No Colors Anymore

[Patrick O'Connor]

Theme

Patrick got out of his truck a block ir two from the pier by the docks. He was wearing his everday white Bandanna and black fingerless gloves. He even had on His black tanktop. There were a few key differences, or perhaps oddities on his dress attire. The first was that he was wearing an pair of black tactical pants. That in itself was not an oddity as the Irsh boy had a air of "tough guy" about him. The thing that made it odd was that over his black Tanktop he wore a bulletproof vest. The vest itself was in poor condition, it was worthless, there were three shallow holes in it that showed that it had been used and been shot three times. On the vest too there was a holster for a combat knife. The area around the holster was bloody, showing that the knife had been put into use a good amount of times. The knife suprisingly enough was still there but it was worthless, bloodstained, and not cleaned of so sticky and the metal parts rusty from the blood. Over the vest was an opened, long black, leather trenchcoat. It held a few blood stains as well as numerous bullet holes on the sides, showing quite a few near misses.

Patrick exited his truck in a somber tone and began his solemn march towards the pier/docks. As he walked towards the pier he recieve quite a few looks. Some of then were of fear, other curiousity, other loking at him as if there was something mentally wrong with him. None of these looks bothered him too much. He just looked straight ahead and kept walking. Then he saw a couple walking torwards him, going the opposite way he was. As they got closer the looked at the Irish boy as if he were stupid and slightly deranged. Patrick's teeth bared in anger. His fists clenched. How could they possibly understand?! His head shot down to the pavement as they went bye. He had to look away. From then on the lookes of the people kept his head down, somberly trying to keep from doing somethings he should not.

He finally reached the pier and turned down onto its lonely plankes of wood. He listened to the creak of wood that his weight made being brought back to that fateful night. When he finally made his way to the end of the pier the stopped at its edge and looking out upon the ocnean and the setting sun. The suns gave of hues of orange reflectiing of the ocean beutifully but somberly. A tear or two may have rolled from Patrick's eyes as le looked out upon the ocean. This was his way of remembering her. It was hollow but it was the only way he could. There was no grave for her. He didn't even know where her body was. It had been gone when he had made it back after being shot of the pier. Now all he had were lone piers and ocean to remember her by. The things of so much pain as they maybe. Thinking back they were where their dates usually had been and then where, ultimatly, their departure had been...

All he could see here was black, no hues of the sun. It seemed rather fitting that the sun was going down. Signaling the death of Patrick's hopes and dreams, everything fading into black...

Perhaps it was better this way...

[bix]

Lonlieness
Companionship

Bix had wandered. Away from her home. Away from the abuse. The starvation. The room. That had become. In a way. A prison within. What had once. When she was younger. Been some sort. Of sanctuary. She was tired. Tired of so much. Tired of hiding. Of being weak. Of being the hated. The strange. And yet. She enjoyed being. Unique. She was beautiful. In her ow. Strange little way. With her dark blue hair. Bangs that fell. Into her face. She had pale skin. So pale. That you knew. It saw little. To no sun. She minded this not. Pale was best. In her mind. No need to ruin. Her skin. And she loved. The way that. It was so soft. And it was gentle. to the touch. And yet it had. A strength as well. Because then. She did not. Have to worry. About many of. The more common skin problems. Of her peers.

The slap of the ocean waves. Drew Bix. To this place. The reflection of the sky. Upon the water. Was what drew. In her attention. It was beautiful. Something remarkable. Even Bix. could not miss. The beauty. That was here. The amazing grace. That the world. Could create. For the viewing. Of those around them. The left foot turned. A creak of leather. Shifted. As she turned to walk. Down the wooden planks. That made the seaside. Pier. It was no jeti. If it had been. It would have gone out. Much further. But a Pier was fine enough. It was enough. To displace you. From the city around. And yet not enough. To completely distance you. From the activities and the connection. To pull yourself back. To the city.

Down at the end. Stood a lone boy. Seemed as though. He was possibly. Around her own age. Bix walked. A short skirt of lace. That was black. With a blue fabric. Underneath. She wore stockings. That were cobwebs. And those. Went into the boots she loved. Which came almost. To her knees. On her torso. Was a simple. Black button down shirt. With about ten. Shining. Silver zippers in it. That went no where. Merely. For decoration. It fit well. And now. That she was eating more. She was filling out. And gaining curves. That filled out her shirt. Even more. That she had not. Had before.

At the end. She stopped. Her eyes shifted. To see the boy. Two tears. Cascading. From wounded eyes. Eyes that Bix. Knew too well. For often. When she could let her guard down. They were her own. It was a lot. Like looking. Into a mirror. Bix reached. Into her shirt. And pulled out. A hankerchief. Of pure blue silk.

"For the rain drops."

Her hand. Offered it to him. Her hand was pale. Gentle. And soft. If he would accept that is.

[Patrick O'Connor]

Patrick stood, still and somber, his head hung low, in defeat. He was a defeated, sad and ultimatly broken man. He had lost everything that made him care about the world. He had lost all of those dreams and ideals that he had once held so dear. Broken on the cold hard rocks of reality and experience. He had suffered the loss of even those in his trip out west after seeing corrupt police force and government officials, one after another. Patrick no longer held any illusion, things would never change, they couldn't. Not while people were there to corrupt what was good in society and life. Thus it was that all that drove Patrick these days were cheap thrill, survival and of course a ticket from his misery and suffering.

Relief was a void that did not exist in his life. Any thing that he did merely lessened the pain that he felt, nothing blotted it out completly. Now his suffering was more then ever. It was clear that he had not slept in the past few days as horror filled his dreams. He couldn't sleep without watching some sort of his past failures. They were many and they were vast. Clouding his mind and judgement from the figure that was walking down the pier towards him. He was so wrapped up in his troubles that he wasn't paying any attention, odd considering that since that fateful night he had been terribly paranoid.

"For the rain drops."

Words that shook Patrick out of his state of mind and into attack mode. Automatically he turned to face her whilst his right hand went into his coat and down to his waist at the same time that his left hand secured his belt next to where his right and was going. This was done fast and instinctual though as the girl would clearly be able to see after a moment or two that there was nothing threatening about where his hands had been going. Upon further inspection she would notices that his hands, had infact been reaching for a holster, though an empty one.

After a moment or two of gripping the invisible gun Patrick would discern that the girl was not a threat. He would straighten up with a gruff, "Oh"

After giving her the quick look over he saw the hankercheif. He would wave it away with his left hand as he brought the hand back around from his belt. Why she was here he didn't know or care. Patrick turned back towards the ocean, to resume watching the setting sun. He didn't care that she was there, but if she wanted something then she would have to take the initiative...

[bix]

Need
Not met

He jumped. But Bix. Seemed unsurprised. She moved now. She did not even jump. As he whirled around. And went. Into his coat. Like he was trying. To find a weapon. Bix blinked once. Slowly. And softly. But she still. Didn't move. She did not. Fear this man. Though Bix. Really did not fear. Much of anything. She wasn't. Worried for dying. She wasn't worried. For being attacked. She loved. She just had to admit. That it would happen. One day she would go. And that. Would be the end of Bix. She had no real control. Over when it would happen. Or how it would happen. Just that it would. At some point. And there was no reason. To run. And jump at shadows.

He seemed however. To realize. That she was. No threat. Merely a girl. A girl that was offering him. A hankerchief. And a nice one at that. But he lifted his hand. Not to take. The offered cloth. Instead. to brush. Her pale hand away. Bix took no offense. Some did not. Wish for assistance. And she knew. A great number. Of the time. She was. On her own. And independant. She sighed softly. Giving a gentle shrug. She folded. The cloth once more. Placing it back. Where it had come from. Within her shirt. She stood there then. Looking out. Over the ocean. Watching the way. The sky reflected. Upon the water. Echoing. Under the pier. Slapping. Against the wood there.

"Remembering, you are. Sadness this brings, yet no rest to the one, remembered." Bix stated. In her strange. Speaking little way.

It was true. To constantly fret. Over someone. Was to give their soul no rest. To keep them tied. To the living. Which was not fair. To a soul. That sought rest. She had no idea. Who he grieved. But it was obvious. With his eyes. Dark and shadowed. With his thin form. And the tears. That glistened. Upon his cheeks. Whether it was. His father. Or his brother. Or perhaps a love. She knew not. However, the statement. Was true. None the less.

[Patrick O'Connor]

"Remembering, you are. Sadness this brings, yet no rest to the one, remembered."

She spoke, weird. That was the only way to describe it. Patrick had never heard anyone talk like that before. Maybe there was someone in the movies she was trying to imitate but Patrick wouldn't know. He never had the time or money to go see any. But her meaning behind the words were not lost on him. He didn't buy it though. No way no how. That was a bunch of bull. He didn't know what would happen after death, rest he assumed but he didn't believe that his thoughts had anything to do with the dearly departed. He voiced his opinion softly, in his typical Irish accent, "I don't believe in that shit."

He didn't believe it, nor did he really care. It's not like keeping it in the past would help him hurt anyless. He had lost her. All He could see was her face contorted in pain as she was shot in the stomach. Damn, if only he had been a little faster. Then she would still be alive and everything would be different. He had failed to protect her, the one he loved. Watching his life torn apart for the fourth and final time. He would never let that happen again. It never would happen again. It was likely that he would burn himself out before that ever could happen again even if he did allow himself to let another person in.

He paused for another minute before speaking quietly, "I don't even have her body, I never got to see it."

Patrick didn't know why he had just said that. Rationalization told him that it didn't matter. He would never see her again. Even if she did she wouldn't know his name. And if she continued to comeback and pry or some other shit he could kill her. Quickly and easily, or slowly and still easily. It didn't really matter to him. After so much killing what was one more body amongst the foundations? Nothing, that's what...

[bix]

Belief
And Pain

He didn't believe. And she figured. That there was no. Reason to fight him on it. She was not. In the habit. Of making. Other people believe. There was no. Real reason. to be messing with that. She didn't. Really care. Nor was she worried. About his beliefs. She merely. Was stating the truth. But that was fine. If he chose. To be stubborn. And not believe. Bix shifted slightly. Looking back. To the sun. To the ocean. And letting the. Realm of the world. The sounds that it offered. The comfort. That beauty. Could bring. to someone. that wished. To take from it. The gifts. That she offered.

He mentioned then. That he. Had never found. Her body. Perhaps then. It was indeed. A love. For usually. It tended to be that way. Though she supposed. It could very well. Be a mother. However. There was a tone. To his voice. That made it seem. AS though. That was not. The case. She looked over. At him. She sighed softly. And she nodded. Bix had never. Lost anyone. That close to her. She had never loved. And she never figured. That she would love. She adored Pine. But she doubted. He would ever. See her as more. Than a novelty.

"Perhaps then, alive she is, within your heart. If no longer, within this world."

Bix stated. It seemed. That he carried guilt. With him. Guilt over what had happened. Guilt over something. Though she had to admit. She wasn't sure. Exactly what it was. Because. Unless he was the direct. Cause of her death. She saw no reason. For him. To be that concerned. It was foolish. But she imagined. His guilt was not usually. Completely misplaced. And so that meant. he had a hand in it. She did not. Despise him for it. The guilt showed. He still. Had a heart.

"Think I do, too much pressure upon your shoulders you carry. The wings of an angel, need not be tainted."

[Patrick O'Connor]

"Perhaps then, alive she is, within your heart. If no longer, within this world."

"Ye contradicted yerself," Patrick noted outloud without tone. In reality though it annoyed him, though he had not the iniative to do a thing about it other then point it out. It was crap, He hated that psychobabble bull. That let's just blanket you with comforting statements until one works. He disliked it because in cases like this one you contradicted yourself and sounded like a hypocrite. If you were going to dole out advice fueled through your beliefs then you ought to stick to your guns if not then you were a hypocrite. And as a hypocrite you werent worth taking advice from.

"Think I do, too much pressure upon your shoulders you carry. The wings of an angel, need not be tainted."

Patrick gave a weak chuckle, "If ye knew me then ye wouldn't call me an angel."

It was true. He had killed a terrible number of people and left many more off in worse shap, injuring them so severely that they would never gain full function or any function again in one thing or the other. Once upon a time he might have been able to be consedered an angerl but it was not now. Now He had killed and mutilated with out any remorse. Patrick felt little remorse as it was now. Which made Patrick wonder, deep down. Who was he, or more aptly asked what was he? He had felt no remorse as he carried out those action and would not have later, but why did he now? He knew very well that later he would not feel any remorse? Why? and still why of the little remorse that he felt at the moment did he not feel for those mobsters? Was that at all related to the lack of care that he now felt for his life?

He didn't know and he didn't and probably couldn't understand...

[Jeremiah Sykes]

Jeremiah knew nothing of what they spoke on- he didnt have any supersonic hearing. He was well enough away, sitting on a large post looking out at the two on the docks. His eyes were on the male- watching his body movements, his posture, his mouth move. Anything threatening and he would have been tehre in a blink. He almost insisted going out there with her, but since the man had shown no outward hostility, he hopted to follow orders. He wore his usual attire akin to that of the male out at the docks- black leather jacket, white t-shirt, deep blue jeans. Simple. Bald head- he was nothing spectacular, save for his sheer muscle mass. Luckily for the irishman, he hled no anger, just a watchful glance- he would make sure she was safe for as long as she stayed out there.

To some, it may appear childish- nay, comical that he was following the instructions of a girl less then half his body weight, but if he could he would assure all that the interaction was not by choice. He did what he did through force, and wasnt happy about it, but could do and say nothing about it- it was his damn power. It bound him to her. So soon....He rolled his shoulders, and if either of them looked over he wouldnt remove his gaze from the male. He wasnt mean mugging him or trying to pick a fight, its just how he was- always watching, always waiting.

Nobody could be trusted.

'I hope she hurries up with this...I have to get her home...'