Post by Ebony Wynter on Aug 26, 2007 20:35:04 GMT -5
Name: Ebony Orion Wynter
Age/Grade: Seventeen/Junior
Character PB: Alex Heartbreaker
Neighborhood/Dorm: Neighborhood
Extra Curricular Activities: Ebony does a variety of things, all nerdy in nature, and is very obsessed with photography
Personality:
Above all else, Ebony is a very quiet individual. Words never come easily for him, and it's probably because he thinks things through far too much. Ebony relies on his facial expressions to convey his thoughts and emotions. He's shy, very shy, to the point where it's probably Social Anxiety Disorder. He's seventeen and can't talk to store clerks, order his own food, and fears phone conversations. He's a very odd boy, but it's not exactly his fault. Ebony's social skills are limited, and when he is forced to interact he can never think of anything to say. Awkward. Yeah, that sums up Ebony quite well. He's awkward, shy, and very nervous around people. If you get to know him then he isn't all bad. He'll open up and become very goofy and just, er, strange. Very strange. Getting to that.
Strange. Ebony is normal. Not at least in the standards of today, that is. He has all these quirks, habits, or rituals. Like he has to wash his hands exactly three times without looking into the mirror. Ebony is a neat freak. Everything is organized, categorized, and excessively cleaned. When angry, upset, or just feeling off Ebony will scrub. Seriously, he'll get down on his knees and scrub everything. If he happens to be scrubbing a tile floor then he'll break out a toothbrush to scrub in every possibly nook and cranny. It makes him feel better. Some people yell, some people cut, some people punch things, but not Ebony. Ebony disinfects. He's also a collector of comic books, which I guess there are worse things one could collect. Like skulls.
Artistic. Ebony is a very artistic and creative person. His life revolves around photography, and it has become sort of an addiction. He needs his daily "fix" of photography. Ebony's imagination is vivid and bright, and the whole artistic thing has definitely helped in the clothing department. He likes color, but he loves taking morbid pictures. I'm not talking about skulls or dead people, but pictures of cemeteries or anything that strikes him as haunting. He finds those types of things beautiful, and he's able to convey a lot of his emotion like that. Unfortunately, Ebony's life is so wrapped up in his photography that he sometimes forgets there are other people in his life.
Moody. The Ebony you meet one day probably won't be the Ebony you meet the next day. His mood changes rapidly, and usually it changes without warning. One moment he'll be smiley and happy, and the next moment he'll be biting your head off. His temper is something you wouldn't think would exist. He's so thin and delicate looking, but Ebony's temper can make a nuclear explosion look very docile. You don't want to piss him off. Ebony has a very big voice in such a small body. He won't go as far as to physically hurt you, that isn't Ebony's thing, but he can get very verbal. His comments and remarks can be hurtful, and we all know words leave a more lasting impact than just punching someone in the face.
Daydreamer. Ebony spends a lot of his time day dreaming. He's spacey, and he'll often space out in conversations he's having with people. It's a habit, and then people get all bitchy because they think he isn't listening. It's not that said person is boring Ebony, he just slips into his own world. Ebony spends a lot of time in his own little world. He recently redecorated it, you see. Can't let all that new wallpaper go to waste. He's just spacey. It's a flaw.
Sensitive. No, really! Little Ebony is such a sensitive bugger. You can say something and he'll take it the wrong way and that's that. He'll be all sad inside. Call him emo, but he's just sensitive. It also makes him sensitive to other people's feelings. Kind of like a people-reader. Ebony can look at someone and get a feel for what they're feeling. He's really quite a sweetie. There aren't many men like him in the world. Ebony doesn't always go after sex. Yeah, he does sometimes. But he's a guy. Blame it on the Y chromosome if anything. He's just generally sweet, caring, sensitive, and will treat you right. But betray him and that's it. There are no second chances with Ebony. Mess it up and he's out of your life for good. Ebony falls for people quickly and often ends up getting hurt. He really is a sweetheart.
Passionate. For anything Ebony does he puts passion in it. Painting, modeling, relationships, or anything like that. Screw 100%. Ebony puts in 110%. Over-achiever? Probably. Ebony just wants to put his all into everything he does. Makes him a wonderful boyfriend, but he's more prone for going for the guys. They seem to treat him better. He'll probably be gay in 2 years. Or less. Right now painting is his one true love. Screw the rest of the relationships.
Depression. Ebony is prone to bouts of depression, but they're not usually severe. It might have something to do with all the heart wrenching music he listens to. Or all those fucking romance novels he reads. Ebony is a hopeless romantic, but anyway. These are the days that Ebony is silent, cold, and distant. He won't speak, even to his friends, and locks himself away. If he were at home in London then he would be in his attic with his paints. But he's not at home. He's at school and therefore just grabs his headphones. He won't look at you, speak to you, or even make any movements to acknowledge your presence. There are a few things that happened to Ebony when he was younger, and he won't talk about them. Sometimes they come back to haunt him, and that's when Ebony has a break down. Try to help him then and you'll probably get punched.
Childish. You just want to squeeze the bugger. He's rash, impulsive, and has been known to swing on swings or play hopscotch. Ebony is still a child despite his 17 years of age. He relates better to children and their wonderful innocence and openness. Ebony didn't have much of a childhood so he's kind of living it now. It makes him wonderful to be around at times. The genuine sincerity and the mushyness that makes you want to puke. He loves physical contact and will hug anyone if they're looking sad. Anyone. Even an exotic dancer with a lazy eye. Anyone.
History:
It was a cold winter day when Ebony was brought into this world. The exact date was December twenty-third, if you care to know. Frost lined the windows of the Wynter's home, and it was a very peaceful time of the day. Suddenly Renea yelled, "Holy muffins, Carlton. Contractions!" Carlton, poor Carlton, almost gave himself a heart attack running around to gather her things. What good would a dead husband do? They arrived at the hospital, Renea almost screaming in pain, and delivered the baby. Ebony was a screaming, pink thing that was slightly on the small side. Despite the pain Renea endured, she loved her son deeply. Carlton returned the love, and they took their baby boy home. Renea almost broke her husband's hand in the process. She was holding it and screaming her lungs off trying to bring Ebony into this world.
Ebony was a quiet baby, and his parents pretty much doomed him. The poor boy was named Ebony. Ebony Wynter. Black Winter, or Dark Winter. Whichever you prefer. They set him up to be some little emo child. He didn't often cry, and if he did fuss everything was easily taken care of. Ebony was just a very well-behaved baby. Everyone commented on it, but things couldn't always be quiet and peaceful in the Wynter home.
Ebony learned to walk. God, he got into everything. Renea didn't want to squash their child's creative abilities so he was allowed to draw on the walls. Their London home was completely covered with little crayon drawing that the tiny Ebony created. He became a lot more vocal in these years, and his first word was "cray-cray." Which is what he called the crayon. It was also what he ingested. Ebony learned that the orange crayons didn't taste very good. Neither did the purple ones. Or the blue ones. He quickly stopped putting things in his mouth. Ebony was quite the curious bugger, and his parents found it so amusing. They nutured him and cared for him, and of course explained where babies come from. Carlton was given that job, mostly because Ebony always asked "why?" So that was quite the educational talk.
There wasn't anything tragic or scarring in Ebony's life. The most horrid day of his life was when his Tamagotchi, Bruno, died. He started school rather uneventfully, and he was known as the quiet kid. Ebony had become rather shy and uncomfortable around strangers, and it led him to have trouble interacting with his peers. He also had issues with his weight. Ebony was the skinny kid, and he still is the skinny kid. Sure, he was teased. Most kids are. Ebony just had a rather normal childhood. Nothing big, nothing scarring, and everything was rather peaceful.
The day he remembers most is the day he got his first camera. Ebony was thirteen, completely devoted to art, and his mother bought him a camera for his thirteenth birthday. It marked his passage into the teenage years. Ebony was even more quiet and even more shy then, and he remains to be to this day. Words don't come easily for the teenager, and he's better with expressions than he is with words. Throughout high school Ebony had only a few friends. He was pretty fine with that, actually. They were a small but close group of friends.
But then the family moved. Carlton was offered a job in America, and he decided to take it. The Wynters moved from their comfortable, London home to America. Ebony left behind his friends and his family to live here, in America. He was sixteen and had just bought a very expensive camera. It wasn't a major change. It wasn't as if Ebony was moving from Japan to America, but it was still enough to temporarily knock him off balance. He seems to be doing okay, though. His shyness is still something he needs to conquer, and Ebony has only become more quiet and antisocial now. He's an odd boy, really, but it isn't completely his fault.
Current Stats:
-Single
-Bisexual (More attracted to the male sex)
-Settling into live in America
-Getting ready for university
-Being a nerd
Sample RP:
Were there worse addictions? Was there a more horrid form of addiction? Addictions themselves were bad. People depended on them, needed them, their lives revolved around them, and they were often bad. If something was bad then wasn't it already bad? There shouldn't be forms of bad and worse if something was horrible to begin with. Smoking was bad, drugs were bad, and it was all simply bad! Raiden sighed and shrugged. The sigh held itself in the air for a moment, frosty like the windows on a winter morning. It was delicate, lacy, and made of intricate lines of air. Then it shattered. Shattered when the loneliness of the world pulled at the silvery strands. The sigh collapsed with a squeal and fell. Raiden heard it hit the smooth, red table in front of him. He saw the pieces melt away and leave this world. It happened so quickly that Raiden could have blinked and missed it. But he saw it. More death. Where was it all coming from? Why him?! Why did Raiden get tortured like this? Those questions burned in his head. The blue, intense flames licking the delicate skin behind his eyes. Those glittering and cold liquid pools that held the swimming ghosts, white against black, of his past. They swam gracefully in the onyx eyes of Raiden. Other people couldn't pick out separate ghosts. They just saw the utter haunted look of Raiden. No one knew why, and they would never know why. Raiden could never bring himself to speak the horrors he'd witness. The very notion of it made sickness rise in his stomach. The very act of telling someone what happened would destroy Raiden. Would make him puff into ash and disappear. But it wasn't as if anyone would care. Who would care about Raiden? The answer hit a lonely and solemn note in Raiden's mind. It rang low and clear. "No one," the memories whispered. They sent a picture of his still face in a casket. No one would gather around to say their farewells to Raiden. Emptiness bloomed again. Its leaves were gray with blood red thorns stabbing at Raiden's body with hot intensity. No one.
What Keeran said made Raiden shrug. It was a shrug of defeat. Was it selfish? It wasn't as if anyone would notice the absence of Raiden. He made no impact on the life of anyone. He made nothing. He was there. Taking up space, breathing the air, and entertaining demented thoughts inside his dark little mind. Raising his gaze, Raiden pinned Keeran with a cold glare. The words that fell weren't the happy ones that had danced around earlier. These were stabbing, icy, and detached. Soft and low, Raiden uttered something. "You don't know me," came the stabbing icicles, "and you definitely know nothing of my life. Don't tell me it's selfish when you don't know me." Raiden fought with his control. He fought to held back the emotions that were swiftly rising like a tainted tide. He frantically built a dam, but it wasn't quick enough building. It wasn't fast enough, and any defense he had crumbled. Keeran didn't know him. Keeran didn't even know anything about his life. Keeran was just there, trying to make him feel bad, and Raiden wasn't going to take that from a complete stranger.
The smooth melody of the Funeral March drifted in his head. Death was clogging his nostrils again. Why couldn't death be quick about it instead of torturing him to insanity. "I have no one, and no one would care. I doubt anyone would even notice. One cannot forget something they don't remember." Sadness. It was overwhelming in Raiden's voice. Each letter, each syllable, and each word was dotted with icy sadness. No one. It echoed like an evil little demon in his head. Just what he needed. More things to be muttered in his head. More words to be formed. More things cluttering his already aching head. He wished it would burst. Burst open so he could end this madness! Raiden stood up. His palms were flat against the table, and the delicate features of his face distorted in pain. Tears blurred and burned his eyes like little white-hot needles poking at the black shadows that were Raiden's eyes. Like the memories were stabbing them with pitchforks. Everything took on the look as if he was under water. Drowning, oh sweet relief! He felt the water surge into his lungs with chilling force. He felt his being slip away to be grabbed by the scabby, grey hands of death. It would be so easy. So easy to listen to the words of Death. So easy to just give up and die.
No one. Raiden saw himself, his casket, and saw his own face. Even in death Raiden's face was haunted. There were still shadows that clung to it. Even in death Raiden wouldn't be free, and he realized this as the Funeral March slowly became louder in his head. It pounded in his ears. Oh, it hurt! Raiden clutched them and lowered his head. Leave, yes, leave. Raiden should leave. He felt himself move away from the chair. So easy to just walk away, so easy to just give up! But something held him there. Something glued Raiden to the spot, and he just stood there. Slowly, Raiden looked at Keeran. The youth was still rambling on about something. Something that obviously made him quite irritable. Then Raiden realized it. Keeran had dealt with suicide before. It didn't make him feel any better, and he still felt angry and emotional.
Now a decision had to be made. Should Raiden sit down, or should he leave? The memories stabbed him violently. "Leave," they told him. They didn't want Raiden to have contact with other people. That might give hope to the young boy. And hope was hell to kill. It took years of torture, brutality, and Natsuki to ruin Raiden's hope. He could clearly see his mother's face now. What would happen if she got the news? Impassive as ever, probably. Raiden closed his eyes. He was going to cry. He could already feel the tears pooling in his eyes. "Stop it, you pathetic little boy. You idiot, stop!" Raiden told himself in hushed tones. It was all under his breath. The words soft and lilting. Why did he have to be born?
"Does it matter what other people remember? It seems like a fair exchange to living in years of torture. You don't know what I deal with and have dealt with!" The memories hissed with glee, and death gave a huge cackle that made the insides of Raiden shake. He could hear his heart stutter, and how he wished it would stop. But death, for Raiden, was not merciful. Death had ever intention of stealing away the already ruined sanity of Raiden. Death had every notion to make Raiden beg, beg on his knees and sob, until the end. Death would destroy every last bit of Raiden, and the shadowy figure inside Raiden smiled. He prodded Raiden's stomach, and the youth felt it lurch. He almost threw up. Almost.
"So fuck it," Raiden said, "if they turn black they turn black. No one will care." The words hung as glittering, icy snowdrops for a moment. Raiden laughed. Cruel and bitter, and it caused the lady working to jump and glare. The laughter came from death, as if the entity of decay had taken Raiden over. As if there was no barrier between Raiden and everything inside his body. Everything was there for the memories to use again shim. Everything was there and ready for his demise. White fingers pounded at white keys as the haunting song surged forth like a bitter ocean that reeked of dying people. Raiden saw those people. He saw their white, lifeless eyes. He saw their pale and thin bodies with all the bones poking through the paper-thin skin. Those were the people he'd join. He'd go to stay with them in their swirling vortex of despair. It was almost tangible. Raiden could almost grasp that thought. He did. He reached out into the air. Raiden felt it, slippery like a silver fish, but it wriggled away.
He sat down, defeated, and looked at the cup of coffee. Cold. Cold like everything else in this world. Frowning, Raiden didn't make a motion to move. He just sat there and questioned why this had to happen to him. Why he was a complete mental case, and why there were voices coming from inside him. Why did his mom have to abuse him like she did? Shouldn't a mother be caring and nurturing. Raiden choked back a sob, much to the glee of the entities inside of him. Tears were persistent things, you know. No can't get rid of them at all. Once they were there, once they threatened to reveal themselves, it was the end. You had to fight so damned hard, and Raiden was sick of fighting. He wanted to give up. He was sick of it, sick of everything, and he was close to crying and screaming until the salt dried on his skin and the scream tore the inside of his throat to shreds. Until he cried rusty blood, and until his throat blistered from the raging emotions that were pent up behind a barbed wire fence. There was nothing in this world for him. There was no hope of ever being better, of being rid of all these horrible thoughts, or anything of that nature. No one wanted to help him. Not even his father. The thought hit him hard in the bit of his stomach. It felt as if his insides were being sucked out through his back, as if his stomach had been replaced with searing, molten lead, as if there was no meaning. There wasn't any meaning to life for Raiden anymore. What did he have? A cold cup of coffee and some random person lecturing him on how it was bad to commit suicide. That was a fat lot, right there. A lot of fucking good that would do Raiden in life. Damn it to hell.
When Keeran continued to speak, Raiden still remained frozen. Speechless. With an ashy taste lingering on his tongue, Raiden opened his mouth to speak. He found it odd that Keeran didn't see the black and white ash lingering on the red tongue of Raiden. "I don't sleep much. I got it because the lady over there would ask me to leave if I didn't buy anything." She would probably ask him to leave anyway. Coldness would be in her voice as she quietly asked the mental kid to leave her establishment. Raiden frowned. He really was a lovely boy, despite all the issues he had in his head. A fallen angel, Raiden had crashed into this earth in a blaze of black fire. His wings had burned away, and the ashes had fluttered into other parts of the world. He was left to wander here, so alone and so utterly decaying, and it pained him. The feeling of his insides dying and turning to dark liquid kept him up at night. The sound of his organs drying up kept Raiden from sleeping at all. Coffee didn't help. It was only there to provide Raiden with warmth, something he never got. He never felt the warmth of another human being. He never felt the soft caress of skin on his porcelain flesh. He felt the weight of the icy world press against his slender chest. The chains tightened like a slippery serpent, and Raiden took a deep breath that send shooting pain through his lungs. It hurt to breathe.
Kill me now! his voice begged death. There was nothing. Just silence on the other end, but he could feel the amusement from the swirling black mass, from the king of Decay. He could feel the entity's mouth split open to reveal rotting teeth. It was nothing more than a game to this thing inside of him. It was all a game, and Raiden was losing. He would lose. It was pre-determined. A slight chuckled, a chuckle of insanity, grew inside of Raiden. And with that, death swirled his midnight cloak and left. He'd be back after Raiden left the cafe. The Japanese boy was sure of it. It was going to be a long night, a long and painful one, and Raiden took a breath of the coffee-saturated air that surrounded him. So much going on inside his head, inside his body, and Keeran was unaware of the internal conflicts between Raiden and death. Between Raiden and the memories. Between Raiden and the softly dying vowels that left warm embers and dry ashes on his tongue.
Bleakness. Nothingness. Emptiness. Isolation. Raiden looked at Keeran, really looked at him, and admitted defeat. He felt slightly sorry for the way he had acted earlier. For the icy tendrils of words to come out the way they did. Should he apologize? What good could it do? It would do nothing, but Raiden didn't want to add an entity of guilt to his already crowded mind and body.
"I'm sorry," Raiden said while still looking at Keeran. The pain hadn't left the dancing shadows of Raiden's eyes. The ghosts still bathed in their obsidian pool. But he did feel guilty. The memories stabbed behind his eyes, and Raiden broke eye contact for a moment. His gaze ventured back to the window where it stayed fixed. Glued. Attached. He saw his reflection, a shadow reflection, and realized it was the reflection of the growing darkness inside of him. Of the growing and blossoming decayed. Pestilence, disease-ridden wind. He was dying from the inside out. His heart stuttered, and he felt more of his cells die. They screamed in agony before disintegrating in a pile of glowing red embers. Raiden broke the staring contest with his shadow-self and looked back at Keeran. Silence covered Raiden in her quilt of silvery-blue. It was icy as it bit into the delicate skin of the teenager.
"She doesn't like us," Raiden said softly as he gestured to the woman working. His midnight hair framed his pained and decaying angel's face. His haunted eyes gazed at the woman before turning back to Keeran. "She wants us to leave." Raiden had no where to go. Just back to his house, which held nothing but shadowy figures. And death. Death would be waiting to embrace Raiden with its cut and scabby arms. With its putrid flesh and fiery eyes. Death would wait to torture Raiden to madness, and he wasn't ready for that. Raiden was not ready for the torture. No, he'd stay here or wander on the streets.
He frowned, and then he was silent. He was still looking at Keeran, but no more words came. Echoes of the Funeral March cascaded through his tired mind. It ended on a low note, ringing in his ears, and died away. Now his mind was silent. He knew the memories were there, but they were watching with silent intensity for the moment.