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 Posted: Mon Sep 20, 2010 8:39 pm
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Posted: Mon Sep 20, 2010 9:28 pm
 Lutwidge Raymond BurrLutwidge, from the Latin Ludovicus, meaning famous warrior; Raymond, from the French, meaning advice; Burr, from the Middle English, meaning a rough edge.:Statistics:.
Height: 6'1
Weight: 155 lbs
Age: 19
Known Aliases: None
Nationality: British-American
Orientation: Apparent heterosexual.
Date of Birth: 27 January
.:Relations:.
Family
Mother: Name Unknown, Profession Unknown. Deceased.
Father: Doctor Raymond Burr. Allegedly Deceased.
Siblings: One sister, Name Unknown. Deceased.
Other Family: Assumed None.
------
Known Associates, ex-Asylum
- Friends: None known
- Enemies: None known
- Acquaintances: None known
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Known Associates, inter-Asylum
- Friends:
- Enemies:
- Acquaintances:
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Known Staff Interaction:
.:Personal Data:.
Strengths
Open-Minded: Lutwidge has no prejudices and is tolerant of everybody in the asylum, be they government experiment, homeless abductee, or actual patient.
Cheerful: Lutwidge isn't a gloomy teenager at all, despite his surroundings. He actually does look for the best of things.
Sympathetic: Lutwidge cares about other peoples' troubles and is willing to listen to anybody's problems.
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Weaknesses
Socially Anxious: Lutwidge does not do well in large groups, especially groups of strangers.
Abandoned: Lutwidge carries a lot of baggage about how he ended up in the asylum and how he was raised. When people he's close to go away for even a short time, he gets very flustered and snappish.
Flighty: Lutwidge doesn't like to take on responsibilities and tends to shirk duties and chores.
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Interests
- Lutwidge enjoys arts and crafts. He'd like a pet, if he could have one- a rabbit, cat, or even dormouse would be fantastic. He's been known to sneak food from the cafeteria to feed the rats in the walls. He also likes to read quite a bit. He's honestly not all that into fashion- these clothes arrive for him, and he wears them because they're all he has.
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Skills
- Lutwidge is a pretty fast runner and can bang out a tune or two on the rec room's beat-up piano.
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Posted: Mon Sep 20, 2010 10:50 pm
Personal FileThe bulk of this file should not change. Patient Burr is unlikely to be released any time in the near future, and so permanent notes are probably worthwhile..:Room:.Room 221B221B is a single room... for now. Lutwidge has dismantled the bedframe and put it into 221A, as it was poking him at night. He sleeps on the floor, pretending his mattress is a futon. He has a small window, barred of course, and no curtains. The walls are off-white, with splashes of paint from when he's been able to smuggle paints back to his room. He has a box where he keeps his clothes. There are a few rat or mouseholes in the baseboards, but other than that, the room is bare. It's a pretty stark place..:Intake Information:.Patient Burr has been in the asylum since his fourteenth birthday. Abandoned with limited information by his father, the staff was informed that the boy had severe personality problems, including gender dysphoria, schizophrenia, and multiple personality disorder. All problems are manageable with medication; however, if treatment halts for any reason, the issues return. We therefore believe that it will do Mr. Burr well to remain a ward of the Asylum for the duration of his life.
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Posted: Mon Sep 20, 2010 10:55 pm
Roleplay Log
RP Color: #4E204F
:Sort|Persons Involved|Summary|Status|.X.: razz RP|Lutwidge, Mills|Scavenging for clothes might have been a mistake...|Active|.X.:
razz RP|Lutwidge, Lennox|Neither of us are girls!|Active|.X.:
razz RP|Lutwidge, Reverie|A gymnastics show in the courtyard! How fun!|Active|.X.:
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Posted: Mon Sep 20, 2010 10:57 pm
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Posted: Mon Sep 20, 2010 11:27 pm
21 September
They say that Dr. Raymond Burr was a cowardly man with a big heart until he lost all his money. The only true statement in that is the fact that my father is, was, and always will be a coward. He couldn't face what he'd done to either her or to me, and so he dropped me off here halfway through my freshman year of high school. I should have graduated by now. I should be in college. But I'm not, and I never will be, all because the esteemed Doctor Raymond Burr couldn't face his decisions.
They gave me this journal a while ago, an' said I should write in it. Whatever came to mind. I don't know why- I know they won't do anything with it. Whatever. I've been in here for five years. Five miserable years in which the only 'treatment' I've received has been pills and potions. They suppress the bad feelings, but I know I haven't been cured, not in any sense of the word. Why would a journal make any difference? Still, I try to cooperate with them.
My sister died when I was little. Or... something happened to her. They said that she died, but there was never a funeral. I would have remembered that, wouldn't I? I heard that Dad worked for the government, doing experiments. Once there was a rumor that my sister was the unfortunate result of one of those experiments. I don't know for sure- probably won't ever know the truth. But maybe that's ok. If the same thing happened to my big sister as has happened to a lot of the girls here... I don't think I'd want to know.
Anyways. Whatever happened to her, I don't have a sister any more. I wonder what she was like. I know my father loved her, far more than he loved me. After she was gone, he closed off. Not the thing your five-year-old son needs, I suppose. I didn't have a mother. Or mum. I think that's what I would have called her. All I knew about her is that she was from London and her name was Carol. She'd died... sometime. Dad never said when. I don't think he really loved her all that much. Her or me. And nobody, after my sister died. Although I never said anything, I could tell he missed her. I knew this because that's when he started raising me as a girl.
I didn't really know what was going on for a long time. He'd put me in pink shirts and girly pants for school, and I took a lot of crap for it, but eventually the teachers would catch on. They'd feel sorry for me because I had no mother and something was wrong with my father. The tormenting was bad at recess sometimes, so I learned to let my fists and feet do the talking. A well-placed punch would shut them up for a while, and when that stopped working, well, I'd just run away. Dad never took me to get a haircut- I'd cut it myself from time to time, or get a sympathetic school nurse to do it for me. I once prayed for headlice, just so that I could get it buzzed like the other boys, but that never happened. Not even when I swapped Allie Jellico's hat for two lunch tokens and wore it all afternoon. Dad would encourage me to do girly stuff, too, and more than once I'd find a skirt in my closet. His attempts were... clumsy, though. He never really said anything about it. I think he didn't know how. By the time I was in late middle school, I was pretty messed up in the head. But by then, I think he was worse. He didn't ever tell me why he was pulling me out of school, and he didn't tell me where I was going. Just gave me a sealed note and a duffel bag with a few things in it and dropped me off in front of this place. I remember the last time I saw him. He'd leaned across the car seat to hand me the envelope, and his hand brushed mine. He patted my shoulder twice. I remember that he looked very, very tired. He sighed, bit his lip as if he was going to say something, but then fell silent and looked away, as if he was ashamed to meet my eyes. Maybe he was. Or maybe he was just relieved to be free of me. I haven't seen him since.
Anyways, they say he committed suicide, but I don't think so. I think he's still out there, somewhere, and I think he still thinks of me sometimes. Every so often, I get a parcel in the mail. It's not much- usually it's just a shirt and maybe some socks. Sometimes there's pants, sometimes hair dye. It's always girly stuff, which is why I think it's from him. I got another one today. Same as always, brown paper wrapped up with tape. I always save the paper- I put it under my mattress so I can draw on it later. It was about time for a new package, too- my old t-shirt, the yellow one, is basically rags now. This one is purplish. It's not a bad color, just... girly. But what's confusing about it is what's on it. Somebody's taken a bleach pen and scrawled words across it.
"Alice is dead."
Who's Alice?
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Posted: Thu Sep 30, 2010 11:43 am
30 September
It has been nine days since I last wrote in this journal. In that time, there have been so very many new residents. I have not gotten to meet most of them, but it doesn't look like they'll be around long... nobody ever is, usually. I hope that I am wrong.
I did meet some people, though. I was on one of the upper floors when I met Lennox. He's... a fairy. I didn't realize those existed, but I guess they do. And then there's Reverie, who's a gymnast. She's nice. And then there's Mills... ohgod. That girl is trouble waiting to happen. I like her. But I will write more about them later, for right now there is a more pressing matter at hand.
I have a neighbor. It seems somebody has actually wanted to live in 223, which is the room right next to 221B, which is where I sleep. And not just anybody- the boy's a bee charmer. No, really. Apparently he had some sort of weird monastic lifestyle going on and he was a beekeeper. Then a few years ago, the federal police got called in. Didn't know that cults had monasteries. You learn something new every day here.
I know a poem about bumblebees.
How doth the little busy Bee
Improve each shining Hour,
And gather Honey all the day
From every opening Flower!
How skilfully she builds her Cell!
How neat she spreads the Wax!
And labours hard to store it well
With the sweet Food she makes.
In Works of Labour or of Skill
I would be busy too:
For Satan finds some Mischief still
For idle Hands to do.
In Books, or Work, or healthful Play
Let my first Years be past,
That I may give for every Day
Some good Account at last.
There's another version of that poem that my father made me memorize. It is about a crocodile. If I ever meet a crocodile, I will share that poem with this journal. I don't really like the last two verses of that poem. I don't like things that tell you what to do with your life- I guess I always thought that should be, y'know, a personal decision.
I think it is now time to scavenge a new lock for my door. With all the new arrivals, it seems that one or more of them not understanding the rules is imminent.
I still don't know who Alice is.
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Posted: Wed Dec 22, 2010 10:51 am
22 December
I would like to say that I have not written because the orderlies had taken away my pencils. This is in crayon and I had to steal it from the day room. I was not told why my pencils were taken; they simply were.
Christmas is coming. I know not why I mark the holiday; I certainly don't celebrate it. I do not know if the doctors do. There is a blackness in their hearts that makes it seem... unlikely at best. Christmas with my father was a somber, awkward affair at best. I don't think I really have any good memories attached to the holiday.
I wonder, though, if he will send me a parcel. He does this from time to time. They haven't been coming with any regularity, and they're the only way I know he's still alive. I wonder what he's doing. Has he found the daughter he's always wanted? I think I could see him doing that- finding a substitute family now that I'm out of the way.
Tomorrow, I think, I will go to the courtyard and see if there's snow. If so, perhaps I will make a snowman. No, wait, before that I need to see if I can nick a coat from somebody's room. I haven't got one.
Still don't know who Alice is.
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Posted: Thu Mar 03, 2011 11:25 am
3 March
Winter has passed and spring has begun. Today I saw a crocus out in the courtyard. I wanted so badly to pick it. It was delicate and purple, a beautiful thing in this ugly place. I wanted to bring it into my room and have it to look at- a spot of bright color in the gloom. I knew that it couldn't last out there- somebody would trample it or hurt it. Maybe even an orderly, just to stamp out any beautiful thing that dared to flourish here. But it was strong, defiant- fighting against the cold ground. I couldn't pluck it, for in doing so I would kill it. But I had to bring the beauty into my room somehow.
My father once told me a story, long ago, about a girl who visited a garden of talking flowers. Some magic had happened to her, making her shrink down to their size. They talked to her, and they sang, but then they began to ask personal questions. They asked her what kind of flower she was. When she couldn't answer them to their satisfaction, they attacked her, claiming she was a weed. Father told me that the message was that those who are the most beautiful are the most cruel. But I could always see where the flowers were coming from. They were worried about an invasive weed choking them out. They didn't have any reason to trust the girl, even though she'd been friendly. To the flowers, she was the embodiment of their greatest phobia. How were they supposed to comprehend humanity or magic? I think the real moral is that to understand peoples' actions, you have to understand their past. It's a lot like life here- most of us are broken, some more than others. But most of us were made that way by our families or our environment or by some external force. It's not fair to lump us all together as dangerous. I know I'm not dangerous. If I was dangerous, would I have rescued my crocus?
Yes, I rescued it. I found a broken teacup in the trash, no doubt dropped by a careless employee. The bowl held, but the handle was broken. I filled it with dirt from where the crocus grew, and I gently dug the flower from its bed. I planted it in the cup and put it on my windowsill, then gave it a little water. Even now the leaves are green and the blossom blooms.
My crocus will not last long. But in a year's time, it will return.
It gives me something to look forward to.
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Posted: Wed Aug 10, 2011 2:25 pm
10 August
It's the dead of summer and hot as hell in here. I've taken to sleeping on the floor; contact with the fabric of my mattress only makes me hot and itchy. My crocus passed on back in the later days of March; I keep its teacup in the shade, so that the bulb beneath isn't scorched by the sun.
It's too hot to write. Think I might go stand in the shower until the water stops flowing. There's one near here that never heats up.
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