[First Name]
Lyle
[Last Name]
Dumont
[Nicknames]
Throw-Down, Lylo
[Age]
Nineteen
[Gender]
[Male]
[Room]
[Room 114, Second Bed]
[Sexual Orientation]
[Heterosexual]
[Psychological Disorder]
[Intermittent Explosive Disorder, and minor Borderline Personality Disorder]

[Personality]

There's few things that don't actually make him angry, but there's a pile of things that will send him flying off the handle. Pushing him, getting in his face, picking on smaller people and just bad-mouthing him. Once he flies into a rage, he's like a vicious dog. He loses his ability to speak, and just pummels—like an animal whose been cornered. You can see it in his face before it happens—his eyes lose focus, and nearly look black. Spitting with arms cocked back to hit whoever caused him to lose his temper, he's only satisfied when he's spent. He's usually short-tempered, impulsive, and rude, but that's only one side of him. He doesn't like to show his feelings and is very protective of those he cares for, although he doesn't warm up to people quickly. He doesn't know how to act in certain situations and it causes him to act inappropriately. Relationships aren't very common, he doesn't see the point in them and he believes that when you let people close to you, that's when everything goes wrong. He's terrified of being seen as weak, and sometimes when you let someone in, you can't always protect them.

Arrogant, proud and stubborn; he doesn't listen to what anyone says, even if it makes sense. Not often will people see Lyle laugh or smile because he tends to withdraw into himself. He tends to project his unconscious self-criticism onto others around him, and is often pegged as being cruel because of it. The way he was brought up and the way he handled things as a child is a product of his anger, no one was there to tell him how to channel his anger. There was no one who told him it was okay to feel like that, and to not take it out on others: he childishly flings his emotions around at other people without thinking about how they'll feel. Very much a pessimistic, he can't help but see the glass completely empty. Lyle doesn't know what he wants in his life, he doesn't have any ambitions and nothing to drive him forward. He just wishes everyone would just piss off and leave him alone.

Lyle obviously gets a rise and high from getting under people's skin and perhaps having an edge over them. It's probably more of a power and superiority complex type thing with Lyle, a trait which will gradually lead to his downfall. He obviously enjoys giving orders and the sense of being in charge and control, but his lack of taking orders himself punishes him with his loss at becoming a leader. He hates losing and thrives on winning. During fights he shows no mercy, and is drowned in his own self-confidence, he'll do anything to win—no matter the costs. There is no doubt that he is suspicious of others until they have proven themselves trustworthy, and even then he relies more on doubt than belief. His mind is plagued and tortured, preoccupied with death and suffering of past events. He fears being harmed or controlled, it revolves around him like a sickness so he kicks out at the world so that no one can take a hold on him. Bitterly, he finds it difficult or distasteful to accept or admit that he is wrong. He is reckless, impulsive, destructive, an insult artist, and brutally honest. He'll leave you alone as long as you don't push him.

[Likes]
People smaller than him
Adrenaline
Silence
Sleeping
Fighting
Freedom
Birds

[Dislikes]
Men
Authority
Being pushed
Bullying
Isolation
Being medicate

[Favourite Colour]
Olive

[Playlist]
Alone I Break by KoRn
Battle For The Sun by Placebo
Vicarious by Tool

[Hobbies/Talents]
Commonly, Lyle can be found playing card games—an array of them: from poker, to Crow, Bidder 10, Crazy Eights, Blackjack, Blitz—he seems to be acquainted with all of them. If he's not playing any card games, he's carefully stacking them. He's particularly good at juggling and doing magic tricks.

[Biography]

Born into something he can't even name: All Lyle can remember from his childhood is the deafening sound of his heart beating against his chest, his head pounding as if he was stuck underwater. Unsteady and erratic. Drowning. This feeling was something that he never grew out of. Neither did he forget the sharp jabs accusingly striking his chest, the owner of the hand his father. The adrenaline. Sharp slaps and hateful words followed him wherever he went, he grew into a spiteful, grudge-holding, spitting monster. Unnoticed for his talents, and angry at everything. His mother was the only sanctuary in his quaint home, and she left him at the tender age of fifteen. She couldn't stand being around her abusive father any more and left him there alone to deal with the man with dark eyes. She promised she'd come back to him. Lyle stopped calling him father because that's not what he was. She never came, and there was no one he blamed more for leaving him there. Heart to stone, heart to stone.

Aged fifteen, it was around the time when he'd been in and out of correctional facilities strewn around the States. There was nothing, he decided, to live for out in the world—he had no plans to do anything. Constantly in trouble at school, his interest plummeted and he busied himself with fights. People soon realized that getting out of his way was safer than approaching him. Lyle believed he wasn't good at anything, so he didn't bother graduating. He quit. It was all bullshit. Landing himself in a juvenile facility with a man who seemed to love pushing his buttons, he snapped. All he remembered was being shoved. Over and over again. And then everything was black. He was transferred from that facility for permanently blinding the abusive correctional officer (aged seventeen). Throughout his many rotations of different correctional facilities, he'd made his name known. If anyone bothered him or anyone he knew, he'd be just as likely to beat them with their issued plastic cups or strangling them with a dirty rag to teach them a lesson. However, the happenings of the last facility still haunts him, whereas things were actually going well. During his stay, he befriended two other boys who'd unfortunately passed away in the building. The first boy, Jared, was in the middle of an ugly fight—involving smuggled drugs—and some guy stabbed him just to the side of his spine, leaving security to scramble to save his life. Apparently, no one saw who did it. He did. He saw everything. He exploded. The other boy, he'd rather not talk about.

Coining him with Intermittent Explosive Disorder and minor Borderline Personality Disorder: they fed him pills and transferred into a mental institution. Unfit for life, unfit to live on the streets, unfit until he “gets better,” whatever that meant. For him, it was another pair of shackles slapped on his wrists. Forevers a damn long time. Somehow, he's made some unlikely friends that make him hate the place less.