Post by Patrick O'Connor on Feb 8, 2010 0:13:11 GMT -8
Theme
It had been a long time. A long time since Patrick O'Connor had walked these halls. It was just another memory. A memory in a long list of memories that he wanted to forget. That he wanted to pass along with his passing. He had to admit. It hurt being here. He felt the pain of a hundred lives lost here. The pain of all those that he had maimed, all the live he had killed. All of them, there was no one here that he had done anything but hurt here. It had been over two years since he had been in these halls, and he had spent most of it binging trying to forget in many, many mediums. Alcohol, painkillers, blood and violence. All of those he had used in attempts to forget. For all reasons his time here his memories should be faded and jaded, unclear. But all he could do as he walked the halls was remember everything. All the pain he had felt before hand. And doubly so all the pain he had caused. It hurt him deep. Yes, as hard as it may have been to believe for 259 Patrick O'Connor had in fact regained his conscience, and his care for people.
The appearance of the twenty year old man was best described as tired. His scarred face showed it. It also showed the look of death, if not that at least that he was sick, a dirty yellow staining the features of his softer flesh around his eyes. Patrick felt no pity for himself because of this though, only the feeling that this was right. This was his punishment for living in sin. This was also his saving grace. Grace to release him from the pain. He knew that he had little time left and for that he was grateful. A few weeks at most, days at best, or worst for you optimists. His hair was the same length and the same style that anyone who remembered would know. In fact his entire appearance remained the same, all the scars, the black fingerless gloves, the black tank top and khaki cargo shorts. The only difference in clothing was the fact that he no longer wore his white bandanna across his head. That was not for him anymore. Not for the twenty year old senior that would never see graduation. He did not bear that innocence anymore.
The times had changed for him and they hadn't. He noticed that school hadn't changed a goddamned bit. He saw a student being beaten on the ground by another. The times had not changed. It made him angry and sad. He felt bad for the victim. The times had changed, he cared for this victim of 259, the times hadn't changed he was once again the boy that had entered 552 with the hops of protecting the weak. No matter what the cost, especially now, Patrick knowing full well that this fight could kill him. In fact he hoped that it would. Irony, that this type of student that once upon a time he would be able to destroy without much of an after thought may kill him. Oh damn, the humanity huh?
Regardless Patrick couldn't let the victim continue to get beat. That meant he couldn't die yet right? Patrick firmed his resolve and moved into a slow sprint towards the attacker shooting his foot out straight at the last moment hitting the kid in the back. Patrick grimaced as is was far weaker then he would have liked but it did the job, it threw the attacker off of the victim. Without a word Patrick stepped in front of the victim, shielding him with his own body as he placed his hand on the old and beaten badge that hung from his pocket that read defender, another token of a life he wished would end. The attacker got up and growled some words of a threatening and derogatory nature at Patrick, picking fun mostly at his sickly and oldish appearance. Patrick paid no heed as he silently waited for the attack that could very well spell his own doom.
It came and fast. Patrick saw it all but even though he was not fast enough to react accordingly. The three punch combo scored, all three times, amazing considering that in his heyday the irishman was known as a counter fighter. To his benefit though, his only true strength maintained itself. He was still a tank, albeit a weaker one but still a tank. Three shots hit him, two in the cheeks, one in the chest. A little dismayed Patrick realized that he wouldn't be countering anything. If he was going to win he was going to have to trade flesh for flesh. Not a good prospect for a dying man who couldn't die now. The next two shots hit him in the chest as he was able to trade it for only one punch, a weak overhand right at that. The aggressor took a step back and them mocked Patrick in disbelief of the weak punch. Patrick hardly heard it noting that his shirt was beginning to tear and he was beginning to sweat. The attacker pressed again in a fury. Patrick was Barely able to keep up with the body shots that were tearing him and his shirt to shreds. As luck would have it Patrick was able to land a solid blow, a right elbow transferring all his body weight into the kid's head, cutting him open above his eye. He had stunned the kid but not finished him, something that even two moths ago would have floored the kid and more. Now it was one of those weak one in a million shots. Patrick had to follow up panting in a sweat two more punches to the kid's face as he too regained his cool returning fire. They were now literally trading blows as Patrick had once again found resolve, abjectly noting that his shirt was no long on, having fallen apart under the other kids blows. He took two more shots before he found the one last opening he would need. His left fist connected with the kid's skull as he would grab the kid's collar with his right, merely placing him down on the ground. No more excessive force, just enough that was required, barely enough.
Patrick inhaled sharply, turning around to face the victim, offering him a hand up that the irishman would find very difficult to lift. In a voice that was never before heard by anyone in this half of the country, a tired, but caring voice he asked, "Are ye ok kid?"
The kid looked at Patrick's chest noting the scars that were numerous before looking at his green eyes, thanking him and running off.
Patrick fell to the locker, leaning up against it for support, thankful that the kid was gone and he now could. His head leaned up against the locker as his upper body felt the cool metal of the lockers. He was exhausted. He mused that it was the first time he had lost his shirt for the first time since the craziness started. It was funny really. That time he had lost his shirt would mark the beginning of his suffering. Funny. At the time there had only been two sets of scars on his torso, the wings on his back, now visible for the general populace for the first time in a long time and the four lines that ran down his chest to his navel, token of a clawed freak in New York. Now those scars were accompanied by numerous other scars on his chest and sides mainly. Old knife wounds, gunshots which were both holed scars and bruise deformations. A muscular frame scarred by the nightmares of the past. As Patrick coughed he couldn't help but by glad that he was nearing the end. In a whisper that was tinged with gladness he said, "Almost there."
At least he was one step closer to regaining his honor,
and his peace...
But he didn't know he was the only one there to witness this...
It had been a long time. A long time since Patrick O'Connor had walked these halls. It was just another memory. A memory in a long list of memories that he wanted to forget. That he wanted to pass along with his passing. He had to admit. It hurt being here. He felt the pain of a hundred lives lost here. The pain of all those that he had maimed, all the live he had killed. All of them, there was no one here that he had done anything but hurt here. It had been over two years since he had been in these halls, and he had spent most of it binging trying to forget in many, many mediums. Alcohol, painkillers, blood and violence. All of those he had used in attempts to forget. For all reasons his time here his memories should be faded and jaded, unclear. But all he could do as he walked the halls was remember everything. All the pain he had felt before hand. And doubly so all the pain he had caused. It hurt him deep. Yes, as hard as it may have been to believe for 259 Patrick O'Connor had in fact regained his conscience, and his care for people.
The appearance of the twenty year old man was best described as tired. His scarred face showed it. It also showed the look of death, if not that at least that he was sick, a dirty yellow staining the features of his softer flesh around his eyes. Patrick felt no pity for himself because of this though, only the feeling that this was right. This was his punishment for living in sin. This was also his saving grace. Grace to release him from the pain. He knew that he had little time left and for that he was grateful. A few weeks at most, days at best, or worst for you optimists. His hair was the same length and the same style that anyone who remembered would know. In fact his entire appearance remained the same, all the scars, the black fingerless gloves, the black tank top and khaki cargo shorts. The only difference in clothing was the fact that he no longer wore his white bandanna across his head. That was not for him anymore. Not for the twenty year old senior that would never see graduation. He did not bear that innocence anymore.
The times had changed for him and they hadn't. He noticed that school hadn't changed a goddamned bit. He saw a student being beaten on the ground by another. The times had not changed. It made him angry and sad. He felt bad for the victim. The times had changed, he cared for this victim of 259, the times hadn't changed he was once again the boy that had entered 552 with the hops of protecting the weak. No matter what the cost, especially now, Patrick knowing full well that this fight could kill him. In fact he hoped that it would. Irony, that this type of student that once upon a time he would be able to destroy without much of an after thought may kill him. Oh damn, the humanity huh?
Regardless Patrick couldn't let the victim continue to get beat. That meant he couldn't die yet right? Patrick firmed his resolve and moved into a slow sprint towards the attacker shooting his foot out straight at the last moment hitting the kid in the back. Patrick grimaced as is was far weaker then he would have liked but it did the job, it threw the attacker off of the victim. Without a word Patrick stepped in front of the victim, shielding him with his own body as he placed his hand on the old and beaten badge that hung from his pocket that read defender, another token of a life he wished would end. The attacker got up and growled some words of a threatening and derogatory nature at Patrick, picking fun mostly at his sickly and oldish appearance. Patrick paid no heed as he silently waited for the attack that could very well spell his own doom.
It came and fast. Patrick saw it all but even though he was not fast enough to react accordingly. The three punch combo scored, all three times, amazing considering that in his heyday the irishman was known as a counter fighter. To his benefit though, his only true strength maintained itself. He was still a tank, albeit a weaker one but still a tank. Three shots hit him, two in the cheeks, one in the chest. A little dismayed Patrick realized that he wouldn't be countering anything. If he was going to win he was going to have to trade flesh for flesh. Not a good prospect for a dying man who couldn't die now. The next two shots hit him in the chest as he was able to trade it for only one punch, a weak overhand right at that. The aggressor took a step back and them mocked Patrick in disbelief of the weak punch. Patrick hardly heard it noting that his shirt was beginning to tear and he was beginning to sweat. The attacker pressed again in a fury. Patrick was Barely able to keep up with the body shots that were tearing him and his shirt to shreds. As luck would have it Patrick was able to land a solid blow, a right elbow transferring all his body weight into the kid's head, cutting him open above his eye. He had stunned the kid but not finished him, something that even two moths ago would have floored the kid and more. Now it was one of those weak one in a million shots. Patrick had to follow up panting in a sweat two more punches to the kid's face as he too regained his cool returning fire. They were now literally trading blows as Patrick had once again found resolve, abjectly noting that his shirt was no long on, having fallen apart under the other kids blows. He took two more shots before he found the one last opening he would need. His left fist connected with the kid's skull as he would grab the kid's collar with his right, merely placing him down on the ground. No more excessive force, just enough that was required, barely enough.
Patrick inhaled sharply, turning around to face the victim, offering him a hand up that the irishman would find very difficult to lift. In a voice that was never before heard by anyone in this half of the country, a tired, but caring voice he asked, "Are ye ok kid?"
The kid looked at Patrick's chest noting the scars that were numerous before looking at his green eyes, thanking him and running off.
Patrick fell to the locker, leaning up against it for support, thankful that the kid was gone and he now could. His head leaned up against the locker as his upper body felt the cool metal of the lockers. He was exhausted. He mused that it was the first time he had lost his shirt for the first time since the craziness started. It was funny really. That time he had lost his shirt would mark the beginning of his suffering. Funny. At the time there had only been two sets of scars on his torso, the wings on his back, now visible for the general populace for the first time in a long time and the four lines that ran down his chest to his navel, token of a clawed freak in New York. Now those scars were accompanied by numerous other scars on his chest and sides mainly. Old knife wounds, gunshots which were both holed scars and bruise deformations. A muscular frame scarred by the nightmares of the past. As Patrick coughed he couldn't help but by glad that he was nearing the end. In a whisper that was tinged with gladness he said, "Almost there."
At least he was one step closer to regaining his honor,
and his peace...
But he didn't know he was the only one there to witness this...
