03-14-2019, 01:59 AM
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How many times could he get away with using boredom as an excuse for his terrible ideas? Sharpening his collection of knives wasn't entertaining anymore. Beck heaved a hollow sigh, ears flattening to his head as he slumped. Twiddling the tip of his dagger against the heel of his paw, the feline's stub of a tail tried to lash in annoyance. Maybe he could observe the internal structures of his paw, flexing exposed tendons in fascination. Or he could cut up someone else's paw for fun. But was it really fun after he tried it over five times? Glossed-over pupils flitted to the tarnished blade spinning against his paw pad, his other paw clumsily wrapped around its leatherbound handle with his dewclaw overstretched to serve as a thumb. Its glint of silver seemed to wink at him, and a devilish grin split his half-mutilated mouth.
Concentration warped his face into a grim look of determination as he stared at a paw splayed out on a plank of rotten plywood. His paw. The various wraps of bandages previously around his arm were stripped away, revealing raw gashes and bites and cuts -- Beck remained unphased by the injuries. It didn't even hurt anyway. No, he needed to focus on his paw and the spaces between his digits. It was a silly game invented by adrenaline junkies in smokey bars, but who said Beck couldn't crave the threat of danger? Even if a nick or two wouldn't actually matter. Flipping his dagger around to grip it with the blade aimed towards the plywood, the boy twitched in hesitation before plunging the knife down between his dewclaw and first digit. He yanked the blade back to stab at the next space, and the next, until he settled into a choppy rhythm. His nose scrunched and his eyes narrowed as he gradually picked up speed, scarred brow furrowing in an attempt to keep his attention together. Which was unlikely, given the probability of someone walking by and finding interest in his morbid game of dodging an accidental amputation.
Concentration warped his face into a grim look of determination as he stared at a paw splayed out on a plank of rotten plywood. His paw. The various wraps of bandages previously around his arm were stripped away, revealing raw gashes and bites and cuts -- Beck remained unphased by the injuries. It didn't even hurt anyway. No, he needed to focus on his paw and the spaces between his digits. It was a silly game invented by adrenaline junkies in smokey bars, but who said Beck couldn't crave the threat of danger? Even if a nick or two wouldn't actually matter. Flipping his dagger around to grip it with the blade aimed towards the plywood, the boy twitched in hesitation before plunging the knife down between his dewclaw and first digit. He yanked the blade back to stab at the next space, and the next, until he settled into a choppy rhythm. His nose scrunched and his eyes narrowed as he gradually picked up speed, scarred brow furrowing in an attempt to keep his attention together. Which was unlikely, given the probability of someone walking by and finding interest in his morbid game of dodging an accidental amputation.