I want to know this too! Any ideas anyone?
Zachary Goode had always liked knives. The way they felt in his hand, the way the silver shined when he held it just right. He liked throwing them and sharpening them, but most of all, he just liked using them. He liked the feeling of the metal slicing into something. He like watching things curl at the blade’s touch.
Sometimes his fingers twitched and he got this overwhelming urge to cut into something. He wanted to leave a mark. He wanted to make it deep. Wood was fun for a little while, but it left little shavings everywhere that made him sneeze a lot and were too hard to clean up. Stone could be entertaining because it would give off a spark, but mostly it was just too hard and ended up ruining the blades.
He settled for soap. It was either soap or his own fingertips, but when he cut his fingertips, they got too sore to use his knifes, so soap it was.
On the days that he was assigned inventory, he’d stuff a few bars into his pockets. They were nothing special—the type of soap that was bought in bulk and delivered in big boxes. Blackthorne wasn’t good for many things, but one thing they did get right was their soap. It was dry enough to peel away, but soft enough that it kept it’s shape.
That night, he didn’t know what he was carving. All he knew was that he wanted to use his knives. The bathroom was the easiest place to do it. Right in the showers. No one bugged him there and when he was done, he could just leave the water running and all the shavings would dissolve away into the drain.
When he was younger he’d been so quick—just stabbing away and leaving sharp scars, but then he’d been told that he shouldn’t do it so quickly. They were right. It was far more satisfying to strip layers away, one by one. It lasted longer that way. He got more out of it.
When he carved, he felt like he disappeared. He went into a trance, like when he held the guns or when he did the drills. He didn’t even have to think about it anymore. It just happened. Still, it occupied him enough that his brain seemed to go silent, and in his world, that seemed to be a rarity.
He hadn’t known what he was doing. He was just feeling the knife—letting it go wherever it wanted. He hadn’t known that he was carving a soldier.
It wasn’t just any soldier though. It was his soldier. His G. I. Joe, but smaller. Like one of those little green plastic guys, except dumber and shittier looking. It was like a smaller version of the one he had at home. But, then again, he supposed it wasn’t really his home. Not anymore.
He didn’t want to think about that. He didn’t want to think about anything, so he kept carving. He kept slicing until finally he cut all the way through and saw red bubbling up on his fingertip.
Maybe it was a fingertip night after all.