TW: Self-harm, though it is not out of an attempt to relieve emotional pain.
Since becoming a spirit, Jack had been more and more curious about his inner workings as time went by. It had been made clear to him that he was immortal, as he felt no particular need to eat or sleep as the humans who failed to see or hear him did. Not to mention he seemed to despise the harm warmth brought, though he wished to be closer to it. Humans relished in it, while he did not, but it was useless, warm embers always attracted him like a moth to an oil lamp.
And then there was when he had seen his former brethren receive a scratch or some such; sometimes it was much worse. A bright red liquid would seep out from the wound when such injuries occurred; it came from all humans and was considered perfectly normal to happen. Jack was curious. These people were so similar to him and yet so different… would the same happen to him of he tried to make himself bleed?
And so, he did. He jacked a knife from an innocent cutlery set belonging to a village resident, which he made a mental note to return later. Then, making sure he was alone in the woods, for his mental security, because it wasn't like anyone could see him doing this, he pulled back the cuff of his sleeve.
He silently admitted to himself that he was nervous. The only kind of pain he had really felt so far that had mattered was emotional. Sure, he had crashed into some tree branches on his sloppy flight attempts, but it hadn't been drastic enough to break skin. And flying made him feel giddy, took heavy weight out of his stomach when he was disheartened, and a little pain was well worth the practice. This was something else entirely, though. This was pain inflicted on him by himself, for no other reason than experimentation and satisfying his own curiosity.
He breathed out in a rush, bit his lip, and pierced his wrist.
The cold of the metal did nothing for him, and there was no heat of the blood that would rush out to greet its sharp edge. It was an odd sensation, feeling nothing but a sharp object inserted in flesh with no inflammation to accompany it, almost like receiving an anesthetic, except the pain could be felt. It was only the jangling of nerves from where he dug in and slowly dragged, and he fought to keep his teeth from breaking the skin on his lower lip because, God, it hurt.
And then it was over. He had crossed the length of his flesh and was allowed to relax his teeth and inspect the damage, the knife laying at his side.
There was no blood. But, on the knife's edge and on the wound's opening, there was an odd substance, reddish in color, flaking off in little bits and pieces. It was frozen blood.
There was relief, but also disappointment. He had blood, he was like the others he had seen. But it was frozen. So he also wasn't at the same time.
This raised the question, more prominent than before; what exactly was he, and where did he belong?
The knife was wiped and returned to its blissfully unaware owner.
AN/: Doing my best to try and update at least once a month, even if it's just something I barfed out on paper in less than an hour because WOW school.
I have been addicted to a multitude of things too, woop sorreeee.
This one kinda makes me feel like I should change the rating ha I'm terrible.
Edit: To Spaztack, Wow you're right whoops. Fixed it.
