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Charlie Fletcher

Well... alright, then.

0 · 492 views · located in The Medialoum

a character in “Coffee in Hell”, as played by graphicromantics

Description

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Role: Human Male 1

Nicknames: Charles hates being called by his given name, and much prefers being called Charlie.

Species: Human "I used to be in Heaven, though. Kind of miss it."

Gender: Male

Age: Died at age 25

Appearance: Charlie bears quite a strong resemblance to many of the demons, with dark hair, fair skin, and light eyes. His skin is a pale, creamy color, untouched by freckles or any sort of marks. His hair is a rich copper-brown, and it falls in curls across his forehead. It's quite soft to the touch, but he doesn't like it when people touch his hair. His eyes are a luminous sea green that can convey even the most complex emotions with just a glance. He has a strong jawline and a long, thin nose, which he finds ugly, but really looks fine with the rest of his features. His eyebrows are thick and provide a sharp contrast to his much gentler looking eyes. He has a dimple in his right cheek that appears whenever he smiles. He sometimes seems to have an air of slight confusion, but this has gotten quite rare as of late.

Personality: Kind & Sad & Intelligent & Soft-hearted & Down to earth

Charlie is a bit of a mush, despite his calm appearance. He has a bit hard time saying no, and when it comes to those that he cares for, he will almost immediately relent, unless it's something reckless and potentially life-threatening. Due to his mother leaving him at a young age, Charlie has separation anxiety, and he hates it. He gets terrified that he'll be abandoned again, and has developed a complex about it. His fear of this can often leave him in a bad mood or a bit depressed.

Likes: People | Being Needed | Lo | A good conversation | Summer | The taste of clementines | Tea | Stripes | Books | Baking | Stability |

Dislikes: Being Alone | Porridge | The Color Yellow | The Orphanage where he grew up | Moving |

Brief history: Charles was a regular Oliver Twist as a boy, except his life was no Dickens novel. He was born in a small town, not far from London, to a young single mother. Her name was Linnie, and when Charlie had been born, she'd been but 17. She was a pretty young thing, slender, graceful, and she simply couldn't handle a child at her age. So she did the only "logical" thing. When Charlie was around 4 years old, she took him to Stockwell Orphanage in London, a miserable place for a bright child like Charlie. He remembers (well, a lot clearer before the whole amnesia deal) standing in front of the great mahogany door, dressed in his Sunday best, hair combed to the side, clinging desperately onto Linnie.

His first day at Stockwell was miserable. Older boys jeered at him as Madam Stockwell, the woman who ran the orphanage with her husband, led him through the halls. They were painted a horrid, sickly yellow, he recalls. The walls were peeling, the hardwood floors scratched up and dingy. "Your mum didn't love you any more," the boys hissed, much to his confusion. "That's why she gave you up." Girls, not much older than him, peeked around the corner, their hair held up by brown-grey scraps of fabric. Madam Stockwell had said to Charlie, with a prim look painted onto her face, " Charles, you are to stay here from now on. Your mother will not be back for you." He remembers... he remembers crying himself to sleep that night, to the sounds of whispers and sneers, of that awful fireplace that always smelled so awful.

Charlie was always picked on for being smaller than the others, or for being too nice to the girls, or for just being too nice in general. His disposition, he couldn't quite help. But his height might have improved if it wasn't for that weak, watery porridge that they ate every day. On Sundays, they got a piece of bacon and some beans. Mind you, this was a millennium ago, and they really didn't have much more to give to the children. Come the third Monday of the month, the children were always bathed, clothed nicely, and fed well. The reason? The benefactress of the orphanage, Lady Helen Grover, would always visit on the third Monday. The children were all questioned, one at a time, about how they liked the orphanage, how they were treated, whether they were being fed enough. Now, Charlie, being quite new to the system, was simply instructed to lie to her. But a few years later, when he was 7, he became quite blunt, as children of that age become. "What have you eaten today, child?" Lady Grover asked. "Today, we got soup and bread," Charlie said, furrowing his brows as she nodded. Then, as an afterthought, he added, "But usually, we just get porridge." Lady Grover widened her eyes. "And how do the Stockwells treat you? Well?" she asked. Charlie shook his head. "Sometimes, they beat me and lock me in the closet if I try to go outside." Lady Grover's delicate hand fluttered to her chest. "Oh, my, oh, my! That's quite enough, thank you, Charles. You may leave now."

That afternoon, Madam Stockwell came up to Charles' room, a pinched expression on her face. "Pack your things, you nasty brat," she spat. "You're leaving, and good riddance, too!" Much to Charlie's- and everyone else's- surprise, Lady Grover decided to take him with her. This isn't to say that his life was happily-ever-after once it happened, of course. Lady Grover and Charles lived in quiet amiability for 18 years, until one day, when Charlie rode his horse into the forest. Everyone knows that the forest never leads to anything good, and this was no exception. A lone wolf frightened the horse as they were crossing over a river. Agitated, the horse bucked, sending Charlie flying. His head smacked against a rock in the river, cracking his skull on impact.

When he finally drifted up to Heaven, his separation anxiety seemed to get worse, as he'd been separated from yet another mother figure. He'd always been kind, had a definite sense of right and wrong, and was sensible and trustworthy, making him an excellent candidate for a Guardian. He hated that he had to move around again, but he liked the fact that those in Heaven considered him good enough for the job. That was when he met Lo, a fellow human from Hell. She was bold, exciting, a breath of fresh air, everything that Charlie wasn't. She was mischievous, and frankly, whenever Charlie was with her, he felt like he was playing with fire.

A very small, feisty, adorable fire.

So begins...

Charlie Fletcher's Story

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Orpheus Hall Character Portrait: Charlie Fletcher Character Portrait: Lilith Amaris
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Lilith lay sprawled out on the stairs of the palace, unmoving. Oh, she was quite conscious, and she hadn't been harmed too badly, except that she had a rather large gash on her thigh and her right arm had landed in an unfortunate position. Every time she blinked, a searing pain tore through her head, white-hot, and her head rang like there were church bells inside it. How she knew what they sounded like, we'll never know. She didn't even go to church. With her good arm, Lilith shielded her eyes from the sunlight, but she was too weak. She smacked her hand down on the steps, a ripple of frustration running through her. Lilith pushed herself into a sitting position, surveying her surroundings. The Mediaolum was completely trashed- rubble was piled up into a mountain of jagged marble, broken glass sitting like thousands of piercing diamonds. Lilith attempted to lift her limp right arm, but as soon as she did so, a sensation like electricity coursed down her arm, sizzling and slicing at her nerves. "Fuck," she groaned, much to the horror of an elderly woman near her. She saw hurt souls nursing their wounds, or running to find someone. "Find someone..." she thought. Suddenly, the light in her eyes went on. Orpheus. If the Mediaolum was this wrecked, she hated to think about what had happened to Orpheus. She set out at a jog, but urgency pushed her to a sprint.

"Orpheus?" she called out. "Orpheus!" She stopped by anyone who looked as if they might be her beloved Pheesh, searching their faces desperately for the features that she found so dear to her now. Tendrils of Lilith's hair were plastered onto her forehead, and her leg was starting to bleed at an alarming rate. Not that it would really do anything, of course, she wasn't really alive in the first place. "Orpheus Hall, I swear to all that's unholy, if I find your scrawny ass, I'm going to kick you. Hard," she muttered under her breath, running her shaking fingers through her tangled hair. Lilith set out at a brisk pace, her right arm still hanging uselessly at her side. Underneath a tree, she saw a distinctly male, black-haired figure lying down, no sign of (after) life showing. "Oh, no, no, this is not Orpheus, please don't let this be Orpheus!" With great effort, Lilith used her one good arm to halfway turn the body onto its side. Lilith's blue eyes scanned their face anxiously, and then brought her hands up to her face as tears flowed down her cheeks, leaving a slick trail after them. Lilith looked back down at the face one last time, carefully examining every aspect of it. It wasn't Orpheus. Not the brown eyes, which had been open. Not the button nose. Not the full lips. Not the eyebrows. It wasn't him, and that's all that really mattered, wasn't it?

Lilith gently closed the boy's eyelids with her fingers, making him look as if he was asleep. Did he look like this when he had died? Had he looked so peaceful, like he was now? She made a mental note to see if this boy was really dead (again), and if he wasn't, then maybe she'd write him a get well soon card or something. "Or something," she thought to herself. With one last glance at the boy's body (and quite a bit more hope than before, might I add), Lilith took off. "Pheesh!"

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Character Portrait: Charlie Fletcher
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He was back in Stockwell, crouched with a group of boys around a firecracker that someone had snuck in. It was Guy Fawkes Day, after all, and what was it without explosives? They'd lit the end of it, and everyone held their breath as the spark grew nearer and nearer towards the firecracker itself. "Madam Stockwell won't like this," a skinny, bespectacled boy by the name of James fretted. "Oh, shut up, Jimmy. Don't ya see we're just tryin' to, ah, celebrate Mr. Fawkes?" one of the older boys sniggered. Charlie's eyes flitted around the room nervously. He knew, he knew that this was bad, and he knew that they'd all get one hell of a whipping, but he wanted to fit in. He wanted to be like everyone else. "Oy, shut it, the lot of you! It's gonna go off," the oldest boy, Robert (who insisted that everyone call him "Robber") snapped. Everyone watched with eager anticipation as the fiery little spark flirted with the boundary between the wick and the explosive- even James drew a little closer. Charlie's heart beat faster, and faster, and he saw the little thing about to go off, and he couldn't, and hisheartbeatfasterandharderuntilitwasabouttoburst! With a spectacular bang, the firecracker went off, filling the entire room with a blinding, brilliant light. Multicolored lights floated through his vision as a thick smoke filled the room. Charlie choked on it, a cough rising in his throat. "Well, that was just bully!" Robber exclaimed happily. "What did you boys do?" a rough female voice demanded as everyone in the entire room, save for Robber, blanched.

Charlie's eyes flew open, still choking on something, his lungs heavy with smoke. The sky was a heather gray, the same color of his sweater. His head pounded, and he felt blood trickle down his forehead. He lifted up his hand to gingerly dab at it, and winced as his nails accidentally made contact with the cut. Charlie clutched his head as a jolt of pain shot through his skull like lightning. "Lightning," he mused. Lightning like that firecracker. Damage done all around him like it had done in the splintering hardwood floor of that awful institution.

But no. Charlie was not in Stockwell, but he did not seem to be anywhere. At least, not that he could tell. "Where am I?" he asked to no one in particular, his voice gravelly and strained from his earlier coughing fit. He hoisted himself up with a grunt and looked at his surroundings. Unimpressed, Charlie started walking along, hoping to find someone who'd tell him where he was. His foot caught onto something, and he fell, his arms splayed out to attempt to catch his fall. Charlie looked behind him, and to his utmost horror, he'd tripped over someone's outstretched arm. "What is this place?"