#needmxreteeth

The first time it happened, he had been a little drunk, and some guy had been trying to assert himself on the helpless waitress. Owen had grabbed the guy by his shirt and bodily moved him out to the alley, but instead of giving him the thorough beating he’d intended, he pulled his punches, and let the guy wail on him for a good ten minutes before kicking his ass and scaring him off. The former raptor trainer had gone home with a few bruised ribs, a black eye and a split lip for his efforts. He couldn’t explain it, but the pain had ignited his life once more, filling the otherwise empty void inside. 

After that he’d started trolling alleys after work when he knew Claire had to work late, or times when he was ‘out with the boys’. He’d find anyone who looked like they could deliver a solid punch, and pick a fight, or if luck was on his side, he could at least feel noble and protect someone from a mugger or would be rapist. Whenever Claire asked about his injuries, he would blame them on the job he’d gotten with construction, or tell her that he wasn’t even aware he’d gotten hurt. 

Over the past few months his need for the pain had escalated. No longer would the blunt force of fists stop the ache he felt inside, and his body yearned for something more, something sharper. That was about the time he’d started carrying his hunting knife again. Whenever he had a moment to himself, he would take the wicked sharp blade, digging it under his fingernails, across his hands, or the backs of his knees, places he knew Claire wouldn’t notice or would write off as work injuries. Each slice felt like he was taking away a piece of the hurt, and the anger of losing his family, and every time he drew blood, a warmth would spread through him, easing the cold vacuum of the life he was steadily being sucked into. 

But those urges were becoming harder to suppress with each passing day, and it was the gnawing urge for something deeper that had him standing in the bathroom on a day he knew Claire would be working late again. The room was full of steam, and Owen gazed into the mirror he’d wiped off so that he could see the tanned skin of his torso in the reflection. His clean hunting knife was in his hand, pressed against the counter as he leaned forward, empty eyes staring back at him through he glass, tracing the shape of the blade. A pristine white towel hung low on his hips, a stark contrast that made him realize something he’d been neglecting all along.