House of Wolves

He had never felt so raw, so undeniably open.
Just a pale, shivering figure against the grit of the moist and darkened alleyway, with two calloused hands groping at the thick, midnight air and one scratched and rotten throat that produced a feral scream against the dark night. The filthy remnants of stitches and gauze remained almost tapered to the curvature of his cheek, however the physical pain itself had shifted and manifested into something almost completely and utterly different, the absence of not only pain, but any pure emotional feeling completely. He was an entirely blank canvas now, with not only the scars but with the newfound mortality (better yet, the lack thereof) to prove it.

Staggering, his knees shook almost violently as he attempted to stand. The raised veins in his hands grazed roughly against the damp surface of the abandoned buildings that surrounded him, his palms scraping the numerous bricks with a force that was incredibly strong, but not intentional. A small, strained giggle emerged from his chapped and bloodied lips as he continued to grope the darkness. He was still frail enough from childhood, his figure diminutive enough for him to be mistaken still for a child - but then again, that’s exactly what he was. A child. However, his intellect was far beyond that of what it should have been; it was both weathered and strengthened enough from abuse and in those two parallels it was sharp enough to be used against a full grown adults, and used wisely.

Within those desperate and harrowing moments, nothing had mesmerized him more than the stabs of pain that throbbed in even the most intricate and delicate regions of his own flesh, and the sensation of the sheer unknown. He knew, that even in this darkest hour of his rebirth, that something had thoroughly changed forever. He inhaled sharply with these thoughts, his upper lip curling into a crude sneer as his lung chambers filled with air. He didn’t let go of the oxygen; but rather kept it captive inside his lungs and dizzily staggered across the alleyway in the direct of a broken mirror. It reflected the canopy of lonesome buildings that seemed to entomb him, and it also showed the face of a smile.

Exhaling, the boy slowly raised a hand to his reflection and fastened two thin fingers around one sole stitch, first weaving it out from his flesh carefully, and then with enough force to make him shout with both pain and pleasure as small drips of his own warm, corrosive blood trickled down his scarred cheeks. Relishing in his agony, he began to laugh a shrill, echoing cackle that boomed throughout the red bricks and pavement of the deserted parting way. And with that, the boy stood quickly, his spine snapping into place with a sickening jolt. Quickly, he began to skip out of the hellhole that had served as his makeshift womb, keeping the permanent smile on his face tiled downwards in an eerie sneer. “Why so serious?” He moaned to himself quietly before erupting in another fit of laughter.