Title: Glint and Glimmer
Fandom: Power Stone
Rating: R for cuttin's and bl00d!
Word Count: 486
Summary: Jack wears bandages, and has a bizarre obsession with knives. This is why…
---
Jack undid the bandages around his stomach slowly--one loop at a time, allowing his pale skin to breath the cold midnight air. Puckered lines criss-crossed the exposed flesh; if the markings had been recent, they would still be red with infection, but a long time had passed since he'd last worked with this segment of his body. He shuddered in anticipation, casting a crimson-eyed gaze over to the knives laid out on the nearby table, glinting in the moonlight.
His green coat lay discarded over a filthy plush chair in the corner of the open-aired room, and his boots--worn from miles of travel--had been left in a heap on the floor nearby. Covered literally head to toe in gauze wrappings aside from his single eye and the section of his stomach he had revealed, he stood as if naked with his arms spread out and his head tilted up.
"Such a beautiful night," he hissed in French, the moon heavy and pale against the black, velvet sky. "Yes, a cold, unfeeling breeze blows tonight. So much like me."
He slinked over to the table, running his fingers along its cracked, dirty surface just shy of the knives' handles. When he reached the end of the set, his hand swiveled and went back, only to repeat the motion at the opposite side. He stood repeating this motion for several minutes, a quiet, broken cackling coming from his figure.
At last his finger stopped just short of a particular dagger--its handle was encrusted with gold and gems, and the blade swooped backwards, smooth and silvery, almost liquid. Fancy, pretty, fluid--all things Jack was not. He didn't feel embittered by this notion, however; he knew he was the opposite. He knew he was disturbed, ugly and unpredictable. He didn't mind the difference. It just made what was to come so much more...grounded. He picked the blade up between two fingers, allowing it to dangle downward like a clock's pendulum, giving more illusion to the blade's water-like properties in the moon's light.
Finally, Jack tossed the knife into the air; he thrust his hand up with his fingers splayed and caught the dagger's handle with the expertise brought on by decades of experience with the weapons. He brought the dagger down towards his stomach and set the point against his side.
His breath became ragged and heavy as he dragged the blade across his abdomen, applying enough pressure to draw blood. He shuddered again, the pain causing his diaphragm to bunch up, pushing the air out of his lungs. His stomach muscles tensed, making the quicksilver slice harder, more painful--more real.
Jack knew he was not of sound mind, but whenever he cut himself like this, he felt his sanity become restored just enough to ground him again. The scary part, he would admit to himself, is that...in the end, he liked the sensation.