back, a painful tingle left in my face.

"Don't lie to me!" She yelled, as she grabbed my shoulder and pushed me back. A single tear slid down my cheek. "Why are you doing this over some sandwich?!" I cried out, leading to more beats into the side. I shut my eyes, tears flooding through my lids. I heard foot-steps disappear into the kitchen, and back. I opened my eyes once more, and there in front of me is Annette... With a knife hanging above her head, an insane look in her eyes. I stared up at her, horror-struck. "A-Annette... Wh-what are you-" Before I could finish my sentence, Annette swung the knife down into my face, piercing my eye, digging it out. Loud screams were joined in with the unpleasant sounds of sloshing and squelching. Blood overflowed and streamed down from my eye socket, and slowly slid down my face. I finally took control and kicked Annette back, making her stumble backward. The knife flew out of her hand as she landed on the floor, and soon I took my chance. I grabbed the handle of the knife, blood reflected in the silver blade. I soon kneeled in front of Annette, raising the knife high above my head. "You were never a good mother..." I said, my voice quivering. She looked up at me with a look of horror and plead reflected in her eyes. I closed my eyes and landed the knife into her chest, swinging it back and forth in and out, til I knew she was dead. I sat back, crying into my knees.

Later, I was in the bathroom, staring at myself in horror. Earlier, I had taken a large black button and... Well... I basically sewed it onto where my eye was pierced out. I don't know. It's better than having no eye? Now there was one more problem to take care of.

Annette.

Soon, I was at her side, glaring down at her blood-soaked corpse. "You deserved this..." I whispered. I let my anger take charge as I grabbed the knife from the ground, my sanity broken into pieces, as I chopped off all her limbs, her head, making of a bloody mess. I stared at the horror in front of me, soon grabbing the thread and needle. Carefully, I stitched her head to where her right arm is supposed to be, and attached her right leg to where her head should be. Next, I stitched her left arm to where her right leg should be. Later, I've placed her limbs and her head in the complete wrong places, as a devilish smile creeped upon my face, staring at my horror-filled artwork. Getting up from my place, I walked up to the wall behind Annette's, now deformed, corpse. Using my bloody index finger, I wrote: "It was her fault", and grabbed my sewing kit, and fled.