A man lay on the floor in an abandoned log cabin. Curled in a massive shivering ball, much like a dog, he whimpers in his sleep. He is tormented by the memories of his father.
"You're no son of mine." The man walked down the stairs to the basement, where a young Sabertooth was sitting, crying on the floor. "You're some kind of animal; full of wickedness, that's what it is." The man raised a large wooden stick, grinning cruelly. "Don't you worry boy, Jedediah Creed knows how to get the wickedness out of you."
The enormous man on the floor of the cabin whimpered,
"No daddy, no. I'll be good, I promise."
Sabertooth's white eyes opened slowly, eyes slightly damp with emotion. Realizing what a weak coward he'd been, he was immediately filled with rage, and commenced destroying anything within his reach. After successfully burning out his seemingly limitless rage, he collapsed to the floor, shaking, not with exhaustion, but with frustration. Dreams of his childhood had been haunting him relentlessly over the past few weeks, consistently reducing him to a whimpering pup.
Sabertooth left the mutilated cabin, and stepped out into the cold northern air. He never felt as at home anywhere as he did in the solitary wilderness of Canada. Bending down on all fours, he took off with no direction, simply running for the sake of running. Not all of his dreams were bad, some were fond memories, which he hated even more than the one's of when his father beat him. They reminded him of just how badly he'd been screwed over. He snarled as he raced through the wilderness, intent on utterly destroying the next living thing he found.