 |
████ #031634
████ #033649 ████ #036564  SO, IT'S KIND OF A FUNNY STORY... this is an original character by he lied about death, made for the roleplay sleep to dream. please do not post or steal. |
|
 xx
It was delightful to hear. I won't bother to deny that. I was tall and well-dressed in nonchalant button-downs and careless hoodies, and my blue-gray eyes sparkled with charisma. Of course I wanted to hear of my own beauty. Of course I reveled in their praise. It was as though I had been born with a knack for charm, with an innate self-awareness most boys grow into only after puberty has ceased. I hardly needed to brush my hair; nature had bestowed upon me the gift of a beauty that necessitated next to no care. Who could argue with broad shoulders, chiseled arms, a cleft chin? I looked like a man years before I really was one. Whatever it really means to "be a man." • • • I wasn't a particularly nice guy to know until I met Maggie. That is to say, I was a complete jerk. I know that now, now that I'm - that I'm d - that I'm not alive anymore. I knew it then, too, but I didn't care. No one else seemed to mind, so I figured why should I? I met Maggie in college, but that's not the right place to start. What I should really start with is, you know, the beginning. But the question is, what's the beginning? Is it my birth? My parents' marriage? My parents' birth? If I go too far back I'm sure I'll lose interest; I have a tendency to do that in the middle of things, to stop out of boredom and never finish. Rich Kid syndrome, Maggie used to joke. One symptom of it, at least. Its manifestation was clear: Our apartment was strewn with half-painted bookshelves, partially-written stories, broken appliances I'd once begun to fix and never had the desire to continue. She used to say I could fill a junkyard with all the things I couldn't finish, and she was right. Because Maggie was nearly always right. My dad had a penchant for money. I say "penchant" and not "taste" or "appreciation" because it went so far beyond a mere like for the stuff. It was such a strong love it bordered on obsession - probably crossed the border, really. I wouldn't have been surprised if it was what he dreamed about at night, if what filled his head while he drifted in the realm of sleep was simply crisp dollar bills instead of what one could buy with those bills. He was a strange man. I didn't know him very well, to be honest, but even I could tell that much. If I were to write a story based on my life he'd be a detail, a tidbit, and not a character - hell, I'm sure I could write more about his absence than his presence if I really wanted to. He was about as important and noticed in my life as the upholstery of the living room sofa. My mother died when I was little. I've never heard anything about her except what my grandmother used to tell me, but my grandmother thought she was the most wonderful thing in the whole world so I don't know how accurate it all was. My grandmother was really the one who raised me, at least earlier on. Until I was nine or so, every night before I went to bed she would tell me a story about my mother. They were like slightly more modern fairytales. Mom even had a princess crown and everything. What I know for sure is that we looked a lot like each other - same eyes, same hair, same smile - and that she loved me, a lot. I know the second part because I found a half-written letter once, one that she'd meant to send to her sister, and it was all she could talk about. I'd just been born, I think. The whole letter was one big geyser of adoration. Well, Grandma and I were similar in a lot of ways but the difference was I got older and taller and she got older and more senile. By the time I was fifteen she was babbling about how my grandfather had proposed to her on a magic carpet and they'd gotten married on a cloud, and then Dad had her sent to a nursing home. It was a miserable place. Three weeks later she died, and I haven't spoken a word to her son-in-law since, because I don't forgive and forget. I just forget. He's probably still alive out there somewhere, and I really hope he went to my funeral because maybe then he'd notice how bad he ******** up. How he missed out on my entire life. And maybe then he'd feel like the a*****e he is. Maggie always told me I should let go of my anger instead of bottling it up and storing it for eternity the way I do, but I guess I never managed to take her advice because look at me now, I'm dead and I'm still mad as ********. Some things just don't change. personality history |
 |
|
