Post by keefe brogan o'kane on Jan 21, 2010 0:42:44 GMT -5
would you be so scared that you would turn your head away?
It was cold outside. One look at the sky and Keefe knew they were probably in for some flurries of snow later on; drab gray clouds stretched as far as the eye could see, blocking out the afternoon sun. A breeze coiled the boy's dark hair in its chilled fingers and then let go, pulling at it and playing with it. It teased the half-frozen pond, too, ruffling the surface where ice wasn't protecting it, creating small crests now and again as it picked up and receded, came and withdrew. The leaves on the trees hadn't started to grow back yet, the bare branches reaching in all directions; hungry, skeleton-like hands grasped for something unknown to him.
The cool air nipped lightly at the boy's cheeks, olive skin turned light rose despite the coat draped over his shoulders. His hands were protected, for the moment at least, in the front pockets of his jeans. He curled his right hand loosely around the phone there, while his left remained still. It's wasn't too bad; the lenses of his glasses were clear and hadn't shown any signs of fogging up, and as long as they stayed that way he wouldn't have any problem with being outside. Of course, Keefe wasn't going to lie to himself and say he didn't notice the cold; he did notice, but he just didn't really care. He liked it, here where the clouds could be gray without dumping rain.
He was alone, the minutes-older of the O'Kane twins. He stood at the water's edge without company; no one was there for him to look at, to listen or talk to, to touch. Once again, it would be a lie to say that he didn't notice. But, once again, he didn't really care about that, either. The spectacled lad was tired, more mentally than he was physically. People often times said they were jealous of his observational skills or of his photographic memory, but they were stupid. They didn't realize that the gears in his head were forever moving, never stopping, and that sometimes he just needed calmness. Stillness. Things ran smoother if he got it, after he'd recharged.
Keefe's eyes were closed as he stood there, still and silent as a statue. With the eagle eyes (for they were so, only that effect was severely dulled by the thin wall of glass he saw the world through) veiled and his jaw relaxed, he appeared to be very calm and at ease. But if one looked closer they would see the boy's lips pressed together grimly, obviously deep in troubled thought. Mac had asked for his help with some math homework earlier that day, and with an essay needed to be done for history the day before. Keefe normally would jump at the chance to prove that Mac wasn't better than him at everything, but the dark circles under his mirror's eyes were starting to worry him.
Ah, but he mustn't think of those things. He'd come here to get away from the problems at home, not to dwell on them. Keefe's eyes slid open, appearing to be a beast carved from stone several centuries ago suddenly coming to life. He shook himself out, taking his hands from his pockets and flexing his fingers. Then, strangely, he crouched down to the ground and selected a smooth, flat stone from the gravel. Once, twice, thrice he run his fingers over it, looked closely at it. Whatever for, he found it; he wedged the rock between his thumb and hooked forefinger, drew his arm back, and then threw sideways. As hoped, the stone skipped and he counted. One, two, three, four, five...
