In The Sky | Chapter 2

You have heard it from Izalla’s perspective – now it is time to watch Kieran’s tale unravel too. Follow Kieran to see his version of events run parallel to Izalla’s, where one symbol existing in one moment can connect two worlds, two people, and interlace two souls to their opposite’s fate. (A last minute entry for the Branching Comp. Not really sure about this, but that's what happens when you don't notice a good competition until it's almost too late lol)

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1. Blood

If someone were to choose between boredom, and relieving it, which would they chose?

          To Kieran, the latter was a far better way to pass the time.  Besides, boredom made him feel... well, bored.

          The train by no means moved effortlessly, and the seat’s cushions were worn, tired and so thin that he could feel a lump of metal prodding him in a very inappropriate place. In his line of vision Kieran could see the irritated, the impatient, and the families all hustling around prams and tending to toddlers who made a noise to make even the deafest man recoil. The clammy heat really got to Kieran, the sweat shrinking the insulated material of his branded waterproof jacket. On instinct he tried to raise his hand to sweep his ash-blonde fringe off of his damp forehead, but he quickly noticed that the bulk of the unfortunate middle aged woman to his left had pinned his lanky frame. Great, Kieran thought to himself. This is just fantastic.

          Kieran glanced out of the grimy window, the glass rattling in its pane, and he took the time to thank himself for choosing a window seat. It gave him the opportunity to see outside into the world away from the awkwardness of his current situation. He was, however, reluctant to thank the part of him who had decided to get the train in the first place. Why do that, man? He wanted to shake himself into sanity. Dan had offered you a lift, remember? Couldn’t handle being dependant, huh? Stubborn git.

          Kieran wasn’t even sure he wanted to be going to Liverpool to support the football team he felt were all-right, let alone sat on a dingy train sandwiched between the flesh folds of a woman with poor personal hygiene. Kieran sniffed, and caught the distinct scent of egg. He winced slightly, and mentally told himself to use his right hand to flick back his fringe, a habit he seemed to be developing.

          It felt odd to use his right hand. A vague memory reminded him that only the Devil’s children were left handed. This made him smile his brilliant smile just a little.

          Cool.

          A sudden jolt of the train caused Kieran to cry out as his head came down hard against the window. Everyone within a five seat radius snapped their accusing heads in his direction, and Kieran glared back. What was their problem? What was the problem with people?

          A sigh from his own lips told Kieran he was almost definitely bored, and his legs became fidgety due to his supressed nature to be active. Unconsciously, he began to skim his thin fingers (of his free arm) over the head of the seat in front, and found himself trailing to the window and drawing a pattern amidst the condensation. Gone were the days when Kieran would draw something incredibly inappropriate on windows, and instead he traced various lines of the trees as they blurred past; a line down, a line across, another line down…

          Eventually Kieran withdrew his hand to admire his work of art. Chuckling to himself, he noticed it resembled a rather deformed bud of some kind. He mightn’t have drawn something prude, but hey, he’d drawn a flower! Kieran would have been concerned for his manliness, but then dismissed the thought; it’s not like he had that much to lose, being crushed by a mass of flesh with asthma.

          Kieran suddenly felt really excited about his pattern. It looked familiar somehow, as if that moment held a touch of Déjà vu. Before Kieran had even thought the idea through he was desperately prising the lose lining of the window pane with this finger nails, the corner of the rusted metal lining coming away easily. With the razor edge cutting into his palm, he furiously scratched the pattern into the glass, his hand cold and numb as he did so. Ignoring the few heads which swivelled at the piercing noise he was creating, he continued until the pattern he had concocted was engraved roughly where he had drawn it.

          Pausing momentarily to catch the ragged breath he had seemed to have lost, the time for reflection on his actions was cut short by a searing pain across his palm. He cried out for the second time that train ride, but this time he was oblivious to the scowls he received. He opened his hand – much to the pain of his wound – and he hissed at the wide, scarlet gash scorching his palm, and the blood oozed and spilled onto his wrist, and dripped onto his jeans. The metal strip clattered to the floor. A searing stab of pain at the realisation of his injury hit him like a shot, and his left hand freed itself from its confinement to cradle the other.

          Ow, was all the voice inside Kieran’s head could utter.

          From the corner of his eye, Kieran noticed the etching once more. His blue orbs flickered from the pattern, to his hand, and back to the flower. Was he supposed to–?

          An instinct took over Kieran’s limbs as he raised his glowing hand to the pattern, unsure of what on Earth had happened to him. The lights above Kieran flickered, and became dimmer, if possible. If he could just–

          Kieran suddenly felt the train slow, and he did not think twice once snapping out of his trance. Easing his injured hand tenderly into his pocket he sprang from his seat, feeling the relief as he left behind the lumpy structure. After an age clambering over the woman who took up two seats, he thundered down the aisle, lights still flickering. Hoisting his jeans waistband over his prominent hips and lifting his hood up, all with his correct hand, Kieran edged his way to the train door, and settled in a confined space between a sour faced businessman and a child buggy so that he would be the first to leave once the train stopped. He just wanted to get out of there.

          Kieran bolted from the doors as they unveiled the rain splattered platform, and the lingering scent of petrichor was overpowering as he sought the greasy café in which he had agreed to meet Dan and his father. As he walked, Kieran removed his hand from his pocket to examine the damage. He already knew what he would see before he had even opened his white hand.

          The wound had closed over and healed. All that remained was a thin, pink scar.

          And do you know what the best thing was?

          The scar showed that Kieran had had stitches taken out.

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