patchworkcyclops

[patchworkcyclops]

Stray

Temp posting for proof reading

Warnings for amputation, cruelty, and descriptive torture

His Ma had always said that mutts and strays only got one real chance at having a home. She’d been right about that with any dog he’d come across, but over the years he’d decided that it was a concept that applied to more than just the four-legged variety of strays.

Those who weren’t quite rats, and more chicken livered sniveling cowards to be held in any regard worth a damn, they were the people like him who wandered until they either died miserably in misery, or got to experience something along the lines of happiness before the bell finally tolled to the tune of their name.

After his folks had passed, Kieran always assumed that he’d fall into the first category, chewed up and spit out in some rotting filth ridden pile of shit long before some disease or other finally finished him off. He wasn’t a strong man he knew, but he had his lines that he’d rather die than cross and by God Colm had found them one at a time. So he’d run again, knowing that this time he wouldn't be able to stop only for him to end up smack dab in the middle of the thing that had so long eluded him. He’d found community, a reason to keep going, and hope of a better future for the first time since he’d realized the rotten nature of the world. It hadn’t been anything so grand as his younger self had perhaps hoped for, but the simple repetition of his work brought a quiet piece that he had never even dared to wish for in years.

It’d surprise him how much he took to simple things like chores and fishing when they’d always seemed like such a task before when he was with the O’Driscals. Without the looming threat of violence, simple repetition that didn't require much thought or effort had grown on him like nothing ever had. Life became blissfully simple, just keep on track, do his job and make sure to use his brain at least half the time to not mess everything up.

Once the gang got over his prior affiliations, most of them was sweeter than pie to him, and those that weren’t either generally carried a less favorable disposition, or developed a bantering relationship of which he found himself eventually happy to reciprocate.

It was doing good for a fair bit of time, but then he went and let his guard down. When they took Jack under his watch, the gang should have been angry at him, reverted back to what they’d been before. He’d waited in dreading anticipation for the day when they just decided to tie him to a blasted tree again and leave him to rot this time like the useless waste that he was, but no matter how long he waited for the hammer to fall again, it didn’t. Even the anger in Arthur’s eyes didn’t seem to be focused on him so much.

He'd been terrified of Arthur at first, felt fear even saving his life from the O’Driscal near Valentine. Colm had ranted about him more than once, pressed his violent nature and reckless ways to the point that he might as well have been the boogie man to KierAn, but he didn’t know of no boogie man who could smile like that. It was hard to notice it at first, past the gruff greetings and temper, but somewhere along the line that fear changed to something closer to admiration. For all the labels that could be applied to the outlaw, cold blooded killer gradually became less and less realistic.

He hunted and brought supplies for the camp twice as much as anyone, contributing more to the coffers than all of the others combined like the camp meant something other than a place to hang his hat on the occasion that he managed to get some shut eye. In his spare time Kieran almost always saw him scribbling something or other in a little journal he kept at his side. He wasn’t sure if it was just to log events or to calm him down, as he always seemed to be in a fairer mood after writing. The idea had at least seemed calming enough to him that Kieran had worked up the courage to have someone pick one up for him to give a go at.

Marybeth had been more than happy to help, but he still kept it hidden under the tack where no one would notice. He'd only pull it out late, mostly just scribbling in it for a while before his eyes got too heavy to see straight before tucking it safely away or just falling asleep with it in his arms. He'd taken a knack for drawing and had even hoped to one day share it when he got a bit more bold. He'd thought he might be the night they got Jack back, downing more liquid courage than intended to boost the chance. In his drunken excitement he’d hobbled around camp with it in hand, looking for someone to share it with only for his feet to take him a bit further from camp than he’d wanted or realized. By the time he did, it was too late, and a couple of Colm’s boys grabbed him before he could stumble back.

Opening his eyes to a sharp pain in his gut, Kieran felt his gut filling with a forgotten dread. He'd wanted to start living for the first time in years with the Vanderlin gang, to actually savor each moment of his life for probably the first time, and now he just wanted to think about anything but what was happening.

"I was always very clear with you Kieran Duffy. Just like the others, I told you what happens to traitors. Knew that you was one the moment I laid eyes on your scrawny hide, but sometimes even fools choose to listen to sense every now and again so I took a chance." Colm took his bloodied cleaver and brought it down on Kieran’s fingers again, sending another wave of pain through his mangled hand. A muffled cry escaped his throat as the bloodied rag shoved between his teeth crept further down his throat with every strained breath. With his nose smashed and caked with dry blood, it was all he could manage to keep himself breathing past the fowl tasting cloth past the nauseating sensation as it scraped the back of his throat.

When the chipped blade didn’t quite split through his bone on the first snap, Colm frowned and raised it again, splitting through with his next chop and pinning tendons to the wood. “Did you like playing lap dog for Dutch, or was there someone else keeping you there?” Sawing off the last bits of stubborn tissue fighting to hold on Colm lifted the severed digit between his bloodied gloves to inspect it as though he were handling a nugget of gold. He already asked that before, but same as last time, he wasn’t looking for an answer, just an excuse to keep cutting.

“Heard talk you was gettin sweet on one whore, or was you too busy watching the bastard Morgan to even pay any mind to them?” Colm chuckled as he lined the severed digit in a neat row with the others he’d already amputated. If he’d wanted information he could have long since gotten it when he woke up from a beating four time ago, but Kieran’s right hand was already a mess of blood and bone fragments, and no one had even made a move to let him speak. By the look in Colm’s eyes Kieran could see past his blurred vision, that wouldn’t be changing anytime soon either.

“You had fun playing house I’d bet, thinkin that you meant something to em, but I doubt they even notice you’ve been gone. It’s already been four days, how long would it take for them to even bother wondering if you’d just run out again.” He’d hoped they wouldn’t think that, but he wouldn’t blame them for it if they did. He wasn’t exactly known for his bravery, and they’d all be too focused on Jack and the mess of things around them to pay any proper attention to a stray like him. He was going to die here, he knew that the moment they grabbed him, so why was it that even through the burning pain in his hand, his mind kept telling him that he heard Arthur somewhere nearby?

It hurt to move, burned to stay still and didn't help nothing to try forcing air though his broken nose. Held firmly in place by two O’driscal’s he didn’t even bother struggling at this point, his body finally worn through the last of its strength focusing on the searing pain peppering his body. Even if he did try to struggle, it would only jostle his busted ribs that already felt like they were stabbing uncomfortably into his lungs with every half breath he could manage past the rag. It was becoming abundantly clear to him that even if Colm chose to actually let him speak, he’d probably die before he could say anything. He was supposed to suffer, then he'd be killed like he'd seen happen time and again back in the day. They wanted to break him first though, it wouldn't have been finished for Colm otherwise. So instead of focusing on the blade once more readying to sever another piece of his fingers, Kieran tried to focus on anything else he could, including the little tricks of sound that his mind was still concocting to keep him alive with some false hope or other. He wasn’t sure if he’d hear them before now, the sounds of muted combat, or the familiar impact of a tomahawk, but it was at least some comfort to him despite it all.

“ I could just ask you, I suppose, but you always was a good liar.” Through his blurry vision, Kieran saw Colm’s sick grin and began to shake despite himself as the cleaver swung down further up his arm this time. He’d started to grow impatient. Closing his eyes for the impact, Kieran waited for the inevitable crunch of bone. What followed instead was a crack of gunfire, followed instantly by a spray of hot blood covering his face as shards of bone bit into his skin, lodging almost to his skull.

Ma had always said that once a Mutt lost that home, they’d never find peace again, but it had never stopped him from tracking down any strays that wandered when he was younger. It was stupid of him he knew, but the look of unexpected joy on their faces when he found them filled him with an inexplicable happiness that he couldn’t risk missing. Opening his eyes to the blurry sight of a familiar silhouette, Kieran wondered if he resembled those same poor creatures to Arthur.