Alright, so it's like this. My name's Alec and according to my father, I'm a godawful kid. A 'troubled teen' in need of guidance. All this because I wear a lot of black, am just a bit 'anti-social' (though that's actually the wrong term. 'Introverted' is a lot more accurate), I tend to be curious of things most people around here would consider 'dark' and 'disturbing' (death interests me and I'm a pagan. Sue me). I don't have a million piercings or anything like that, in fact I don't have any. I dyed the front of my hair bright red, though and that... well, that didn't really bide well with my father. All I did was dye a bit of my hair red. I like red. What's the big deal? To be honest, that was kind of a stupid thing to do, considering past history.... still, I can't help myself sometimes. I don't really like to give in. It's just not me.
I'm not so athletic, I'll tell you that. I tried to get into team sports and all that to make my father stop yelling at me about how lazy and reclusive I was but I never enjoyed it. My teammates were always jerks. Always so damn cocky and amazed with their own skills. Like everyone seems to be around here. So I quit.
I don't have many friends, I'll admit it. I don't like many people in my school. They're so fake. So quick to jump in and torture some guy because they found out he can't lift weights well or he eats alone at lunch or he's gay or something. Gay's a big no-no at my house. My parents (well, my father mostly) are so homophobic it drives me insane. I, myself, am bisexual. They found that one out recently when, um, well, let's just say something happened and it was a mistake and have I mentioned I do stupid things sometimes? See, my parents follow this religion called the "True Faith". In fact, just about everyone in Mirria does (that's the country I live in. We're fairly large, but secluded from the rest of the world because our government is very secretive and tends to keep to itself. The only reason I know anything is because of the internet and I'm pretty sure even that is monitored). I don't know when it happened but it's like some sort of unwritten, but loudly spoken law that you have to follow the True Faith or, well, you get sent to these "Camps" for delinquent kids. There's this thing called the "Religious Act" that allows churches and other places of faith to basically run themselves with their own rules and guides and laws. But since everyone here either follows the True Faith or keeps their mouth shut, we're run by religious figures, not by our political leaders. If you don't like it, leave Mirria. But no one leaves Mirria, and no one gets in without extensive screening. As I said, we're secluded.
Another problem with this religious-ruled land is the fact that anyone who rebels against it tends to be subject to some pretty brutal forms of punishment. Punishment no one talks about. Like the kind I get. My father tends to dish out more severe punishment every time I do something "wrong", but it didn't make me more careful or anything because it was such a hopeless situation. It would happen at least once a week at first, then more and more often until almost every day no matter what, it would happen. It didn't matter what I did, there was always something. Eventually, after he broke my damn arm and all my fingers in several places, he decided it wasn't working. So he had this big long talk with my mother and they came up with a plan.
They were going to send me away to one of the Camps. I had no say in the matter. I hate the True Faith, I don't even know what it's all about. Be obedient to our tyrannical god, I guess. Some warped form of what religion could be, twisted into what it should never, ever be.
It's a camp for troubled kids. Drug addicts, fighters, kids who never talk, kids who never go out, gays, lesbians, kids with undiagnosed mental disorders, kids who aren't "normal" according to the counselors. Anyone "troubled" is all grouped in here. It doesn't matter who you are. Mirria is a country for the strong, not the troubled. I don't know what they do with the kids they can't fix. I don't want to know.
I've got to get out. I don't know how, or where I'll go but I just have to.... Maybe I'll get lucky. Maybe I can make it out of Mirria. Maybe... but I'll need help.
It's like this huge campus in the middle of nowhere bordered by thick woods. There's a few buildings everywhere, spaced out by some pavement and grass. Everything is neat and tidy, flowers dotting the area around the sidewalks and pathways, bushes trimmed to perfection, trees placed in careful arrangements, not a leaf out of place. The grass is bright green and lush, standing out harshly against the dark woodland border. The buildings are mostly grey or brown in colour, save for the cafeteria, which is a sort of dim blue. They brief you on it when you arrive. The cabins are big and crowded, full of people. So many. I'm not so good with people, especially crowds. They like to group us all together, keeping as many to a room as will fit. Males and females are separated, but only by one thick wall. The doors lock at night and all the windows are sealed with a metal grate. Curfew is 10:30 but it's not like anyone's going to break out. If the locks weren't enough, they have guards posted around the camp at night, making sure nothing gets in or out.
They say they're going to go over this on the first day. God, I really don't want to know about their sick rules... From what I know right now, the main rules are:
*No love. None. No gay love, no straight love, just friendship and caring and all that daycare stuff they've managed to twist. They like to press celibacy but they take it to extremes. I mean, if they catch you kiss someone they punish both of you like hell.
*Another one is no leaving campus. Ever. Maybe they send the hounds on you or something if you do, I don't know.
*No talking back. I have a problem with this one. My mouth doesn't like to stay shut.
*No ditching hikes or activities or whatever classes they want you to attend (classes are basically lessons on the True Faith, why we're all horrible sinners and going to their Hell, etc). If you ditch, they track you down and take you for punishment. If this isn't your first time doing it, they might throw you in solitary for a while. That's a small box, so small you can't stand up and you have to keep your legs slightly bent no matter what position you're in. You stay there for a maximum of 24 hours, though it's usually just half a day or a couple hours. Believe me, it's even worse than it sounds. It's pitch black in there, you can't eat, you can't see and you can't move. And gods forbid if you have to go to the bathroom....
*No fighting. You don't want to know what happens then.
*I'm not sure about the rest. I wasn't listening, really. I guess we'll find out.
The bordering countries of Mirria are Serian and Aldain, but I don't know much about these countries. I have heard that they're very advanced in technology, though, but I don't know what they have. The Fernland Islands are fairly close to us as well, but I don't know much of anything about them. If we ever do get out of here, Serian is closest, so I guess that's our best bet.
1) No god-modding or powerplay without permission.
2) Absolutely no OOC fighting. None of that. Won't have it.
3) Swearing is fine but not every other word.
4) Try not to flood, and keep your posts at an advanced level. Please try to put at least one paragraph per post. The more you write, the better, but I understand if you post less when you're in the middle of a conversation or something. You can have as many characters as you can handle, but you must be able to post at least one paragraph for each of them.
5) I would suggest you write in first person for this RP, but that's a request, not a rule. You don't need to if you're not comfortable writing in first. (Though I would prefer it)
6) No Mary-Sues. I like characters with plenty of flaws.
7) Put "I Will Break Free" at the bottom of your post if you have read the rules.
8) Have fun.
Code:Name: Age: Gender: Sexuality: Height: Hair Colour: Eye Colour: General appearance: Personality: History: Other:
"Much to the dismay of my parents, I am bisexual. Though I'd rather avoid relationships altogether. They never end well for me..."
"Dark brown naturally, died bright red in the front."
"I'm tall, I guess, though the fact that I'm so skinny might make me seem taller. I've got thick hair that's a bit longer in the front and green eyes that some people have said stand out. I don't know if they do or not but seeing how bloody pale I am, they probably do merely because they're the only actual colour on my face. My right hand is a bit bent up because it never healed right after my father broke it (long story) and there's a small bone that didn't set right in my arm, so it's kind of twisted. You won't notice right away unless I point it out, but still, it's there. I can't make a fist with that hand either, at least, not a proper one. My fingers are pretty bent-up too, and that is noticeable, and why I often just have my hands in my pockets.
I tend to dress in dark clothing, usually a black hoodie with torn jeans, doc marten boots and maybe a pair of fingerless gloves to match my Gothic persona. I don't have any piercings, nor do I have tattoos, but the pagan symbols I've painted on my hoodies and t-shirts are enough for my parents to label me possessed. I have a healing symbol on the back of my favourite black hoodie and a protection symbol on the sleeve. I know I may look pretty weird to people, but I don't see why they might think me dangerous. I'm not at all athletic. Really, why would anyone be afraid of me? I hate fighting.
Anyway, I suppose that's what I look like. If there's anything else, you can just see for yourself."
"Um, I don't know. I guess I speak my mind, I'm sarcastic, a bit of a smart-alek (no pun intended), and I won't back down in an argument. I hate violence and I probably won't fight back if someone attacked me, even if it's unjust. I'm like that when I have a point to prove. I'll try to make it known even if it might kill me. I'm used to physical punishment anyway. I don't make friends easily because I'm always seen as 'that weird guy', but when I do have friends you can bet I'm going to defend them. I can't keep my mouth shut when I've got something to say. In fact, I'll probably defend a complete stranger if I see his accuser/attacker/whatever is wrong. I guess I'm just stupid that way, but I just can't stay silent when there's something to be said.
Oh, and, well... this is probably the only time I'll say this but I'm also pyrophobic. As in, I can't be near fire. I'll go into a state of panic, I won't be able to breathe... I can't do fire. A little bit is fine so long as I'm at a safe distance but if I'm too close.... Just... no. I would also suggest not waving a lighter in front of my face. Just... don't....
I'm not so great in crowds and can get anxious if too many people are talking loudly at once, or if I'm trapped in the middle of a crowd. I don't like it, alright? I will force myself to stay calm if I have to and I tend to hide what I'm really feeling. I also tend to back away from love because it always seems to end badly for me and I'm awkward as all hell.
I won't back down even if I know I'm going to lose (unless it's a violent fight. I don't fight. I won't fight), but this can get me into quite a lot of trouble. People really should be careful if they decide to befriend me. Not that they will, but still."
"Um... I kind of explained some of this already. Look, I don't really want to go into any more detail."
"I love music. More than anything. And I will get mad if I hear someone butchering the art. Unless they mean well and are just singing badly. Sometimes people can't sing. Doesn't mean they shouldn't, it means 'sing along'.
I, my friend, am Seventeen.
Well, I don't have boobs, so unless you'd like further proof, take a guess.
Straight as a stick. Well, maybe a little crooked.... On second thought, no, definitely straight.
Five foot, eight inches. Yeah, I'm short. What of it?
Brown. Very brown. Almost black.
Probably the only striking thing about me, my eyes. Stormy-grey, I've been told it's like I look -through-, rather than at...
I may be short, but that doesn't make me scrawny. I've put a lot of work into keeping fit- I may not have that nasty, body-builder build. But I've got a hell of a lot more strength in me than you might assume. My parents told me I used to have a kind face, but that's changed, now. All hard lines and apathetic expressions, I don't think I've made so much as a facial twitch in years. Can't even remember how to smile. My hair hangs to just above my eyebrows, most of the time, the back and sides covering most of my ears and neck. I've got a bit of stubble, I look normal enough, mostly, but that's just because I'm clothed. The only scar you can see when I'm dressed is one long, pale one crossing over my right eye, from the corner of my eyebrow to my nose. I was lucky it was shallow enough to avoid the eye itself... Under the clothes, though, is proof of my.... Rebelliousness. Scars both fresh and pink as well as pale and fading crisscross my back liberally. Don't mention them if I don't trust you... I'll just end up with more, and you'll be on the floor.
Commonly, I dress in pretty simple clothes. Jeans, some plain t-shirts, and hiking boots. I haven't worn a jacket since I was a kid, no matter how cold it is.
I'm a bit of a rebellious asshole. To people I don't like, anyway. I give these expressionless glares that never cease to piss people off. That and my habit of knocking the teeth out of anyone who messes with a friend of mine are probably the reason for half of my scars. The other half are knocking the teeth out of anyone who tries to smack -me- around. I've got this... small person big pain in the ass thing going on. Well, you get the point. I'm a jackass, but a loyal friend. If you get that close. Which is rare. Really, really rare.
Have you ever been whipped? Beaten? Lashed? Hurt until you bled and saw stars? Blacked out, even?
It's why I'm here, in this hell. The same reasons I was beaten. My little brother is why I'm here. My brother and my public hate for this country and it's 'True Faith'. A bunch of bullshit, is what it is.
But, the event that caused my being here is what I'll share with you. My little brother isn't much of a rule breaker. He goes with the flow, does what he's told. But he... Caught our fathers anger, once. He was little. -Is-, little. So when 'dad' started beating him, I... Stepped in. Knocked him out, probably broke a few of his ribs. Like I told you before, I'm short, but I know what the hell I'm doing. So, my little brother got off scott free... Me, I took what was probably the worst beating of my life, and ended up here, in this hell hole. Ta-da, whoopty do.
I like kittens, puppies, and other fluffy things. Got a problem with it, take it up with my foot, he'll be visiting your ribs shortly.
I've been called 'The tough guy', recently. But not because I act it... Because I've survived beatings and punishment time and time again from these people. They can whip me, smack me, break my bones, but I will -not- cry out for them.
Name: Fallon Gibson
Sexuality: Straight, usually
Hair Colour: Dark brown
Eye Colour: Green
General appearance: My hair is kinda shaggy with jagged bangs – I cut it myself, as I’m sure you can tell. I’m on the short side, but I’d never be called willowy or slight. ‘Healthy’ is what Gram used to call it. I dress somewhat plainly, usually in leggings and long baggy sweaters or shirts and always in my boots. Purple cowboy boots, to be exact, scuffed and worn so that they look perpetually dusty, their stitching more like a memory, but molded so perfectly to every nuance of my feet that any other sort of footwear feels like I’m strapping my poor dogs into an iron maiden… what can I say? I like my boots.
Personality: Distant, detached, disinterested – that’s how the counselors at school describe me. Foul, disgusting and whore were a few of Mom’s choice words. I suppose all of them fit me at one time or another. I use sarcasm like a barbed wire fence, but if you’re willing to bleed a little to get past it, you might find what it’s protecting… or I might bite your head off… the odds are about 50-50.
History: You might have recognized the name. Yes, those Gibsons. Don’t worry, I’m not a spoiled little rich girl, far from it. You see, my mom was Nathaniel Harding Gibson III’s fourth wife and damn proud of it, so proud in fact that she failed to notice that what old Nate found so attractive about her was the ten-year old daughter that came with her. She even let him legally adopt me. You can figure out what happened next, four years of it before Gram found out and saved me. Gram died six months later. By that time, Mom had been hustled out the backdoor of the Gibson estate with a tidy divorce settlement. The True Faith only asked for half of it to give me back to her. That’s when the real hell began…
Other: I don’t like water – lakes, ponds, rivers, streams, brooks, swimming pools, bathtubs, even large puddles make me queasy. I don’t swim, don’t ask me.
Name: *sights* stupid question list, why do I have to fill in all of this. Ethan... Ethan Aldurren
Hair Colour: dark brown
Eye Colour: darker green
General appearance: here, this is me... yes, the guy in the right. the other one is the poli- ill get back on that later. Yeah so, I'm quite tall and i like to show off my muscular and athletic body.
Personality: I am the coolest guy you'll ever meet. of course, no-else is better then me. well, there are a few things people say about me, they call me a nymphomaniac... i prefer to call it, attractive, you know I like girls and they like me, most of the time. yeah, I'm a kind guy, but you better not get in my way, they also say my tongue is sharper then a knife... whatever that means.
History: I don't see why I should fill in this, really whats so special about me? I was just an average teenager you know, went to college, got together with some girl, maybe some more than other guy but still. My friends, they were all Free runners and parcour guys, they said I had talent and I had, soon I became one of the better of them. During college I dealt and used drugs but I was always able to get away from the police, just like my friends, eventually i stopped using and I was pulling off a giant deal with some of my friends, everything went great, yeah, except I got caught, and now I'm here.
Name: Alyssa Summers
Age: Seventeen and a half
Height: six foot one
Hair Colour: Blonde
Eye Colour: Brown
*See page 2*
Personality: Kind, loving, never hurt a person, that's what you want to hear right. well, why you keep asking then? okay I tell you, promise you won't laugh: I'm kind, loving and never hurt a person, but sometimes I get really mad, my mom calls it mood swings...
History: got here after I kicked in a window, or two, my mom calls me unmanageable, i think it has to do with my heart too
Other: I have arrhythmia, a heart disease, when I get exited, worked up or really nervous I might die from a heart attack.
"Oh, my name? My name's Olivia--O-L-I-V-I-A--Green. Olivia Green, but I'd rather just be called Olive.
"I'm 17 years old."
"Last time I checked, I had a vagina. Guess that means I'm female, aren't I? Do I look like a guy to you?"
"Chicks only for me. No guys allowed."
"I'm average height, I guess. I don't know the exact size. Five foot five, maybe? Somewhere around that."
"Well, as you can see, my hair is an awesome shade of pure black, the most beautiful color in existence."
"My eyes change color from time to time. Most of the time they're green, sometimes they're blue, other times they're brown. I don't really notice until someone tells me."
"Well, as I stated earlier, I have my hawk, and I'm around average height. I'm pretty big around the chest and hips, I guess, it's kind of embarrassing. I wear lots of make up, because I just hate to look the same way every single day. I love wearing colorful eyeshadow, like green or pink, and mascara really makes me lashes pop. I also wear different shades and flavors of gloss."
"I consider myself to be pretty nice person. I'm cool with most people, and have never had many enemies. I don't really talk to a whole lot of people, so I haven't gotten into much arguments. The worst fights I've had is with my parents. Most of the time I just chill and lurk around. It's easier that way. I don't have to pretend to be nice to anyone."
"My life has been pretty uneventful. I grew up on my own without any siblings, with my two strictest parents. Someone once told me that the strictest parents create the most disobedient kids, and I guess they're right. It seemed like every choice that I made was the wrong one. My parents never let me do anything, and eventually, I just started to do whatever I wanted to. Of course this didn't go over well with them. They especially didn't like the fact that I had no love for that fugly guy they tried to hook me up with. I just feel like it's my life, so I should be able to spend it with whoever I want to, and it's definitely not going to be spent with him. I didn't get the chance to even tell them that I didn't like guys in the first place, before they sent me to this camp. I guess cutting my hair was the last straw for them."
Name: Jason Davis
Hair Colour: Dirty Blonde
Eye Colour: Dark Brown
General appearance: I have the in-born ability to draw looks my way and my childhood only enhanced that. The picture-perfect boy from the church next door – the one you’ll gawk at while in front of you and forget as soon as he moves away. I used to enjoy that and use it to my advantage.
Now if you stare at me, I’ll stare back. I don’t want to stand out too much anymore, so I wear black t-shirts and jeans and everything else other people wear and hope what people used to call “charisma” to be buried deep beneath.
I honestly don’t know what’s left of me – because I don’t know everything that led to my mistake. It never occurred to me that things could go wrong - before they did. I was always trying to make the right choices and naively believed I could change the world. I was all fire and passion, all…
Well, I can’t say I’m that now. I feel stuck right now, unable to move forward because I’m afraid of hurting others like I seem to have a talent for doing. I feel that I’m changing for the worst but I can’t be bothered to stop it.
I made a mistake, a huge mistake a lot of people are now paying for. I was careless, impulsive, I slipped… And we all fell, and we fell hard. My best friend paid with his very blood and soul for my stupidity, and the rest of us are paying daily. At least the ones still alive.
Ok, I suppose that’s not making too much sense for you, but what do you care anyway? It’s my own problem to deal with my sins and my demons so I don’t see what reason you’d have to poke your nose in it. If you were to ask, you just might get me to believe you want to be friends and… my friends don’t end well.
Other: Yes, I know how much Sam worries about me and it indeed is the most brilliant torture my father could ever come up with. I ruined the girl’s life and her gaze always following me anxiously waiting for the moment when I snap and decide to end myself, is driving me crazy. I can’t stand that care and I can’t stand that she knows how often I actually am tempted to give up. I can’t stand that she still believes in me and I’m sure she knows how brutal she’s being. Sometimes I wonder if isn’t her own way of taking vengeance.
Name: Samantha (but just call me Sam)
Hair Colour: Black
Eye Colour: Dark Blue
General appearance: I don’t care about my looks anymore. I put on whatever I have at hand and don’t even bother combing my hair. I used to look like a little doll but now I don’t. Now I probably look like the ghost of a doll that should have collapsed long ago. I feel drained most of the time due to the worries and lack of sleep and I’m sure if shows on my passive face and in the shadows under my eyes.
I’m quiet and I know how to obey. Or at least, I knew how to obey. I still remember how I need to behave in order to please the believers but Jason has awoken the part of me that desperately wants to question and rebel against everything they say. I am not like Jason, though, and I know how to suppress those urges, because unlike him I realize that by letting myself get hurt, I’ll also hurt those who care about me.
I wonder if some people would call me cunning. The believers probably would, if they knew how many months I’d spent playing my old self when I was already changed. I wouldn’t call myself cunning, though, because I don’t mean to hurt anyone. I don’t like hurting because I’m scared of getting hurt myself, and that takes more effort than just gritting your teeth and taking a punch like Jason does.
I don’t care too much about petty dramas, I think that is one thing that died in me that fateful Sunday. The day most holy to some is the one I curse every day. I think along with Kevin certain death and the possible ones of the others, the little sensitive girl in me also perished. I now find myself to be much harder to impress, more calculating and… unable to shed a tear.
As much as my heart wants to let it all out my eyes find themselves unable to oblige to that need. I think if I manage to shed a tear one day I might never be able to stop. I think maybe I am in denial about how desperate the situation actually is; still desperately holding together the shards of Jason’s broken dreams and trying to see myself reflected in them. But sometimes I’m not sure if my image will ever become whole again.
To talk about my history seems rather pointless as it was mostly the history of everyone else in this country. I was brought up believing in something foul, something that said it’s right to punish your own children for enjoying what life they were bestowed with.
I was a good girl and my dad was proud of me so he only beat me up rarely. My mom must have also been proud as after each one she would smile brightly at me and braid my hair – she was proud I was realizing my mistakes and atoning for them, surely.
And I was happy. Can you believe that, to be happy to get a beating after coming home late only because a storm caught you with no umbrella at hand?
Well, now I can see it was crazy to believe that to be parental care and affection. The person who showed me actual kindness was Jason. I first met him in church, during one of the services when we both sensed something unusual about each other. He was the son of the preacher and I’ve always gotten a weird vibe off of him but I was unsure what it was until that day.
It’s when he was handling out the leaflets with the new songs that he looked at me and his look lingered for a second too long before moving on. I knew there was a secret hidden behind those eyelids and I was right. It was night and I was alone in my room when I finally got the courage to open the leaflet and see what he had undoubtedly scribbled inside. It wasn’t much but it was enough.
It was a simple “come”.
It was right under the information about the Sunday school. The Sunday school his father had recently entrusted to him.
But… it wasn’t a Sunday school. Or maybe it was, because it was so much holier than anything the True Faith had to offer. It was simply the Truth. The truth about human connections, about real relationships, real love, real friendship.
Jason was very cautious who he shared his secret with – we were a small group of seven who were carefully selected by him after long observation and consideration. He didn’t force us to believe what he said but we had no doubt that he was indeed telling the truth. Our hearts knew it and our scars confirmed. We were… we were relieved from the True Faith. Saved, I dare say.
I cried like a baby that time, I remember. Everyone thought I was cute and fragile after, though that’s not true. They just thought so because I was so relieved and they mistook it for something else.
They were all so kind to me after that, like a real family should be. We became really close and what bond us together, more than anything, was Jason. Because he was our Faith, our Hope. He was the one who believed, more than any of us, that there was salvation, not just for us, but for everyone. He believed that Mirria could be saved.
But he was broken. His faith and hope were broken that day, when he publically announced in front of everyone in the Sunday service, that the True Faith was fake. That it should disappear.
We… we tried to stop him. We knew his father would kill him, so we jumped on our feet and went to shield him. I can’t forget the looks on everyone’s faces as we did. The shock growing to burning hatred still haunts me at night. As do the screams that followed – the screams of the only people I ever truly cared about.
We were quickly overpowered, captured, sent to different camps… Kevin wasn’t so lucky. His death…
This event changed us. It broke our faith and our hope. It broke Jason. He’s not the same anymore, he keeps blaming himself and grew cold and distant, even to me. I’m sure he’s keeping me at a distance because he’s afraid he’s only going to get me in more trouble, but this distance is killing me. His empty stare is killing me.
I’m sure it’s no coincidence that we’re the only ones from our little group who got set up in the same camp. I’m sure it’s his father’s doing because he knows me being here will be the worst punishment for Jason, because he knows I’m not going to give up on him, even if he already has given up on himself.
Sometimes you can only achieve your goal by hurting others and I’m ready to hurt my friend as much as I need to, but I will get him back.
Other: I don’t sleep much. Not only because I have nightmares but also because I worry about Jason. I fear that if I let my eyes off him for too long he’ll do something horrible to himself.
“I have intimacy issues. Along with trust issues. I tend to avoid people altogether..”
Light blue, sometimes green depending on the light.
*see page 10*
“I’m described as aesthetically pleasing. Beautiful, attractive; take your pick of adjectives. I don’t really care. All it’s brought me is misery and trouble.
I don’t pose a particularly imposing figure with my unimpressive height and curves, oh I’m sorry. I meant to say ‘sinful figure’ as they’ve told me a billion times. And I prefer to dress in dark colored hoodies with the hood pulled up over my straight blonde hair. I don’t wear makeup or any sort of accessories as I try to blend in as much as possible. My pale skin is free of tattoos and I don’t have any scars.. Of the physical kind.
People might find it strange, even creepy that I don’t show any emotion. One might liken me to a doll I guess, no I take that back. Some dolls have smiles on their faces. Not me, I never smile.
“I’ve always been quiet and reserved. It’s not that I’m shy, I just prefer to observe people from a distance instead of conversing. I’ve developed a knack for reading people, actually. But over these past few years I’ve become bitter and downright cold. I’ve lost faith in humanity, what little I had to begin with. But can you really blame me?
Anyway, that’s not the point. We were discussing my personality. Right. I usually just avoid people now, giving short answers if asked a question. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t hate people, not the ones who haven’t done anything to deserve it. I’m just apathetic.
I’ve never had many friends, or gotten to keep the few I had. Being shunted off from one foster home to another tends to do that. Friends would be a welcome change in my life. Given my charming personality and conversational skills I’d say it’d be something akin to a small miracle, making a friend.”
“Ever since I could remember, I’ve been told that my very existence is shameful. I shouldn’t have been born. I don’t know who my parents are. Maybe they had good reason to abandon me as a baby, maybe they didn’t. Either way, I was stuck in foster care with people who only looked after me because they had to.
The first few years of my life weren’t unbearable. Of course I had the True Faith propaganda drilled into my head. It didn’t make sense, and reeked of hypocrisy. But it didn’t take long for me to learn not to question it or speak out. ‘Follow the rules, keep my head down and endure it’ was my mantra. It had served me well for most of my life. After a while, faces and time seemed to blur as I was shuffled from foster home to foster home.
When I was 15, I was sent off to live with the Graysons. They were an upstanding family, believers of the True Faith. Dr. Amelia Grayson was a successful psychologist; her husband Aidan Grayson was a regular contributor to major charities and their son Nathan was a model student. In a word, they were perfect. Was it enough for them? No. They wanted to take in “Kira, the poor little orphan” to further boost their public image.
I’d barely moved into their beautiful house, my new ‘home’ when I got a night time visit from Mr. Grayson. Fighting off a tall and athletic man proved impossible for me. His large hand prevented me from screaming, nearly suffocating me in the process. I’m sure you can imagine the rest.
I tried to tell, to get help. But the servants turned a deaf ear to my pleas. I guess they valued their jobs more than their souls. Amelia was hardly ever home and when I did try to talk to her, Aiden locked me in a closet for a whole day after threatening me. Did I mention that I’d developed a serious case of claustrophobia early in my childhood?
When I finally did manage to tell Amelia, she ignored me. She was fine with it as long as he was ‘discreet’. Their marriage was a farce, apparently. Nothing more than a PR stunt.
I was given expensive clothes, tutors and material possessions aplenty. But my nightly torment continued. I was stuck in hell. A beautiful, expensive hell masquerading as paradise. I briefly considered killing myself and ending it all but I wasn’t stupid or brave enough to do it. I’m not sure which.
A year of hell later, Nathan came home from boarding school. It wasn’t exactly a surprise when he decided to follow in daddy dearest’s footsteps. When Aiden found out, he wasn’t too happy. He didn’t like sharing his toys apparently. Word of their dispute got to Amelia and she realized she couldn’t turn a blind eye to it any longer, not without risking scandal and disgracing their image. Incase it leaked out, the official story was that I was an ungrateful little whore who spat on the Grayson’s kindness and tried to seduce her husband and son. With that, I was shipped off to ‘Camp’ to correct my sinful ways and repent.
And there you have it. My little sob story.”
“You want to know MORE? Geez what would it take for you to leave me alone? Okay fine. I like to imagine different worlds and escape into them, hide inside my mind from reality. That’s how I got through it all without going insane or breaking. Sometimes I try to paint, give life to my fantasies. It doesn’t turn out perfectly but they make pretty decent paintings.”
Name: "My...My name. My name. It's Faithe McKenny. A-...At leas,t that's what it says here, o-on my wristband. See? Faithe McKenny."
Age: "Seven-teen years. Seventeen years and three months, and a week."
Gender: "I...I think I'm a girl. Last t-time I checked, I was a girl. Y-yes."
Sexuality: "I don't like love. They told me, they told me that I don't like love s-so I don't."
Height: "I'm not t-too tall, I don't think..."
Hair Colour: "Such a pretty s-shade of black, but I keep getting these...these gray hairs, nice and silver, so I g-guess they look like highlights."
Eye Colour: "Silver. Really bright silver."
Faithe has the appearance of someone who's clearly gone off the deep end and couldn't come back. She's quite thin, mainly because of her strange eating habits, and because of this her growth is severely affected thus explaining the short stature and flat chest. Her skin is a pallid pale shade with scars decorating the thin limbs and her back, shiny and silvery-purple in colour. It should be noted now that she has no signs of self-harm on her, not even the tiniest slice or bruise. Her muscles are also affected, clearly - she looks fragile, like a glass swan. Very thin, and gives this distinct aura of being very weak too. Her hair, once probably curly and jet-black in appearance, is now a shade of dull grey with streaks of silver hair running through the frizzy curls - most likely from some sort of trauma. Her hair itself is a matted, greasy mess, clumped together and nearly impossible to drag any decent hairbrush through without Faithe throwing a bit of a tantrum.
Her eyes are the same shade as the silver streaks and are wide constantly, flickering from one thing to the other in a consistent state of fear - vaguely like a rabbit caught in a car's headlights - and are adorned with long, black eyelashes and bushy, dull grey eyebrows. Her nose is long and thin, and her lips equally as pale as her skin and constantly puckered together, making her look like she was permanently flinching. Smaller scars litter her face - the most prominent of them all being the one across her lips, far too thin to be a claw or a scratch.
Faithe's movements can be described as beastly, or animal-like in behavior. Short, sharp, juddering movements like sprints and hops from hiding spot to hiding spot and quick, jerking movements of her head like a tiger waiting to pounce. Or sometimes she's shuffling across the floor in her socks, clasping her hands close to her chest as if she was trying to hold in her heart. Oddly enough she never simply sits - it's more of a crouch on whatever she was ordered to sit on. Even (supposedly) a lavatory, if that happened to be the case.
She is almost always seen in a white T-shirt and black tracksuit bottoms, clearly a bit bigger than her for comfort and to make it look like she's healthier than she really is. She has no piercings, and no marks on her skin save for the scars.
To say that she was weird would be an understatement. She usually keeps her distance but sometimes tries to follow other people at random and make friends, with something akin to a desperation or some sort of force - clearly from the staff at the Camp. Her attitude reflects her movements - scared, worried, upset or just curious. Some sort of perverted sense of innocence radiates off her form like a strong perfume, as if she was unaware of the horrors of the world but clearly she saw some of the worst.
A large portion of her personality is due to some form of Schizophrenia, as she speaks to thin air and holds her hand out as if it was being held. She would look much more at ease when talking to those who do not exist than those who do, like she was playing her own comforting scenarios within the confines of her mind. Of course, when she 'snaps out of it' due to a staff member or even someone else bothering her, she generally spirals down into a saddened mood.
Curiously enough, Faithe doesn't seem to harbor any negative feelings or any tendencies to self-harm, or some other form of disorder. She seems almost childlike in personality and can cause pity rather than alienating groups of people, simply because she's so far gone that even the Camp does little to spoil her mood.
For those who have the records, they would know that Faithe grew up in an abusive household and was diagnosed with Schizophrenia at the age of thirteen years, at which point she was promptly sent to The Camp to stabilize her condition. One of the main issues being her downright stubborn refusal to follow the "True Faith", spurred on by her hallucinations and false personas following her in her mind.
As for her true history, it's fairly unknown. Faithe knows it but keeps it locked away so tightly that it'd difficult to discover. If you became very close friends with her, you'd get to know...but who'd want to be friends with a freak like her?
Notable Camp "Counselors"
Name: Brock Terren
Position: Guard; keeps the campers from fighting/talking back/breaking rules, will use force if needed (or if he wants to), little toleration.
Notable Traits: Has no sympathy for the campers, believes in physical punishment, little to no tolerance, carries a taser, will send people to the Box, will not hold back if you make him angry.Name: Samuel Iaan
Position: Counselor; deals with the campers on a personal level, tries to relate, some tolerance, though none for intimacy between campers, talking back, disobeying, etc.
Notable Traits: Less severe than most counselors, picks favourites, more timid than most counselors, will talk first before acting, seems too happy, tries too hard, looks a bit like a Ken-doll come to life.Name:Susan Gwenneth
Position: Teacher; teaches classes on the True Faith, little tolerance, unpredictable, will not accept anything that could possibly be regarded as blasphemy.
Notable Traits: Spacy and seemingly upbeat. Can turn at any moment (not too drastically, but she can become dark), no tolerance for back-talking or putting down the True Faith. Be careful around her.
Name: Dr. Adrian Venice
Position: Psychologist and Doctor; uses any means needed to 'fix' these campers. If he deems you unstable, he may try to give you medication. His main goal is to find a way to make you acceptable to Mirrian society.... by any means necessary, even if it means destroying your will.
Notable Traits: Seemingly professional, may seem cold, little expression to his face. Little is known about him.Name: Mary-Jane
Notable Traits: Very zealous and religious to the True Faith. Constantly wears pastel colours. Believes in the punishment of the Box and uses medicine to cure her patients. Calls Faithe "Child" or "Girl"
*There will be more, but I'll put those down later*