Colmillo, despite constant insistence from her mother, refuses to accept that she is a naturally beautiful girl-- prettier than that, even. It's usually the first thing people notice about her, which is really something, given her height-- standing above some men at 5'10"-- and growing. However these two factors combine to give her an almost otherworldly allure to some, she's heard the comments before, with just a bit of grooming she could be a model. She certainly has the proportions of a model, being incredibly thin, barely having a bust, and long legs. Of course, she herself is rather insecure about her height and tends to slouch to try and avoid the unwanted attention. The girl has practically no muscle mass-- her habits wouldn't allow for it; consisting of sleeping, spending time doing nothing on the internet, more sleeping, staring at nothing for extended periods of time, even more sleeping, listening to the same five albums on repeat to maintain her sanity, and did I mention sleep?

She might have a bit of a gut and less of a skeletal frame, if her diet wasn't completely trash; consisting 97.854% of coffee of whatever variety she can find it in, and her mother's cooking, which is actually quite healthy-- unfortunately Colmillo has a terrible time eating 3 meals a day... or even once most of the time. Often times the food ends up as leftovers doomed to go bad. If she does make the rare attempt to ramble out of her room and eat with her family, she has a tendency to binge on seconds, thirds, and fourths-- before participating in, you guessed it-- sleep. While her metabolism does it's thing.

These bad habits, haven't quite caught up to her yet, failing to detract from the other factors of her natural allure. Such as her natural hair, curly and shoulder length, styled almost daily by her mother in a variety of styles and braids before school-- though she herself prefers to just wear it down, appearing as an almost "Afro-latino mullet" to some. Her mother, a bit of a (compulsive) style guru, at least when it comes to her daughter, also doesn't let her leave the house without at least a little makeup. Mostly to hide the bags under Colmillo's lethargic eyes, and something to compliment her full, plump lips, her skin, young and over-rested, is otherwise unblemished, both by acne and makeup-- barring the scars on her arms and legs from repeated attempts at cutting and outright suicide.

Her nose gives away the Black ancestry on her father's side, despite her love of the man, she is a bit self-conscious about it (like the rest of her body), having bought into Western beauty standards. Another point of anxiety would be her teeth, prematurely yellowed by her coffee addiction, her smiles, rare as they are, tend to be closed mouthed because of this. Her eyes are fully brown, so brown they almost appear completely black, her personal comparison is to compare them to black coffee. Her style can be pretty easily summed up as "unintentional poor goth." Dressing in blacks from top to bottom, her mother forcing all variety of types of clothing on her though. Her outfit of choice would be some variety of band t-shirt, an oversized hoodie, jeans that aren't too skinny, and black Timberlands, her father's shoe of choice.

Colmillo Russell-Jones was born to two loving parents, Tyrone Russell-Jones and Maria Baez, in Staten Island, New York some short 16 years ago. Though she was a surprise, her parents took it in stride, getting married shortly after her birth. Her mother, a Puerto Rican debutante looking for work in the city and her father, a New York native through and through, made quite the pair, and though they may have married more out of necessity and lust than actual love, love certainly followed, and the pair showered young Colmillo with it. They didn't have much, barely scraping by, with her father as a construction worker and her mother taking whatever gigs came her way to make ends meet. But the young family was happy.

Even as a baby, a toddler even, she tended to have a withdrawn nature, preferring the company of her parents above all else. This made leaving for day care difficult for Colmillo, and making friends there even harder. Luckily for her, her parents soon gave the friend she'd been longing for in the form of a younger brother. Her father was a Wu-Tang superfan, and had made an agreement with Maria (who had a bit of a love of Fleetwood Mac herself,) before Colmillo was born, that she could name a girl whatever she wanted, but if they ever had a boy, he'd get to name him. And so, as Colmillo was 4, Osiris Russell-Jones was born. The love was not split between the two, but instead doubled, tripled, even--as Colmillo was her own person by this point, walking and talking-- and she wouldn't let her parents forget that.

Often spending more time with the baby than the parents could. Colmillo saw Osiris as her only real friend outside of her parents. She learned to change his diapers, how to heat breast milk just right, getting a head start in teaching the boy how to speak and read and walk as the pair slowly grew. Her compassion and patience for the baby fostered a general compassion and patience for everyone in her from a young age. She often resented her time in school, as it was time spent away from Osiris. Many public school teachers, underpaid and overcrowded, didn't have the time to dig into why she shirked her studies as she went through elementary school. However, a few noted her exceptional leadership abilities, her uncanny calmness for someone her age, and her problem-solving abilities-- despite her tendency to get bullied through all of this. Though, easily distracted, she could work through any problem given enough time if the girl made the choice she wanted to focus on it, especially ones involving other people. Eventually, the teachers who made note of the odd elementary schooler sat down with her parents, explaining they believed that Colmillo quite possibly had ADHD, but that she was also gifted and given proper instruction, she could really excel.

Of course, in the Land of the Free, this meant her parents would need to pay money. More of it than they had-- to get her a proper diagnosis, so that she could get extra time on assignments, as well as get her into a school that could properly focus on a plan focused around her. A school where people might not make fun of her for being a bit slower in some areas, where she wouldn't feel left out, behind a pane of glass watching everyone else. How could a construction worker with occasionally jobs and a part-time caterer afford that? With two kids? In New York? So, it would remain unresolved if she had ADHD, and she could only get so much help from the teachers who actually cared, she floundered her way through elementary school, she was almost held back, even, were it not for her mother nearly threatening to castrate the principle. She has learned to ignore the lessons she didn't like, learned to ignore the bullying and just float through with just enough. After all, she was content, she had her mother and father, and she had Osiris.

If only things could have stayed that way.

When Colmillo was 12, she was out with her brother and father. She can remember the day as if she were living it in this moment. Of course she can, she practically relives it every second she's awake. It was a sunny, sweaty day. A real New York summer. Yellow taxis speed past, people were J-walking, down the block, some kids were playing basketball. Distant sirens and people yelling off their terraces could be heard. The air smelled of fruit stands, freshly fried churros wafting some from bodega. Her father had left them alone, as he wanted to go buy some bootleg movies and looseys from his friend on the corner opposite of them. A movie with the soundtrack by RZA had just come out, and he had to see it. That wasn't irregular, they were only a few blocks away from home, Colmillo knew where he was going, and how to get back home, and Osiris would follow her anywhere-- even so, she always held his hand.

Someone was yelling something about fake jewelry, making a grill for someone. But what caught Colmillo's attention was the distant jingle of an icecream truck, barely audible above the police sirens, but there, about three blocks away. She knew her father wouldn't mind. She asked her brother wanted to race, knowing he did. He was cocky like that. She'd practically raised him, but he certainly didn't get that from her. Probably their father. The pair ran, giddy smiles on their face as they rushed past piles of garbage, junkies harassing kids in the park, and homeless enjoying the sun. She was a few steps ahead of him, careful not to rush to far ahead, she wanted to let him win. She always did. Colmillo went for the Choco Taco when they arrived, because that was simply the best choice. Osiris went for the Sonic Popsicle, with the gumball eyes that looked nothing like Sonic. He was in that phase. The man manning the truck commented on her appearance, saying she could be a model. Colmillo ignored it, she had started getting comments like that once her growth spurt hit, she was used to them by now. Osiris looked like he wanted to punch the man. They paid and began to walk back, enjoying their frozen treats, Colmillo making sure to hold Osiris' hand as they walked.

The stroll back was peaceful, a gentle breeze had swept through. The pair took their time. Talking about something stupid, how Goku couldn't beat SpongeBob in a fight. Osiris was convinced a Kamehameha would end SpongeBob since punches would do nothing to him, Colmillo had to remind him that SpongeBob had survive a nuclear explosion. This sent Osiris into a state of contemplation as he chewed on one of Sonic's eyes. Then they heard it.

A gunshot.

It wasn't the first they had heard, but this one was close. It rand and echoed off the building that surrounded them. Colmillo instinctively put an arm around her brother hand had them both duck to the street. When the ringing stopped, the pair got up, pace quickened to where their father was. From across the street Colmillo could see it-- the bootlegger was dead, blood pooling around him-- what could he have done? Nothing, Colmillo would later find out, except "refusing to comply" quickly enough. Whatever that meant. A cop had his gun pointed at her father. What could you do in a situation like this? She kept asking herself what she could do-- there had to be some way deescalate this, right? Her father hadn't even had the chance to raise his hand before she notice he was no longer holding her hand. Osiris wasn't holding her hand anymore. The 8 year old was running toward his father. Colmillo's eyes were as wide as tea plates-- that definitely wasn't what you were supposed to do. She'd lived here long enough to know that.

She raised her hand helplessly, her throat closed shut. She just needed to force out the right words, right? That would fix this. Say just the right thing and then this could be over, and they could all go back tot heir fun afternoon. But what were they? Why couldn't she say anything? Why couldn't she move? Why was this happening at all? Keep your head down and do what they wanted-- those were the rules. Why--

The cop rounded on Osiris. Shooting instinctively. Without care. The cop shot the kid. He was in survival mode-- what did he care that his target was 100 pounds soaking wet? Of course her father had seen this and reacted faster than her. Still frozen there. He'd seen his son running and began to shout at the cop-- the two probably couldn't even hear each other, blood rushing in their ears. Each for reasons of thinking they and their own were about to die. Osiris crumpled in the middle of the street. Her father tackled the cop the ground, he couldn't think anymore, it would be impossible for him to comply. The gun went sliding along the asphalt of the street as the two hit the ground. Her father pounding the officer's skull against the ground, until red started to appear, cracks and squelches could be heard, and then pink started to appear.

Colmillo, moving without thinking, had made her way to her brother, eyes still wide as the scuffle happened, literal feet away from her. People were shouting around her. More sirens than before could be heard in the distance. She thought her hands were sticky from the ice cream before, but as the warm, dark red blood pooled around her, seeping into everything. Her dress, her socks, her shoes, her hand-- it was everywhere so quickly, gushing out of one small hole. She pressed against the hole, keeping pressure on the wound. She'd seen enough dramas with her mother to at least have some idea that this was what you were supposed to do. And keep him elevated as well? She kept his limp body in her lap like this for what felt like forever. Maybe it was just seconds? Should she shout for a doctor? Or anyone? Why were there so many people doing nothing but looking? She didn't know how to check for a pulse, so she pressed a bloody hand against his shirt, looking for something like a heartbeat. The fact that blood was still slowly pouring out meant it still had to be beating, right?

Colmillo's recollection of this part is a bit fuzzy. At some point she was pulled away from Osiris-- or rather, not pulled. Pulled is too strong a word. Like a tissue being taken from the box, she was gently lifted away. Her father in cuffs, expressing more anger than she could ever know. Two dead men. A Black man shot and a cop with no head left, just red jelly. Her brother in the back of an ambulance. She was placed in the back of a separate car from her father dripping with blood, but she could still see him, raging like something she'd never seen before. She didn't have the vocabulary at the time. Probably still didn't now. But as the engines started, he happened to look at her, through the barred windows, despite the red in his eyes he mouthed 'I love you.'

This would be the last time she would ever see her father.

Her mother, spilling enough tears to clean all of the blood off of her, told her she'd get to see him again. The two spent a long time in the police station. And an even longer time in the hospital, days, as she recalled. Her mother was confident Osiris would pull through, that things would be different, but they'd get through it. At least, those are the words she kept saying. Colmillo said nothing. She couldn't. Not for a long time-- it felt like she was still back there, with the chocolate ice cream sealing up her throat.

She spent months not speaking, her closest attempts at communication were when she would try to kill herself, always thwarted, obviously. Even when Osiris did eventually open his eyes again. Even when her father's trail was over and the two might finally be able to visit him in the penitentiary. Her mother was right. Things were different. The bullet had shattered a good part of Osiris' spine, leaving him paralyzed and wheelchair bound for the rest of his life-- not to add that the shock and sudden blood loss left him mostly catatonic. And her father had "killed himself" in his cell before they could visit him. She was silent through all of this, her mother becoming replaced with the desire to merely keep her daughter close. She quickly made the switch from warm and loving to cool and smothering. Colmillo didn't mind, through all of this, she was all she had. Slowly she began to speak again, to her only at first.

Life goes on. Colmillo eventually went back to her middle school, and no one noticed that she didn't speak. She drifted through the grades, floating like a leaf sustained by D's and C's. Her mother took to making sure her daughter took care of herself, where she couldn't. Many of her interests faded, and simple thing like waking up or showing became monumental tasks for her. For a time, and even to this day-- it was almost as if Maria had two children who couldn't take care of themselves. Despite this, Maria recovered quickly-- always finding just enough work to scrape the three by. They downgraded apartments once. And then again. Selling trinkets and heirlooms along the way. The bills piled, but somehow the woman managed. Working through her own grief, the new needs of her son, and practically dressing and bathing her daughter everyday, all while working 3 jobs-- and she even began dating online.

And you know what's weird? It worked.

A man of a much higher tax bracket took an interest in Maria-- and her two children. By the time Colmillo had failed Freshmen year for the first time in New York. The two were a serious item. Like, moving in serious. Like, let's merge our families Brady Bunch style serious. The man saw something in Maria, a spark of online romance became a flame-- he had her fly out to see him when she could. Even flew out Colmillo and Osiris so they could meet who would later be her step brother and sister. Frederick Westphalen was his name, but he told Colmillo and Osiris to call him Freddy, Colmillo called him Fred. He was ex-military, but you couldn't tell from his frame or demeanor. He was in real estate now. He and her mother bonded over tragedy. He'd lost men who were like brothers to him in the senseless fighting he'd gone through to afford an education. It still woke him up screaming at night. He'd lost his wife to cancer a few years back, it was terrible and slow, but in the end at least they got to say goodbye. He'd lost a lot, and he just wanted to find something with someone who got it, now, you know?

So, when she was 15-- they all moved in together. She began attending Stockbridge Academy as a Freshmen. A big fancy place in the suburbs-- with enough rooms that no one had to share-- she had never had her own room before, with the exception of her mother and her new step-father of course. Colmillo liked him well enough-- he didn't judge her for her sadness, and he never once commented on how 'pretty' she was, when he spoke to her, he treated her as an equal, basically. And while she didn't have it in her heart to love a new father, she could at least respect him. She could appreciate that they both loved her mother. He knew she needed help. Needed therapy and extra assistance with school after being behind in... everything for so long. But he didn't push it on her. He let her spend most of her time in her room, sleeping. He was old enough to know that change had to come from within. He may not have showered her with the endless love of deceased father, but he knew other things about fathering. Colmillo wished the two could have met.

She only passed Freshman year thanks to Fred. As said previously, he didn't push, but he did gently prod. His children, her step-siblings, Gerald and Ashley, were about her age, but had actually skipped a few grades and were close to graduating. Every night, they'd have a set aside study time. Occasionally, a light tap on her door would come from her mother, asking if she wanted to join them. She knew, every time, Fred had put her up to it, and every time Fred knew enough about her to know that despite the fact that she didn't want to, she wouldn't say no. Not to her mother. Those sessions didn't fix the years of academic malnourishment she'd endured-- but it made it easy enough to get consistent C's and even an occasional B. Enough to pass, apparently.

Skip to today. Her mother is a doting housewife, pregnant with her half sibling. Still fusses over Colmillo each morning to get her ready and out of bed, she's her best friend. Osiris, still wheelchair bound, is as close to Fred as he ever was to their biological father, he gladly took up Fred's offer for personal tutors and he's on track to skip 8th grade if he continues at this rate, he plays wheelchair basketball in a league Fred found, and has more friends than attempts Colmillo has made on her own life-- relations between them are strained, Osiris loves her, of course, but Colmillo can hardly look at him. It's her fault he's stuck in that chair after all. Her Step-siblings are cool, they've been nothing but encouraging to her since she's arrived. They pass each other in the hall and they always take the time to greet her, despite her desire to not be seen. And when the library is closed and she can't hide behind a computer for lunch, they let her sit with them, despite being fairly popular seniors. Still, they're not her friends.

Colmillo is the oldest sophomore in the school, she's fairly certain. Her 17th birthday is creeping up. She's yet to do any of the things teenagers are supposed to do. She still struggles in pretty much every subject. She's barely interested in anything besides dicking away time on the internet. She's never had a girlfriend, or even been kissed. She can't let go of the trauma of the past or her sadness in the present. She knows she should see a therapist. She still wants to die...

But, now there's zombies. Dope.