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by LordSaladin on Wed Feb 14, 2007 11:46 am
Jon was a quiet boy, very intravert. He rarely spoke to anyone. For him, he just wanted to melt away into the background and disappear. He hated being in large groups, and hated being the centre of attention. Sometimes it seemed to others as though he had lost the ability of speech. He just didn't want people to notice him, and the silent are rarely noticed.
Hidden deep within was a pain that seared his soul, a loss that caused wounds that would never heal. He never talked about it, but the fifteen year old was known to cry himself to sleep on quite a high number of occasions, and yet he never talked about his pain. Not wanting to burden those he cared about.
He was a lad who was of a medium to large build, his hair brown, and at the length where it was considered scruffy, like a mop of auburn. His eyes were of an emerald hue, yellow spikes inside his irises. He hadn't yet needed to shave more than a few times a month, but he felt much older than he truly was.
His clothes were loose and all encompassing, covering his entire body except for his fingers, his long sleeved tops had holes cut into them to place his thumbs through so that his hands were covered to the knuckles. The reason for this were known only to a few. Covering his entire body, were long, deep, straight scars, all from the previous year.
No, he wasn't an abused child. He had caused those scars himself. They were without number, his body covered from his shoulders, down to ankles in self-inflicted scars. Even now, some were still scabbing over, but he somehow found a release in removing the scabs and watching the blood flow from his wounds.
He had been sent here because his parents could no longer cope, themselves suffering depression from watching their oldest child be in such pain but not revealing a thing as to the cause. For him, his pain was personal, he had to bear it on his own. Not to burden anyone else around him.
At school he was an outcast, often to be found wandering the grounds, even when he should be at class. An intelligent young man, despite his low attendance, he was estimated very high grades in all of his subjects. It was just that he couldn't, somehow, find the motivation.
Regardless of his distance to those around him, he was a very caring and affectionate young man, and many who knew him did, in fact, hold him high regard. Even though he thought of himself as a nothing and a nobody.
Upon founding out about his moving into the house, he had spent the following month in his room. It had been not long after his Grand-dad had passed away, and somehow, it seemed to break him in two. All he did was lay in bed all day, staring at the ceiling, his walkman beside him, the headphones in his ears, listening to heavy metal. He had had to be forced to eat, oterwise he would have laid there all day, staring at the ceiling.
Finally the day had come for him to enter the house. He had spent the night before crying, the knife that he owned, kept a secret from everyone had spent the eight hours between when his parents went to bed and them awaking, piercing and tearing his skin open. That night, all of his body had bled. And as the physical pain filled his mind, he found that the tears had left him, the pain of the cuts stopping his emotional pain somehow.
That morning, he refused to eat, and as he walked outside, without saying a word to his parents, they sat and, whilst in each other's arms, they cried, for nearly an hour, tears fell down their faces. Jon simply waited by the car, with the single hold-all bag that had his most prized posessions, his CDs, his walkman and only a few clothes.
Finally, he began the journey to the house. It was a silent journey, and in his pocket was the knife which he had taken with him, no-one yet knowing about it. He doubted that anyone would ever find out about it. His hand was in his pocket, almost as a reminder that it was there, as though he yearned for it's embrace.
Upon arriving at the house, the blonde haired hag, Rose, was at the door, waiting for them. He had met her before, but did not like her at all. He walked straight past her and through the house, out into the back garden, ignoring all the others in the house.
He had always had an interest in Martial Arts, for him it was a way to clear his mind of anything, even though he had never had any formal training, he had learned from books and the many Hong Kong films that he watched repeatedly, imitating the movements, till it was, in his mind, perfect.
Standing in the middle of the garden, he dumped his bag to the side of him on the neatly cut grass. Then making his feet over double shoulder's width apart, he turned his toes to point inwards, whilst bending his knees to such an extent that his thighs were parallel to the ground. His arms were positioned horizontal, straight out from his body in front of him, palms pointing outwards as he stretched his wrists back.
There he stood, still, silent, until after dark, his mind was elsewhere, remebering the pain he had forced himself to bear for so long, focusing on the burning sensation that covered his body in its entirety from the previous night's relieving assault. The burning he accepted as his punishment, for weakness.
He ignored any that called his name, feeling the wounds, under his clothes, in his legs and arms slowly tearing open once more as he stood there.
I hope you don't mind me joining. And sorry about the graphicness of the post. I will be honest and say that I read the very first post and nothing else -- it was too much to read for my brain. However, from what I saw, it seemed almost as a way to get into the minds of troubled kids, which is what I have started here with Jon. I hope it is Ok, and that I was right in my assumption?
Last edited by
LordSaladin on Sat Feb 02, 2008 5:59 pm, edited 2 times in total.
Please tell me now what life is, Please tell me now what love is... Again, tell me what life is.
Tiko says: Saladin: Damn it, leave my hole alone.
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