Usually the only traps in territory were the ones set by Beck himself, and the carefully-constructed snares and nets had been dwindling to a complete halt to match the boy's broken mind. So, naturally, one could walk around without fear of being ensnared by one of his traps. Beck himself had nothing to be afraid of, carelessly wandering in the spruce forest below the islands in a hopeless search to find anything lost from his memory. He might of gotten too carried away with staring up at the canopy of pine needles above him, or with ignoring the hateful world around him.
His paw snagged onto a stiffened branch jutting out of the earth, and twisting his ankle around, Beck tripped forward and his snout planted flat against the middle of a circled wire. He had no time to react as the snare's noose tightened around his neck and the whip-like branch snapped upright, pulling the wire taut. The poltergeist was yanked backwards, the noose cutting into his throat and windpipe as he dangled in the air. The shock was enough to keep him from immediately struggling, but it wasn't long until he couldn't breath. If he wasn't already dead, Beck would of been strangled and hanging limply from the snare by now. Even though he didn't require real air, the boy's face was turning blue, but he couldn't do anything about it. A fuzzy darkness crept in his peripherial vision, and he lost consciousness.
Amber eyes peeked open, half-lidded for a moment before his mind fully took in the scene in front of him. It was a forest- but his entire world had been flipped upside down. Instead of being trapped by his neck, the dying boy was strung up by his ankles, the tight rope cutting into his skin through his worn boots. This was when he was human, when he was alive.
A flood of events broke down a barrier in his mind. A month ago, he had had been attacked by a guard dog, leaving a nasty bite on his arm and although he knew how to stop bleeding, he didn't know enough to prevent infection. There had been a family, a dishonest family, yet still an unlucky household of people that were almost as impoverished as he was. They reluctantly took him in, having the decency to fix him up, but never giving him enough freedom. For a full month. Maybe the slightest part of him grew to trust them, like an injured mutt afraid of being put down. Eventually, they sold him out for a cheap reward, backstabbed him, betrayed him, and Beck ran before the guards could search the house. That was the day he learned he couldn't trust anyone, the day he learned that people only helped others for their own gain.
From there, Beck had to run. All the world had become his enemy, tired of his crimes against their corrupt society and tired of his outcast heritage, and when they caught him, they would kill him. But first, they had to catch him. He wasn't sure when he had shaken them off his trail, but by the time the barking of search hounds, the clinks of swords and armor, and the pounding of hooves had disappeared, Beck had taken refuge in the old forest he called home for so many nights. He grew too careless after that. The scene was painted clear in his mindscape; he had been crossing a river by using a log as a bridge, holding his arms out for balance, when the twang of a bowstring released an arrow spiraling into his back. Pain punctured his lung, and he lost his balance, collapsing into the rushing water below the log.
He caught onto a rock after being swept downstream, sputtering up blood and water, when a gloved hand gripped him by the shirt, holding him like a pitiful kitten by the scruff, speaking words ringing in the boy's ears. Beck ended up spitting his blood into his killer's face in an act of foolish rebellion. In retaliation, the guards threw him onto the ground, and the air was knocked out of his burning lungs. The arrow was torn and twisted from where it had lodged itself in between his shoulder blades, damaging the tissue even further. And then he was picked up again, and held underwater face down in the shallow river bank. It wasn't long until his oxygen dwindled and he inhaled the sickening water even more- he didn't remember anything after his vision blacked out.
The guards had left but not without tying the boy's unconscious and bloodied body upside down to the limb of a tree. Beck was left to die. God, he was so cold, despite the sun practically burning up the rest of the forest. He was terribly dizzy, unable to focus on anything for longer than a minute before becoming lethargic again. Originally, he tried in vain to reach up and free his legs from the rope. He couldn't stretch far enough to do more than brush against the knot. Now, he just waited to bleed to death. Beck wasn't sure when the fat tears began to well and fall to the earth below him, sliding past the congealing and sticky blood coating his face. Maybe he actually began to cry not out of pain but of failure when the realization sunk in. He was going to die. Nobody was coming to rescue him, noboy was going to find his body, nobody would ever mourn him. He certainly wasn't scared of the actual end, but he was terrified of being alone when it happened. And when his lungs finally gave up, wheezing out the signature rattle of someone on the brink of lifelessness, Beck gave up, too. He gave up on trying to untie the rope binding his ankles to the branch, and he gave up on trying to at least have a respectable death, peacefully leaned next to a tree, not hanging from one. His eyelids fluttered in a last attempt to stay awake, but he was tired. Death under the guise of fatigue blanketed over his freezing body, and with a final, whistling sigh escaping past his greying lips, the young boy's form tensed for a sluggish heartbeat. There wasn't any more beats after that. The corpse of Beck fell limp, swaying lightly in the forest breeze.
The feline's head snapped up, eyes widened in shock. His mind was speechless, still reeling from the memory. It had been a hour since Beck had gotten himself trapped in the snare still tightened around his neck; the sun was high and glaring in the sky. The previously-numbed wound in his back now burned with full force and full meaning, Beck did nothing. His brain wasn't functioning yet, all the ghost could do was habitually twitch as he tried to collect all the overwhelming information washing over him. Anyone to arrive at the scene now would probably be just as stunned. The boy's chin was coated in his inky blood - Beck must of knocked out one of his shark-like teeth when he tripped, and his crooked ankle dully throbbed. But seeing someone hanging from a hunter's snare, even if they were mostly unscathed, would be worrying to must. Everyone should be out and about by now, someone was bound to stop by and try to help the shocked ghost.