Kieren’s last thoughts.
WARNING: Self harm/suicide trigger
So here’s the Kierick one shot. I’m too tired to edit/proofread properly and if I leave it till tomorrow, I’ll probably delete it so you get to have it now!
The icy metal against his skin bit harder than any cold he had ever known as he gripped it with white-knuckled intent. His hand began to shake, joining the rest of his form in quivering from both the cold and the ache in his chest that hadn’t left since he had heard the dreaded news.
He pressed his thumb to the outstretched blade of his pocket knife, the sharp edge scraping against his digit as it shook. The tears fell then. The salty fire raining down on his exposed wrist. A choked sob escaped his tightly pressed lips and through the heaving of precious breaths that kept him with the living, he could hear the noise bounce from cave wall to cave wall and back again. His eyes were closed tight as though to sever one more link to this harsh reality. Against the hollow black, his mind began to paint pictures. Dreams. Memories.
* * *
The laugh ran clear through the air along with the sound of scattering leaves as the two adolescent boys ran through the woods. Kieren stumbled a little when he turned to see that Rick had fallen behind in their race to the cave. His laughter was forced out as a huff as he hit the ground.
“Ren!” came Rick’s worried call. Kieren scrambled to his feet and continued to chase down his victory with yet another explosion of joy.
It didn’t take long for the boys to find it. The place that they felt the safest. The one place in the whole of Roarton where they could be together and be themselves. They stood there for a slight moment, both taking in the sight of the dark hole in the stone. Both remembering what it means to be here. To be together.
The distance between the boys and their den collapsed in no time at all. The solid shadow into which they were to crawl was ignited by the light of Rick’s hand held torch. He was the first to brave the darkness. He always was. And Kieren was always close behind, moving as close to Rick as was possible to escape to the cold air.
Rick turned to face Kieran as he sat against a smooth wall. He set the torch down on the ground at his side away from the opening, tuning it so that the beams of light shot upwards and spread throughout the dark as much as was possible.
* * *
The tip of the blade rested on the exposed skin. His pulse was fast. That was good. Makes for a quicker bleed. Makes for a faster death. Makes for a sooner reunion.
* * *
His hand was in Rick’s. His thumb moving lightly over the other’s palm. In circles at first. Then the patterns became random and disordered. They hand been sat like this for minuets. Neither of them disturbing the silence that was theirs and theirs alone. The safety was familiar, kind, Warm.
Keiren shivered and wished that the safety could be warmer. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he heard his mother’s worry “you’ll catch your death out here”.
“You alright, Ren?” Rick frowned. He shifted his body slightly, his knee moving up to fold his leg slightly as he shuffled his whole body closer. Kieren acted instinctively as he folded himself into Ricks embrace, the warmth from the other boys chest against his face.
Kieren smiled into Rick’s shirt. “I’m fine.”
* * *
The tears had stopped. From the three hours he’d been here, the candles had almost completely turned into stubs of wax and all the moisture in his body was gone. Well, almost all. An echo of a memory ran clear in his head. Something about cutting too deep and not being able to use the hand on the other. Faster was better.
His head spasmed in what could have been a nod in affirmation of the action he was about to take or a shake in disagreement with what he was about to do. Either way he felt the last of his will slip from his as the ache took over, spreading it’s poisoned tendrils throughout every part of him.
The sharp ice slid through his skin and into the flesh beneath. The cold of the blade fought with the white hot pain of flowing crimson for a moment before the blade was dragged back, widening the wound. With a silent cry of pain, he took the blade in his other hand and jabbed the soft skin of his other arm and pulled.
His skin paled as the life began to pool around him. The strength to sit was long gone and slouching was a much better option. Much less painstaking. But the wall was smooth and the angle was off. He slide down into the sea of red, the coppery smell summoning bile from deep within him. He bit back to force the acidic taste to remain at bay. His jaw locked almost as tight as his eyes on the markings that the two had etched into the hard stone as many before them had.
With the remaining air in his lungs, he summoned the dwindling energy keeping him alive. His lips parted and then came back together. Again a breath almost escaped as a sound and again it was made silent. On the final attempt, a single word drifted on his last lung full of air.