black47 (black47) wrote in retrofitted, @ 2010-05-02 16:47:00 |
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Entry tags: | kealan |
yippee! no clock, no future
[Kealen Clark solo]
The land that Kealen had drifted out of - that far away place back home - had been centuries stretched of foreign domination, royal tyrants and threats of divine retribution. They were a sad old bunch - beaten down by the state and the church... and it should've been expected, that when tensions in Ireland ran high, young men(and women - equal opportunity and all that) would start picking up guns and shouting for civil rights and independence.
Back home, they assumed he was dead, which was as good as true.
There was a service held for him and everything. He became just another Irish youth ripped apart by the rebellion, future to shreds. Expendable martyrs under the age of twenty-five…
Well, Kealen Clark didn't even remember anyone back home, no one, though he knew that emptiness in his stomach was the absence of a mother.
Or maybe not a mother, just a woman. Somebody important with a soft touch. It seemed so hard to grasp - That there had been a life before this. But he knew it had happened, he knew it, because these whispers would invade him in his sleep, make him sick when he met new people. Words and pictures that came to him through vague amnesia and tortured him...He was a pitiful little thing, even on good days. How could a boy grow up when he couldn't even remember his own mother?
He had all the time in the world to solve his mysteries if he could just keep his head on straight. Now, there was the problem in Vespers, holding on to anything. Trains of thought were all derailed and out of service. Sometimes these phrases would come to him with startling clarity and he'd scrawl them near illegibly on sheets of paper, toss them on the floor and smoke and read and fight through headaches trying to piece them all together. 'Twas no use. Together or apart, they made no sense.
The longer he was here, the less coherent his notes seemed to get, the more preoccupied he was with those fleeting memories, with fighting The Clock. He didn’t know why or if it made any sense, but something inside of him made him certain – absolutely, 100% certain – that he could beat it and get out of this place. Back to that mother he wasn’t sure he missed.
He wondered if he was going crazy at least once a day, but it was just what this place did to you. It was on his mind now, as he rummaged through piles of scribbled one-liners on his floor searching for the photograph… Which photograph? The one that had come in the unlabeled envelope, but Hell, he knew where that came from anyway. He'd dropped it in the ankle-deep sea of notes and drawings with no clue about why he’d saved any of it. He was too afraid to throw anything away, and it was all so disjointed.
Kealen Clark was nineteen, just a baby, when he marched to fight a bloody civil war and ended up in the town where time not only stands still - it suffocates you. It fills you up and fucks your head, enslaves you to mindless muscle memory. Yeah, Kealen, he was getting it bad, feeling real sick as of late. Been talking to too many people and mingling with too many things that didn't make sense, it was getting to him. He'd been tossing and turning these past three nights, got the sweats, little tasks seemed out of reach and daunting.
He found the note from Paris that accompanied the photograph, wondering how he’d lost it in the first place – He’d just got it. Even ill, Kealen knew better than to start looking for logic where none was to be found, but he wasn't normally this much short of a shilling.
His attention was waning. He read it once, then twice, then three times without comprehending it. The fourth time he moved line by line very, very slowly, and felt things click. Something along the lines of, “Ah. Now I get it.” Not that he was stupid – but the sickness was takin’ it’s toll on him, like it did everybody. It was just his turn was all.'
'Ay, I need a cup of tea is what it is... I'm still asleep,' He thought, shaking his head. And, indeed, the tea did make him a feel a little better.
If it was one thing to be said about this kid, he was an idealist, through and through. Kind of hopeless romantic that believed in things like martyrdom and God, had this arcane notion 'bout the benefits of 'freedom'. That's why he was still looking for a way to beat the system - same as he had back home.
Responsibilities weren't lost on him - He was a smart kid with a good head on his shoulders. He remembered - Ah, yes! he remembered - people used to say he was like his Da, but what was the point of thinking of that now, when he didn't remember a damn thing about his father and had no road map to get back to where he was. Kealen let the thought slip from his mind.
He'd grown up fast before he'd come to Vespers. That was another thing he’d taken with him, that and his hope that he’d get out.
So, he combed his hair, changed his clothes, looked at himself in a cracking mirror. The day was young and he had business to take care of, folded up the photo and put it in the pocket of his jacket. Just in case he forgot, which was a very real possibility.
Handsome kid, it's just a shame about his head, eh? But he was sure if he could get out of here it would finally be clear and he could breathe fresh air again. He stuffed the photo in his pocket, and he was out the door without a thought.