#t;construct

He doesn't have any, other than the ones on his wrists, which have already been explained.

Due to his past, several mental scars - that have been deemed as "Mental Disorders" have been carved into his being; the biggest one being SPD, or Sadistic Personality Disorder.

Two scars that he lives with are the emotional meltdown started with the murder of his father, followed by the scar of isolation, created during the one to three month time period after his father's death.

I dreamed I killed a man. He reminded me of my father. Same height, same build, even same bone structure. Jawline so defined, I feared I’d cut myself upon contact. I dreamed that his demise was slow, that I took my time. I dreamed that he screamed, begged, pleaded, and bargained. And that nothing swayed me toward mercy. When my father died, it was swift - merciful; so this was a nice change from how I actually ended his life. The time that I took brought a smile to my face, one that I’d gone without for far too long. I dreamed that I carved my name into his flesh, so that angels could cry to the one who handed him the deliverance of his soul. And, then, I drained him. Drained him of the human race's most precious source of life, and bathed my spirit until the colour imprinted. Finally, I dreamed that I removed his hands. They were the most resplendent part of him, you see. Slender palms, piano fingers, supple flesh and a tone to the colour that would make him envied and revered. I delivered them to a friend, whose mission in life is to collect parts of the human anatomy In the hopes that she could, one day, build the perfect human doll. And I burned him afterwards, using the flames that charred the vessel of his spirit as a comfort to the chill in the air. Only after this did I realise that the dream I dreamed wasn’t a dream at all. The next day revealed the story of a man who went missing the night before, presumed dead. It showed he was married with three children, much in the same fashion that my father was. And I knew that somewhere, in this very city, that same wife - those same children - cried for the death of their loved one. They mourned for a life they’d never revel in again. And I, in my own private world, relished the song of loss I could hear in the distance. And I dreamed a dream that it would happen again.