This week's word is Ankle. Thanks as always to Kripke for the loan of his boys to play with.
If he'd had his boots on he'd have been okay.
The snare was designed for small game and the leather of his old boots would have protected his bare ankle from the viciously biting wire.
But he hadn't and the old rusted metal had carved deep into his vulnerable flesh. Crimson dappled the pristine snow.
He'd been too weak to free his hands from behind his back, his numerous injuries robbing him of his usual lithe flexibility.
And so he'd lain on the freezing ground, unconscious from blood loss and pain, until Sam finally found him, half dead, hours later.
Did you enjoy it?