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Blindly, Alec felt for his scalpel, feeling his mouth dry up. The sensation of cold steel pushing through skin, nerves and flesh, cutting a lump of meat into shape, paring off the rot until it was sparkly new - just like a good little soldier should be... it frightened him. It made him terrified and alive, and shook him to his core. With the most careful, delicate twist of the metal, he circled the eye-socket, barely breaking a nerve. Fine bones. Fine eyes. Pity about the knife to the face.
Alec Durand, Neither the Sun Not Death
 •  •  •  •  •  |
5:02 AM Nov 23
