Post by tristan kimberley avensis on Jun 11, 2009 3:52:25 GMT -5
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TRISTAN-BRIAR KIMBERLEY AVENSIS
THE SEVENTEEN YEAR OLD JUNIOR THEATRE MAJOR
MEGAN FOX
BASICS
HELD OUR BREATH FOR TOO LONG,
NOW WE'RE HALF SICK ABOUT IT
I actually can't believe they're making me fill a load of forms out before they'll let me go to school here.... This is ridiculous. I'd swear, but I have a feeling that the old guy can read my mind.
Full Name: Tristan-Briar Kimberley Avensis
Preferred Name: Tristan or Briar
Other Nicknames: Tristan, Trist, Rissy, Rie, Anne, Annie, Briar, Bree, Rose (as in Briar Rose), Kimberley, Kimber, Kim, Kimmy, Berry, Leigh, Keeley, Ava, Travis
Date of Birth: 16th October 1991
Age: Seventeen
Sexual Orientation: H--
Wait a minute!!! Are they even allowed to ASK that?! .... I'd ask my parents, but they're sorta not here, and my guardian felt like shopping instead. I'm screwed. ... Argh, I better just answer it.
Sexual Orientation: Heterosexual Not that it's any of your business
Any allergies: Nuts, shellfish
Any illnesses/problems requiring medical attention: No Just the fact that I'm a raving lunatic, according to a load of papers
Address: 1479 Maple Grove, Toronto
Name ofparent/guardian: Delete as appropriate. Ha. That's kind of what I did to my parents. Carissa Smithson
Contact Number: 675-0926
Emergency Number: As above
Emergency Contact Name (if parent/guardian cannot be reached): TBA I've only just moved here with a woman young enough to be my older sister. Do they really think I'm going to have emergency contacts arranged for them?
Contact Address: TBA
Contact Number: TBA
Previous school: Carringdon High, Miami, Florida
Reason for departure: Guardian's change of career From abused wife to divorced shopaholic... Oh, sorry, firm believer of retail therapy.
Entering Year: Juniors of 2009
GPA: 3.8 (Files attached)
Preferred Major: Theatre
Specific Modules (if appropriate): General Acting III, Speech Skills I, Advanced Musical Acting, Science II - Chemistry, Psychology I
Extra Curricular Activities: Cross Country, Hockey, Rowing (rower), School Newspaper
This thing is total BS. I don't know why I bothered. I passed other entrance exams, why here?! Bloody piece of crap probing fricking impersonal interview. I have a good mind to lie the rest of the-- Ohh.... I'm done....
GENERAL
AND ALTHOUGH PRATFALLS CAN BE FUN
ENCORES CAN BE FATAL
These stupid therapy sessions really are just ridiculous. I don't see how they're helping me by making me tell them again and again what happened on 'The Day I Acted Irrationally'. Every time he says it, you can HEAR the capital letters. You think I'm exaggerating?! Then you talk to him for an hour a week and we'll just see who has the last laugh. Trust me, it'll be me. I'm insane.
I fidget a lot. I never used to. I can't really pinpoint when or where I started, but I bet it was around the time of 'The Day'. Yeah, I shorten it. I don't really like long words, or long explanations. Make everything short and simple, unless you're on the stage, or ranting. If it's not interesting enough, people will stop listening anyway. Of course, there's no accounting for taste and some people nod off in the theatre, and it's so off-putting that I just want to drag myself out of character, wake them up, and rip their heads off, but that's beside the point. My therapist, Phil, said that I shouldn't harbour feelings of any magnitude, unless they were positive ones; that I just had to let everything go and learn how to ignore things that bothered me. I've still not mastered it by any means, and I don't plan on doing so any time soon. Getting angry is just SO DAMN FUN.
He tells me that I'm always angry, that I always look like I'm going to strangle someone, or kick something. Phil says I need to do something to get rid of my aggression. Well, I didn't used to do anything after school, I just used to sit home and read or whatever. I've decided to sign up for some after school stuff here. I don't know if I'll get into any of them (I never did primary school in England, or in elementary school, middle school, or junior high in North America, but maybe things change, right? I sure have) but it can't hurt to try. And I can always take karate at the leisure centre or something... Assuming this place has one.
Oh, look. Here he is. Only half an hour late. We have to use a different psychiatrist's office, half way between us both. I won't talk to anyone else. I really don't know why I talk to HIM, but I guess it's too late to back out now. He already knows everything. He's the only one. I stand up, eyes blazing with cold anger, and survey his dishevelled appearance. Obviously, he did the best he could. It's not his fault he's busy. I drop down with a sigh as he sits behind his desk. Behind the desk is his zone, in front of it is mine. We don't breach each other's zones, except if the need arises to pass through. We both have comfy chairs, although mine's technically a couch. I never recline on the thing, though. That's just way too hokey and overdone. I don't want to look languid and like I'm about to fall asleep when there's an older guy in the room, staring intently at me, apparently listening to every word that comes out of my mouth, faint or strong, slurred or clear, in consciousness or in sleep. Yes, I talk in my sleep. Ever since 'The Day'. Or, well, 'The Night' after 'The Day', when I was holed up in the tiny guest room at my neighbour's, to be totally truthful.
Phil's organising his papers, trying and failing to make small talk. He'd never been good at it, and I told him that from the start. "Any night terrors, sleep walking, thoughts of the macabre?" It's the same question he asks me every week, and the answer is always the same. "No sleep walking, only the normal thoughts, and night terrors are a constant plague." My answer never varies, just as his question is always delivered in those precise words, the same exact tone. Just as he only seems to have one suit. Maybe he thinks change is bad for me. If he does, he's never said anything about it... If he doesn't, he's either really boring to take shopping, or a complete tramp. "OK, Tristan." He's finally sorted himself out and he's ready to start. My keen eyes pick out bags under his eyes, a stubbled chin that means he didn't have time to shave, or forgot. His skin looks sallow and haggard, and he's holding himself with an air of defeat that I've never noticed before. I'm more observant than people think I am. I appear to be staring far away, but really I'm learning everything about them that I can. Phil says that I shouldn't do that too much. It freaks people out. "Let's start from the very beginning, shall we?"
I never know why he says 'we', as if he has any part in the story other than a rapt audience of one. I've never asked. Maybe it's something they all do. I give a minute shrug - big gestures aren't really my thing when I'm calm or really REALLY angry - and begin my story by taking a deep breath.
"I was born on the 16th of October, in 1991. According to the tale that I was told as a child, when asked, I was born with my umbilical cord wrapped around my neck. I was oxygen starved for twenty minutes, although doctors said that I would suffer no long term damage. Maybe they were wrong." My notations were as usual, and my performance was wooden. The story bored me now, and I didn't really care to tell it. I don't act around Phil. There's no point. "My parents were called Rochelle and Rayon Weather, and they christened me Rosemary Lilac Autumn Weather. Clearly, they were the last survivors of the hippie movement, two of the very few that stayed the way they were in the 70's and 80's. Everyone used to call me Rosie, but then, I was born in England, and people seem to have an aversion to full names there. Everything has to have a moniker or an acronym, or some sort of abbreviation. My parents weren't the biggest fans of discipline. They much preferred to let me 'grow wild and free' as they always used to say. Naturally, I rebelled. I got straight A's, was a quiet and polite child, fastidious and so unlike them that it almost seemed I was adopted."
I paused as my mind snapped back to the familiar memory; my parents dancing beneath the full moon, and me off to the side, trying to read by the light of the circular celestial body that my free-spirited parents were attempting, in their own way, to worship. "When I was seven, maybe a week before my eight birthday, we moved to Miami. I was angry at them, for making me leave my friends, and for moving so far from them. I was angry that I hadn't had a choice, and that they hadn't asked for my opinion. I still don't know the reason for the move, but that could have been because, a month later, I woke up to find two dead parents, and, looking in a mirror, an eight year old girl with blood all over her hands, feet, face, and night gown. I ran outside for help, and it must have been my screams that woke people up. The next door neighbours called the police right away, but no-one would touch me. They kept asking 'What's wrong? What's wrong?' as if the blood all over me didn't answer the question. I didn't know what had happened until a 'witness' statement was read to me." I paused, and closed my eyes, ready to recite the statement.
"'It was around about 2 in the mornin', and I'd just gotten up to get ready for my shift - I have a long commute, y'see. I glanced out my window across the street, because I saw a light on, and thought it was mighty strange, with the Weatherses always tryin' to save energy and whatnot. I was goin' to turn away when I saw the little girl, what's her name, Rosemary, passin' by with a knife in her little hand. Now, me, I thought nothin' of it. "Sensible girl." I said to meself. "Sensible girl, she won't hurt herself. More likely her parents than her." So I left well enough alone and carried on gettin' ready and whatnot. Next I know, little kid's out in the street, bawlin' and screamin' for her little life. I rush out to see what's wrong, and she's all covered in blood. I reckon I'm the only one that knows what went on. That little girl killed her mommy and daddy.' But I didn't. I knew I didn't. At least.... I didn't think I did. But whatever I thought, the police obviously weren't going to take anything lightly. Eventually, I got sent to an asylum for the mentally ill, to be politically correct, although I'd much rather just say 'loony bin'." I massaged my temples, as I did every week. Recounting everything gave me a headache, like something inside me was trying to make me stop.
"I was there for about two years before people decided that I just wasn't crazy enough to stay there. I didn't have any black outs, I didn't sleep walk, wake up screaming, go mad at people for no reason, speak gibberish, or talk to people that weren't there. They had no reason to keep me, so I went into a children's home. Thankfully, I was never there long. Always bounced from house to house, despite the carer's warning that I was more of a handful than I seemed. Still no blackouts, night terrors, or sleep walking. Then came Carissa. She seems like a nice woman, if a little shopping obsessed, with bad taste in men. She says she'll have me until I'm 21, as long as there's no 'funny business', whatever that's supposed to mean." I paused, remembering that I hadn't told Phil that part. Shrugging it off with a tiny facial expression, I continued.
"We moved up to Toronto to get away from everything in Miami - people were starting to piece together what had happened, even though I'd changed my name. I still looked exactly the same, you see. Carissa says that Canadian's don't know much about American news, especially as far down as Miami. I don't really know why I believe her, but I do. I started school last week at Harbin Academy of the Arts. Two weeks ago was when the night terrors started again. I don't know why or what triggered them, but at least I don't wake up screaming any more. It's just a silent bolting out of bed, afraid and sweating profusely twice nightly."
Phil didn't seem fazed by any of it. Certainly, most of it was stuff that he'd heard before, but even the new news didn't make him change his expression, although I had been watching carefully the whole time. "I'm going to suggest hypnosis to you again, Tristan. You don't have to do it, but I think it'll help." And this is where my scepticism comes in. "Hypnosis? Wave a watch in front of someone's face and find the key to their subconscious? Right then." I scoffed, rolling my eyes. Phil didn't seem disgruntled, or bothered in the slightest. "Alright then." He did, in actual fact, sound a little resigned and weary. "Call me if you remember anything about the dreams. Time's up. I've got to get back to Miami."
IMPORTANTS
SO BE CAREFUL WHEN YOU'RE DONE
YOU'RE BOUND TO GET POST-NATAL
YOUR NAME! Fionnghuala, but people call me Fiona or Fionn.
YOUR AGE! 17
CONTACTS! PM, email, MSN, AIM, c-box =]
MYSTERY PHRASE! I'm not usually a snitch, but JOHNNY IS TRUANT
ROLEPLAY SAMPLE! She had been as fast as she could. She had ridden, hellbent, down the busiest roads in London, and she didn't doubt that if she had fallen off her bike and broken something, however vital, she wouldn't have given it a second thought. She would have been back on the bike faster than she had come off it. Nothing was going to stop her getting to that house, and she had expected that her other friends felt the same way. Nathalia expected them all to be there. She didn't notice, at first, that she was able to cradle Jac in her arms with no obstacles. This only occurred to her afterwards, when it was too late to matter any more.
The petite blonde was almost too weak to even open her eyes and utter the last words of farewell, and Nathalia half-wished that she hadn't said a word. Tears had been brimming and spilling over before Jac's paper-thin voice floated to her ears, but this just made it worse. She felt the young girl tense in her arms, and then, even worse, she was as limp as a rag doll. A lump too large to swallow caught in her throat, but Nathalia forced herself to talk through it, although what was left of her voice was little more than a harsh and grating whisper. "Jac, baby, I love you... You'll be with me forever." If she had arrived thirty seconds earlier, she would have been able to speak these words so they fell on hearing ears. Thirty seconds could have made all the difference to her, but it seemed that God or whoever dictated the lives of the innocents on Earth couldn't even have given her that time.
Without really knowing what she was doing, Nathalia kissed Jac's forehead softly, her tears wetting the pale skin before she hugged the lifeless girl to her chest sobbing almost silently, for her grief was too strong to be vocalised. Nathalia sank fully to the floor then, heavy with the burden of being the only one there for Jac when she needed people the most. "Maman!" She called the French informative term for 'grandmother' down the stairs with a strength in her voice that she thought had long departed. "Maman, she's gone!" Now was not the time for soothing French words, and soothing they were, for Nathalia always felt comforted by the sounds, no matter what the words actually meant. "Come quickly!" She heard footsteps up the stairs, quicker than usual, but still too slow. It wasn't fair that Jac's grandmother should get to outlive the formerly vivacious teenager, and both of them knew it.
Nathalia lifted Jac up. She weighed nothing. She was placed on her bed with a quiet dignity, Nathalia's only guidance being unspoken instructions that were in the eyes of a woman she had come to call by a name she did not even extend to her own grandmother. Stepping back, 'Maman' clasped Nathalia's hand with a finality that almost confined the young girl to the floor, although she realised with surprise that she was unable to cry. "It's not fair. This shouldn't be allowed to happen." Nathalia muttered, hoarsely. Maman only shook her head and squeezed Nathalia's hand. "But it has, my pet. Death is a part of life, and you will be united soon enough, though I pray you that many years will pass before you see those same gates that Jaccy now stands before."
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