"This ain't good-bye, Jacky-boy."
He will not cry. He is strong, so full of passion. Anger is the first emotion burning through his mind, so scorching and terrible that he can scarcely form words. The blood pulsing through his veins throbs with every heartbeat, a constant reminder of what has been lost and what can never again be gained.
"Fuck you, Jack! I hate you, ya lousy scab!" He snarls, his eyes bright with fury. He snaps and bares his teeth like an animal as he speaks, flecks of spit escaping his mouth, landing hotly on the flesh beneath him.
His heartbeat is loud, pounding in his ears. He can hear himself breathing, the rasping sound like nails on a blackboard. He imagines himself whirling, screaming, tossed about, captive to black, black waves breaking over his body in a roaring storm.
"Why'd you have you go an' do somethin' as stupid as that? You've got no sense, you stupid shit! Ya never have!" His eyes are hard, his mouth set so firmly that if pressed, it would feel like cold marble.
He fights off the hands attempting to yank him back, their fingers digging through his thin shirt. "Don't you touch me! Don't y'know who I am?" The hands cease, though every so often one plucks hopefully at his shoulder, trying to make him turn away. They stand a good three feet back, giving him space. Only an idiot would go closer than that to Spot Conlon when he's in a rage.
He cannot feel his feet, or his hands, or even his body. He feels detached, his face inches away from Jack's. "Get up, you bastard! Get up!"
The others watch unblinkingly.
"You fuckin' idiot...stand up! Are you listenin' to me? Stand up, you stupid, lousy, pile of..." Now Conlon really is being dragged away, as his fists start to beat at the other boy's chest. His blue eyes are wide, his teeth bared again as he tries to claw at Jack's flesh. He continues to rant, fighting to break free.
Jack does not fight back, or stand up. He lies still, his glassy eyes staring at the ceiling.
Francis Sullivan, or Jack Kelly to those who care about him, is dead. One of his hands rests on a bloody hole in his chest, his flesh whitening with the warm, wet blood that still flows from the bullet wound.
Jack Kelly is gone. Only this outer shell remains.
A part of Spot Conlon is still screaming. He halts suddenly, throwing off the restraining hands. He scowls darkly at them. "I'm fine," He growls, his voice low.
Ian Connor, or Spot Conlon to those who care about him, is alive. His eyes are half-lidded, his arms crossed tightly over his scarred, bruised belly. He bears the marks of a fist fight gone bad - one of his eyes is beginning to swell, his lip split. The marks of a punch thrown by a fist wearing knucklebusters ooze from his face, the signs of a scuffle surrounding him.
Spot Conlon has retreated somewhere in the depths of the Brooklyn boy's mind. Only this hard outer shell remains...but he has worn it for years.
