[He knows that he didn’t deserve any of the treatment he’d received from the stable owners. The O’Driscolls. The Van der Lindes. Any of them. He knows that there’s something inherently unfair about the way life’s unfolded for him and the decisions he’s made because of the winding, murky paths laid before his inexperienced feet. But it’s easier—so much easier—to believe otherwise. It’s easier to believe that his maltreatment is because of something he must have done horribly wrong. Because to believe otherwise would mean he’d have to face the harsh realities of human cruelty. He’d have to face that people are capable of random acts of horror and that their victims didn’t have to do anything inherently awful to land on the receiving end. He’d have to face that sometimes the world didn’t deliver justice to those who truly needed it, and that there was no rhyme or reason behind the fates of all the folks who seemed to die around him, leaving him alone to deal with the next tragedy.]
[Pretending it all didn’t matter, that the past was exactly that: the past, helped. It helped protect his all-too-gentle soul against the monolith of dread that towered over exploring such difficult, conflicting feelings. Pretending it all didn’t matter meant he didn’t have to peel back layers of the callous formed carefully around his memories and expose him to the slop of iniquity that had disguised itself as an unfettered freedom—the kind of freedom that he, like so many others in his precarious situation, had been told he should love and be grateful for by the very men who sought the same unmitigated power as the high-society elites they disparaged, yet mimicked in all but their methodology. The freedom that civilization, mired in politicians and lawmen and the true criminals who dealt in shady back alley deals, would love nothing more than to steal from him. The freedom that came from open plains, sleeping under the stars, and holding a gun to some poor bastard’s head simply because he had been in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong amount of cash in his wallet.]
[If none of that mattered, then people like Kieran, in search of a better life and failing spectacularly at that desperate struggle, wouldn’t have to look back at their own actions and how everything they’ve done—no matter how ‘right’ or ‘wrong’—had landed them in dire straights. He wouldn’t have to confront the fact that no matter what the intent was behind a decision, sometimes the end result would simply be bad. By whose standards, he couldn’t say for sure, but he’s certain that the things he thought were ‘bad’ prior to his life as an outlaw are looking pretty good. He’d been told that civilization was nothing more than its own special kind of evil designed to enslave people like him, and that to submit to its demands was a fate worse than death… but as someone who’s experienced all of the above, he knows which path he’d pick, if he were given the chance again. It’s the path that doesn’t involve him shouting at a rival gang member to leave him alone or he wouldn’t hesitate to shoot. It’s the path that wouldn’t force him to make good on that promise… or at least half of it. He wasn’t exactly known for his swift trigger finger.]
[If Kieran could do it all over again, he would never consider the outlaw life. It only led to broken promises that no level of camaraderie built upon flimsy rules disguised as reverent codes of honor could offset. Sure, some of his happiest memories could be found singing around a campfire with people he hoped would have his back during spots of potentially deadly trouble, but it paled in comparison to the days lived in terror of the bullet with your name on it. Or, in his case, the knife meant for your throat.]
[It’s that terror that awaits him if he were to try and dig through the emotions that surrounds his past. That tempest of fear and anger and shame that he keeps bottled up and locked down deep in his gut where nobody, himself included, could find them. Uncovering that would only lead to a deluge of negative emotion that has no outlet. It’s not like any of the people who’ve caused that pain (whether physical or emotional) are here to shout and scream at, nor can he can drop to his hands and knees and beg the forgiveness of the people he’d hurt—sometimes killed—in return, regardless of how much they ‘deserved’ it. No, the only person here who can shoulder the blame for that storm brewing inside of him is Kieran Duffy.]
[And, frankly, that guy’s had his ass handed to him enough already.]
[Kieran’s eyes, usually bright and vibrant green, are dull and hollow when they meet Ben’s. He nods, absorbing affirmations hat he doesn’t doubt are genuine and heart-felt. The kind of affirmations that his validation-seeking heart chased and cherished whenever the opportunity arose. It’s just nice to have someone tell him that they care, that he matters, that maybe he could handle book-learning, that there’s a possibility that he deserves better (even if he’d vehemently deny that). Scary, in its own way, but nice.]
[He smiles, and the life returns to his visage, although his voice is quiet and thick with emotion.]
Thank you.
[Kieran clears his throat.]
Fer—fer everythin’, I mean. Really. Thank you.
[The smile turns into a chuckle, half-hearted and sardonic, but meant to bring a smidgeon of levity to a heavy conversation.]
A-As far that offer, I believe ya. I’ve known plenty of fellers that don’t seem all that intimidatin’ until you cross ‘em. Then, uh, you learn real quick not to make ‘em mad ever again.
[Assuming you lived through that kind of confrontation. Not everyone did.]
Let’s hope that it doesn’t come to that, though.
[Because even if he wouldn’t think less of Ben for letting his less-than-nice side show, he knows that if that were to ever happen, it’s entirely possible that Ben would think less of himself. That’s just how good people work.]
no subject
[Deep down inside, he knows.]
[He knows that he didn’t deserve any of the treatment he’d received from the stable owners. The O’Driscolls. The Van der Lindes. Any of them. He knows that there’s something inherently unfair about the way life’s unfolded for him and the decisions he’s made because of the winding, murky paths laid before his inexperienced feet. But it’s easier—so much easier—to believe otherwise. It’s easier to believe that his maltreatment is because of something he must have done horribly wrong. Because to believe otherwise would mean he’d have to face the harsh realities of human cruelty. He’d have to face that people are capable of random acts of horror and that their victims didn’t have to do anything inherently awful to land on the receiving end. He’d have to face that sometimes the world didn’t deliver justice to those who truly needed it, and that there was no rhyme or reason behind the fates of all the folks who seemed to die around him, leaving him alone to deal with the next tragedy.]
[Pretending it all didn’t matter, that the past was exactly that: the past, helped. It helped protect his all-too-gentle soul against the monolith of dread that towered over exploring such difficult, conflicting feelings. Pretending it all didn’t matter meant he didn’t have to peel back layers of the callous formed carefully around his memories and expose him to the slop of iniquity that had disguised itself as an unfettered freedom—the kind of freedom that he, like so many others in his precarious situation, had been told he should love and be grateful for by the very men who sought the same unmitigated power as the high-society elites they disparaged, yet mimicked in all but their methodology. The freedom that civilization, mired in politicians and lawmen and the true criminals who dealt in shady back alley deals, would love nothing more than to steal from him. The freedom that came from open plains, sleeping under the stars, and holding a gun to some poor bastard’s head simply because he had been in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong amount of cash in his wallet.]
[If none of that mattered, then people like Kieran, in search of a better life and failing spectacularly at that desperate struggle, wouldn’t have to look back at their own actions and how everything they’ve done—no matter how ‘right’ or ‘wrong’—had landed them in dire straights. He wouldn’t have to confront the fact that no matter what the intent was behind a decision, sometimes the end result would simply be bad. By whose standards, he couldn’t say for sure, but he’s certain that the things he thought were ‘bad’ prior to his life as an outlaw are looking pretty good. He’d been told that civilization was nothing more than its own special kind of evil designed to enslave people like him, and that to submit to its demands was a fate worse than death… but as someone who’s experienced all of the above, he knows which path he’d pick, if he were given the chance again. It’s the path that doesn’t involve him shouting at a rival gang member to leave him alone or he wouldn’t hesitate to shoot. It’s the path that wouldn’t force him to make good on that promise… or at least half of it. He wasn’t exactly known for his swift trigger finger.]
[If Kieran could do it all over again, he would never consider the outlaw life. It only led to broken promises that no level of camaraderie built upon flimsy rules disguised as reverent codes of honor could offset. Sure, some of his happiest memories could be found singing around a campfire with people he hoped would have his back during spots of potentially deadly trouble, but it paled in comparison to the days lived in terror of the bullet with your name on it. Or, in his case, the knife meant for your throat.]
[It’s that terror that awaits him if he were to try and dig through the emotions that surrounds his past. That tempest of fear and anger and shame that he keeps bottled up and locked down deep in his gut where nobody, himself included, could find them. Uncovering that would only lead to a deluge of negative emotion that has no outlet. It’s not like any of the people who’ve caused that pain (whether physical or emotional) are here to shout and scream at, nor can he can drop to his hands and knees and beg the forgiveness of the people he’d hurt—sometimes killed—in return, regardless of how much they ‘deserved’ it. No, the only person here who can shoulder the blame for that storm brewing inside of him is Kieran Duffy.]
[And, frankly, that guy’s had his ass handed to him enough already.]
[Kieran’s eyes, usually bright and vibrant green, are dull and hollow when they meet Ben’s. He nods, absorbing affirmations hat he doesn’t doubt are genuine and heart-felt. The kind of affirmations that his validation-seeking heart chased and cherished whenever the opportunity arose. It’s just nice to have someone tell him that they care, that he matters, that maybe he could handle book-learning, that there’s a possibility that he deserves better (even if he’d vehemently deny that). Scary, in its own way, but nice.]
[He smiles, and the life returns to his visage, although his voice is quiet and thick with emotion.]
Thank you.
[Kieran clears his throat.]
Fer—fer everythin’, I mean. Really. Thank you.
[The smile turns into a chuckle, half-hearted and sardonic, but meant to bring a smidgeon of levity to a heavy conversation.]
A-As far that offer, I believe ya. I’ve known plenty of fellers that don’t seem all that intimidatin’ until you cross ‘em. Then, uh, you learn real quick not to make ‘em mad ever again.
[Assuming you lived through that kind of confrontation. Not everyone did.]
Let’s hope that it doesn’t come to that, though.
[Because even if he wouldn’t think less of Ben for letting his less-than-nice side show, he knows that if that were to ever happen, it’s entirely possible that Ben would think less of himself. That’s just how good people work.]