<Name:/> Petrushka Poddelka
<Nickname(s):/> Petra
<Gender:/> Female
<Age:/> 26
<Occupation:/> Philanthropist/Charity Worker
<District:/> Born in 5, resides in 16
<Height:/> 5'6"
<Weight:/> 129 lbs
<Appearance:/>
<Personality:/>
Petra is a charitable person, above all else. Though she seems to act somewhat reluctantly, as if against her own nature, she tries to give and help whenever she can. She is also quite personable, easily striking up conversations with those around her. She is often found as charming, though her love of mockery can sometimes be off putting.
A darkness also haunts her. Not the fake angst many teens commit to, but a deeper feeling. A poignancy hidden in her eyes that attest to loss and pain. When asked about her past, she will always calmly smile, and tell a weary story about a love gained and lost. Ask again, and she will refuse to talk any more.
<Biography:/>
She led a life cut from a storybook.
Born to a well off family in District 5, Petra had access to education, entertainment, and opportunity. Her parents loved her unconditionally, and she excelled in school. She was well on her way to becoming a doctor. Not that any of that mattered, because she blew it all off in the name of love. He was a wealthy man, the heir to a corporation, and good looking at that. A veritable prince charming, complete with the fairy tale estate. They met in a café. He sat down next to her as she read in silence, and grabbed her drink.
"Petrol?" he asked, teeth shining like a model. She was too surprised to speak.
"I'm sorry, what? That's my cup!" she finally sputtered. He set the latté back down in front of her, angled to show the maker writing on the side.
"Your name is Petrol?" he asked again. His voice was the silky purr of a tiger. When she realized what he was saying, she gave a nervous chuckle.
"No. Petra. Sometimes I think the baristas misspell it on purpose," she replied. His smile widened, eyes twinkling magnificently.
"That's quite alright. I am Gabriel. Though, our marvelous servers appear to think of me as a homosexual beverage." As he spoke, he set down his own drink. The name on it read 'Gay Beer'.
Petra laughed harder than she had ever laughed, and soon fell harder than she had ever fallen. This man who had elegantly forced his way into her quiet life was polite, well spoken, and utterly irresistible. She found herself dreaming about him at night... even dreaming about him during the day. Gabriel was her life. Since that fateful day in the Starbucks, everything changed, but not necessarily for the better. Stories rarely have happy endings.
It started with the death of Gabriel's father. Mr. Brighton was a rugged man and an honest worker, but illness plays no favorites. The disease that ravaged his body left him weak and bloody, eating him from the inside out. Gabriel stood strong when others were watching, but Petra heard his sobs at night. His father was dying painfully. They did what they could to ease it. Soothingly colorful emotion tea, suppressive steroids, and finally powerful morphine based narcotics to try and soften his passing. In the end, none of it helped, and the skeleton of a man screamed himself to sleep each night. He died regretting he had ever been born.
The funeral was marred with corporate deals and paperwork. Petra helped with what she could, but they were not married. She had no say in the eyes of the law, and Gabriel was forced to bear the brunt of the business. Eventually, once funeral and medical fees had been paid, he inherited the entirety of his father's capital and assets. He was the sole owner of Brighton Neurotech, and held all the responsibilities that entailed. He was pulled more and more often into his work, and came home more and more frequently with sunken eyes and pallid skin. Petra grew withdrawn, depressed, and irritable. All around, her perfect life was falling to shambles, all because Gabriel chose his job over her. She was terrified to lose him to work. In the end, she almost lost him to something much more devastating: Genetics.
The first day the symptoms appeared, she knew something was off. He seemed curt and agitated beyond the usual, hidden behind a steely face. He left without a goodbye, and his breakfast was untouched on the table. Petra fretted about it throughout the day, unable to focus on her classwork. The phone call came at two. There was an accident.
"What do you mean?!" she shouted at the solemn officer, her heart leaping violently in her chest.
"Your husband..."
"He's not my husband."
"Your boyfriend, then... he was in an accident at work. He fell thirty feet from a catwalk." The officer paused, anticipating a response.
"Is... is he alright?" It was a dumb question to ask. She wouldn't be getting this phone call if the answer was yes.
"He's alive, but critical. They're keeping him at Santa Clara hospital, for the time being," the man replied.
Alive. Critical.
Petra hung up the phone, and raced to the door as fast as she could. Not hesitating to take the elevator, she ran down all fifty flights of stairs leading up to the suite, blazing through the lobby without a word to the doorman. When she arrived at the hospital, she was out of breath, and ugly needles were digging into her side. She slammed her hands on the receptionist's desk.
"Gabriel Brighton!" she managed to shout. After a queer look, the man began leafing through his doussier.
"Fifth floor, room C2," the receptionist calmly replied. Before he could say anything else, Petra was off again. Up the stairs, around the corner, down two halls... at the door. She stopped outside, panting dramatically, wary of what awaited her inside. Tentatively, she opened the door.
"Did you bring any cake?"
Gabriel's questions always had a habit of throwing her off. He was lying on a hospital cot, a massive brace around his abdomen, eyes red and glassy. He looked like he was bathing in a grave, yet his voice still held its silky purr.
"Cake?" she replied. Maybe his brain was addled.
"Don't you remember? This was the day we first met." He smiled. God, he smiled. Petra thought he had forgotten, hell, even she had forgotten, yet here he was, half-dead, and asking for cake.
"I don't," she admitted, "and you aren't in any shape for cake either. How... what..."
"I fell off a bridge. Landed on my back, and shattered most of my cervical and thoracic back. Trust me, I feel wonderful." His sarcasm was so effortless, as if he didn't even realize what he was talking about. Petra sat in the chair beside him, and offered a hand. His own sat limply at his side.
"You're going to have to force yourself onto me, if you want a squeeze. The doctor tells me I'm not using my limbs anytime soon."
"No. You're not..."
His silence was confirmation.
"How are you going to work?" she asked flatly.
"I'm not. I've got enough money in reserve to live comfortably, but one of my cousins is taking over the business." He didn't seem to care.
"I hope I'm not interrupting." A new voice, coming from the door. Petra turned to see a doctor holding a clipboard.
"Your test results are back. You weren't intoxicated or under the influence of any drugs..."
"What a relief. I dreaded I was an addict."
"...but we found advanced decay in your smooth muscular tissue. We did a DNA test, and it detected genetic hypotrophy."
The room was filled with deafening silence.
I suppose you think they find a cure. I suppose you think the doctor was wrong, that Gabriel hadn't contracted his father's illness. Come to think of it, you probably think the opposite. Gabriel died a horrible death, cursed by quadriplegy and atrophy. Whatever occurred to him is not the focus of this bio. I shall say this; A year later, Petra left district 5. She left with money and a shattered spirit, bound by some change of heart that had came in the last few months. She took the wealth to the less fortunate in Beta, and tried to make a difference in the world.
Like it matters. All storybooks end, and it's seldom happy when they do.
<Other:/>
None at this time.
