Current Status: Fine (Some minor scrapes)
Nicknames: Jon, Jonny, Marc, etc. Prefers Marc.
Age: 19
Weapons: .28 Beretta (ammo lost), 9-Iron (Golf club)
Occupation: Freelance Journalist in Brahms, aspiring novelist of the horror genre. These tie together, Jonathan hoping to gain inspiration from his work.
Appearance: Jonathan is a relatively tall man, standing at the reasonable height of 5'10". His complexion is fair, only the slightest of tans giving his skin an off-white, creamy tint. Tall unfortunately does not equate to strong. An advocate of brains over brawn--mostly because of which he has more of--he has slightly toned legs, but other than that is a rather meager piece of meat. He has light brown hair of medium length combed lazily to the side, only to fall back over his forehead moments later. He has an undeniably warm smile, but his foresty, opaque eyes seem weary. Haunted. He couldn't give you the reason, as far as he can tell he's lived a sheltered life. But something in the back of his mind bothers him. As for clothing, Jonathan's upper-half consists of a plain white T and green jacket with a white stripe going down the left collar to the cuff, usually left open unless in the bitter cold. He wears casual blue-jeans and black running shoes, his overall outfit being relaxed and comfortable. His only accessory is practical, a golf bag that he kept with him as a keepsake of his father, which now serves the practical use of holding makeshift (or genuine) weapons, tools, and whatever he finds.
Personality Jonathan is an overeager young man who holds an endearingly naive world-view: anything is possible. He firmly believes that if you try hard enough in the world, you'll make it. Adversity can always be overcome. He clings to an idea of a kind and loving God, and is of the non-denominational Christian faith. This feeds his view of life, 'all things are possible through him'. This could be viewed as odd, seeing as the rest of his family were strictly atheistic, with the exception of his father who was casually agnostic. On the other hand, he has a macabre obession with the psyche, which shows in all of his creative writings. The greatest enemies, the worst of all trials often exist in one's own head. Despite this generally amiable personality, he has a distinct trigger: the loud, obnoxious tick-tock of loud clocks. He can't stand it. He wants to smash it. Obliterate it. Make sure that the source of the noise can never again produce sound. He can't put words to it, he can't give a reason why it happens, but it drives him off the deep.
Relations:Michale Torrance, father (decased); Stephanie Torrance, mother; Ashley Torrance, sister; Cory Torrance, brother (missing, status unkown)
Biography Jonathan isn't a legitimate Torrance. Far from it. He looked enough like the rest of his family, but his roots were much darker, and much deeper. His true parents are a mystery, but the first five years of his life were spent in the Hope House. The religious dogma of the Order was fed to him in a relentless barrage. Whenever he asked why it was this way, he was beat horribly, and locked in his room for hours on end, no food or drink, his only companion a large grandfather clock. Tick, tock. Tick, tock. The sound was maddening. Perhaps he would have one day accepted their beliefs if he wasn't so focused on fear, spite. Sad, when one so young can hold hatred so great. Living in a state of constant fear, is it really any wonder why he'd repress those memories?
The exact moment his life changed is hidden behind a bloodied curtain. It was one of the rare days when things were almost normal for him; a small child laying on the floor, legs in the air, cutting out masks he had doodled with a pair of safety scissors. His primary caretaker, Marilyn Coney, was coming to give him another of his lessons when she saw a particular mask he had taped to his head. It was beyond grotesque: full, feminine lips bloated a bit too far, long, drooping lashes, contusions all over. She took it as a mocking of their God. He dropped on her knees and grabbed his neck, flipping him onto his back. She bashed his head against the floor in almost perfect rhythm to the grandfather clock. Tick, tock; thump, thump. She leaned close to his face, her face menacing and hateful. He reacted in fear, reaching to push the face away--unfortunately for her, the safety-scissors were still in his hand. Funny thing about them: no matter how 'safe' scissors are, the neck is an incredibly soft and fleshy region. She grabbed at her neck, gurgling as blood spurted out and all over the boys face. He could feel it sting as it got into his eyes. He moved away from the crazy lady, and ran. Ran as fast as his little legs could carry him. He, in the end, was found by the Torrance family, who were vacationing in Silent Hill at the time.
The Torrance family questioned the boy. Where did he come from? What was that blood? Little Jonny couldn't answer their questions, he just clung to his future mother--Stephanie Torrance--and bawled, choking out repeatedly, "Take me away! Take me away!" There was no mistaking that something horrible happened. Normally, the Torrances would have taken the child to the police, but they felt that something was very, very wrong. Why hadn't anyone helped him yet? It was obvious he wasn't alright. After a brief discussion, the pair of adults decided to take him. Take him and not tell a soul. Missing posters were never put up. Authorities were never contacted. No-one wanted what went on in Hope House becoming known to the world.
Most of Jonathan's life went by without much incident, after that. The memories of those days were quickly buried somewhere deep within him. It helped that the Torrance family never brought it up, and treated him as their own. He became the youngest of their children--the third. While relations between him and the oldest, Ashley, were strained, he found a friend in big-brother, Cory. One could even call them best friends. Only one year apart, they were inseperable. His fondest memories were of his father--Michael--taking Cory and himself out to 'the green', which was really just a miniature golf course. To those two, it was a wonderland.
Michael died in a car accident when Jonathan was fifteen, on the way home from a fishing trip at Toluca lake. The entire family was devastated. Jonathan and Cory each took one of their Father's golf bags, and one club each. A way of keeping his memory with them. Time went on, as time always does.
A letter came to the house one day, while Cory and Jonathan were playing video games together, alone. Stephanie was out grocery shopping, and Ashley had moved out for college. A ring of the doorbell was heard, and Jonathan rose to answer it. As he walked towards the door, he began to hear a steady, rythmic sound. Tick, tock, tick, tock. He tried his best to ignore it, it was probably just a clock delivered. Or maybe he was just imagining it. But as he neared the door, more clocks seemed to join in. When the door opened, the sound of dozens of those infernal grandfather clocks hitting a new hour went off, the maddening chimes everywhere. Outside the door, all he saw was black. He let out a scream that was cut short as he fell to the floor, unconscious.
It was Cory, of course, who came running to the rescue. And it was Cory who found a single piece of paper on the ground, with plain, bold, neat, large letters printed by hand.
MARY'S WAITING
He lifted the paper, and examined both sides. It was a postcard. On the back, was the following.
Greetings, from Silent Hill
Cory and Jonathan conferred later, once he had awoke. It was decided that Cory was to go check it out. He was the oldest, and he had the license. Besides, someone had to stay behind and cover for the mother. It was a juvenile plan, and in retrospect a terrible idea, but they were in agreement. Cory left. Cory said he'd be back after the weekend. Cory was still gone, seventeen days later. Jonathan had to find his brother. Also, he couldn't help but feel like he should have been the one to go. He felt responsible--no, more than that. He felt like he was being called. It was meant for him. Jonathan didn't say a word to his mother, he just took the keys to his father's truck--who needs a license, anyway--and drove for the quiet, lovely, scenic town of Silent Hill.
