Post by TUESDAY REEVES on Mar 5, 2009 18:19:01 GMT -5
Tuesday Alexander Reeves
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"this is what the birth certificate says. the basics, of course."
FULL NAME. Tuesday Alexander Reeves
GENDER. Male
NICKNAMES. Tues
AGE. 23
DATE OF BIRTH. January 29
SEXUAL ORIENTATION. Bisexual
BAND. Destruction of the Detatched
POSITION. Vocals
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"i'm sexy, i'm cute. the appearance is everything."
HEIGHT. 6'1
WEIGHT. 120
BODY TYPE. Slim/slender
HAIR COLOR. Multi
EYE COLOR. Olive-green
DISTINGUISHING FEATURES. Usually the bright hair.
PLAY BY. Brandon Killen
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"some say it's what's on the inside, counts."
LIKES.
DISLIKES.
STRENGTHS.
WEAKNESSES.
HABITS/QUIRKS.
FEARS.
SECRETS.
FULL PERSONALITY.
OCD; It all kind of started when Tues was a little kid, probably around five. He would organize his blocks in special patterns and had rituals for brushing his teeth. His parents thought all little kids were like this, like there was nothing wrong, or perhaps this was a phase. It seemed like it was, but it progressed through his childhood into his adolescence. Tues had all these little rituals like how he had to wash his hands twice without looking in the mirror and how everything on his desk had to form right angles. What was thought to be a phase turned out to be Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. It never really made much of a difference to Tuesday, and is really just part of who he is now. He takes a low dose of depression medication (Prozac) to help control some of the bigger issues, but still he is an incredibly organized and neurotic person. Sometimes people mess with him and move stuff around on his desk, or put objects on the floor just to see the twitch come out on his face or watch him flip out worse than the Mad Hatter from Alice in Wonderland. Some day he's going to have a heart attack, honestly!
Creative; So he sings. Most people don't really think that takes talent. Aside from that, he also draws and paints which does take talent. He's always been into art ever since he made the traditional macaroni sculptures little kids make. His never looked like what they were supposed to. Which he's convinced it was supposed to look like a cat (it looks like a demented horse on steroids) but it was a start. Now Tues keeps his art in a leatherbound book but is very secretive about it. Sensitive to criticism as he doesn't know whether he's any good (I mean, hello, horse on steroids) he shows few his creations.
Mercurial; He's moody as fuck. Maybe it's just the traditional stereotype of the rocker, but Tues has it down and he has it down well. One day he's happy and awesome, and the next he's in the cliche emo corner with the imaginary razor cutting away at his skinny little wrists. He's a sensitive bugger even if he doesn't show it, and if somdays. upsets him then he'll obsess about it for days. Sure, he may not tell you that he's buggin' over something, he'll just be all bitchy over it and take out his emotions on someone else.
Charismatic; So Tues is a lady's man (or a man's man) whatever. He knows how to work his charms and he knows just what to say. He's attractive and graceful, and he's got presence on and off the stage. Tues is the typical rocker both with and without his vices. Only with an added thing, but we'll get to that.
Synesthia; Synesthia is a mental disorder where you "taste" sounds and letters have a color. So someone's voice might taste like peppermint, and the sound of a book hitting the floor might bring an image of a red circle. When reading, the letters all have a color or a pattern, or even both. Tues didn't realize this wasn't normal until a year ago when talking to someone. It's what makes music so vibrant to him.
Clingy; Tues love people and often gets attached to them... too attached, actually. This serves a probably because he doesn't know when to back off and let them have their space. Sometimes they just want some free time, or sometimes they just want to stop seeing Tuesday all together. He just doesn't know when enough is enough. He falls fast and hard, which poses a problem in itself. [/color][/font]
"history starts now, or when i was born."
PARENTS.
Mother: Wednesday Reina Reeves; 44. Stay at home mom.
Father: Allan Bennet Reeves; 52. Lawyer
SIBLINGS. Brandon Trey Reeves; 28. Pharmacist.
BIRTHPLACE. Austin, TX
SIGNIFICANT OTHERS. None
CHILDREN. None
PETS. None
FULL HISTORY.
Birthday;
Tuesday was born on... well, not a Tuesday. 'Day, his mother's nickname, wanted to name him after a day of the week. So she did and christened him Tuesday. Despite his strange name, he was born into a relatively normal family. His brother, Brandon, was born just a few years previous. They were by all means a happy family. 'Day was a stay at home mom and Allan was a lawyer who, while he was often at work, brought home a decent sum of money to keep the family happy. They rarely fought, they lived modestly in an upper middle-class home, and Allan didn't often drink. It was by all accounts a normal and productive family.
Molestation;
Tuesday was seven when the molestation happened. Zack was Allan's friend. Allan was twelve at the time and Zack was thirteen. Now, thirteen is an age when a child should know better. Zack was just a perverse little child anyway. He was the child that tortured insects and killed small animals. Zack often stayed over at the Reeves residence and one night, around 1 a.m, snuck into the room where Tuesday was asleep and touched him in what can be classified as a very inappropriate manner. Tues was seven and didn't fully understand what was going on. The event continued three to four more times before it stopped completely. Tues was around nine before he understood what happened. He never told anyone because by the time he was old enough to actually understand what happened, he figured no one would believe him. It still bothers him to this day though.
The disorder years;
Tuesday's OCD was diagnosed at the age of thirteen and he was placed on a small dose of depression medication. Aside from the molestation, it was the second most shocking event to happen to him in his life. Nothing eventful had happened to Tuesday; nothing notable that he would like to share. The family had always figured he was slightly off in terms of the rituals and odd tasks.
Oh wow, I think I like boys;
Tuesday kissed a boy at fifteen and decided he liked it. Okay, understatement. He decided he really liked it. He pursued a relationship but kept it a secret from his semi-religious parents in fear of what they'd have to say. The relationship went on for close to a year until it ended on mutual terms. This is the same year he joined the choir and decided he really, really loved singing.
The Decooper years;
Decooper and Reeves became friends and started a band. Y'know, a little group project where two guys hang out in a basement and act all cool. That's how it went for awhile until more guys were added and then it became more serious and the sound became more hardcore. Then they got signed, which was a lot more than they all bargained for. Or maybe it was just Tuesday. He never expected any of it to go that far.
Synesthesia;
Tues never realized he had anything wrong with him, at least he never realized that people weren't supposed to see colors when they read or taste sounds. Maybe that's why music was so much more powerful. When he mentioned this to someone, they just stared at him like he was completely insane. So he started asking around, and people just kept staring, and so he asked more people, and they just kept staring. Tuesday did some research. He found out that there was a name for what he was experiencing and that this was how many people with synesthesia found out the name of their condition; accident.
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"it's time to meet the puppeteer."
YOUR NAME. AIDEN!
YOUR AGE. Twenty
YEARS OF EXPERIENCE. Ten
CONTACT INFO. cynics xx
WORD COUNT. 450
ANYTHING ELSE. I'm sorry it's crappy >.>
ROLEPLAY SAMPLE.
Were there worse addictions? Was there a more horrid form of addiction? Addictions themselves were bad. People depended on them, needed them, their lives revolved around them, and they were often bad. If something was bad then wasn't it already bad? There shouldn't be forms of bad and worse if something was horrible to begin with. Smoking was bad, drugs were bad, and it was all simply bad! Raiden sighed and shrugged. The sigh held itself in the air for a moment, frosty like the windows on a winter morning. It was delicate, lacy, and made of intricate lines of air. Then it shattered. Shattered when the loneliness of the world pulled at the silvery strands. The sigh collapsed with a squeal and fell. Raiden heard it hit the smooth, red table in front of him. He saw the pieces melt away and leave this world. It happened so quickly that Raiden could have blinked and missed it. But he saw it. More death. Where was it all coming from? Why him?! Why did Raiden get tortured like this? Those questions burned in his head. The blue, intense flames licking the delicate skin behind his eyes. Those glittering and cold liquid pools that held the swimming ghosts, white against black, of his past. They swam gracefully in the onyx eyes of Raiden. Other people couldn't pick out separate ghosts. They just saw the utter haunted look of Raiden. No one knew why, and they would never know why. Raiden could never bring himself to speak the horrors he'd witness. The very notion of it made sickness rise in his stomach. The very act of telling someone what happened would destroy Raiden. Would make him puff into ash and disappear. But it wasn't as if anyone would care. Who would care about Raiden? The answer hit a lonely and solemn note in Raiden's mind. It rang low and clear. "No one," the memories whispered. They sent a picture of his still face in a casket. No one would gather around to say their farewells to Raiden. Emptiness bloomed again. Its leaves were gray with blood red thorns stabbing at Raiden's body with hot intensity. No one.
What Keeran said made Raiden shrug. It was a shrug of defeat. Was it selfish? It wasn't as if anyone would notice the absence of Raiden. He made no impact on the life of anyone. He made nothing. He was there. Taking up space, breathing the air, and entertaining demented thoughts inside his dark little mind. Raising his gaze, Raiden pinned Keeran with a cold glare. The words that fell weren't the happy ones that had danced around earlier. These were stabbing, icy, and detached. Soft and low, Raiden uttered something. "You don't know me," came the stabbing icicles, "and you definitely know nothing of my life. Don't tell me it's selfish when you don't know me." Raiden fought with his control. He fought to held back the emotions that were swiftly rising like a tainted tide. He frantically built a dam, but it wasn't quick enough building. It wasn't fast enough, and any defense he had crumbled. Keeran didn't know him. Keeran didn't even know anything about his life. Keeran was just there, trying to make him feel bad, and Raiden wasn't going to take that from a complete stranger.
The smooth melody of the Funeral March drifted in his head. Death was clogging his nostrils again. Why couldn't death be quick about it instead of torturing him to insanity. "I have no one, and no one would care. I doubt anyone would even notice. One cannot forget something they don't remember." Sadness. It was overwhelming in Raiden's voice. Each letter, each syllable, and each word was dotted with icy sadness. No one. It echoed like an evil little demon in his head. Just what he needed. More things to be muttered in his head. More words to be formed. More things cluttering his already aching head. He wished it would burst. Burst open so he could end this madness! Raiden stood up. His palms were flat against the table, and the delicate features of his face distorted in pain. Tears blurred and burned his eyes like little white-hot needles poking at the black shadows that were Raiden's eyes. Like the memories were stabbing them with pitchforks. Everything took on the look as if he was under water. Drowning, oh sweet relief! He felt the water surge into his lungs with chilling force. He felt his being slip away to be grabbed by the scabby, grey hands of death. It would be so easy. So easy to listen to the words of Death. So easy to just give up and die.
No one. Raiden saw himself, his casket, and saw his own face. Even in death Raiden's face was haunted. There were still shadows that clung to it. Even in death Raiden wouldn't be free, and he realized this as the Funeral March slowly became louder in his head. It pounded in his ears. Oh, it hurt! Raiden clutched them and lowered his head. Leave, yes, leave. Raiden should leave. He felt himself move away from the chair. So easy to just walk away, so easy to just give up! But something held him there. Something glued Raiden to the spot, and he just stood there. Slowly, Raiden looked at Keeran. The youth was still rambling on about something. Something that obviously made him quite irritable. Then Raiden realized it. Keeran had dealt with suicide before. It didn't make him feel any better, and he still felt angry and emotional.
Now a decision had to be made. Should Raiden sit down, or should he leave? The memories stabbed him violently. "Leave," they told him. They didn't want Raiden to have contact with other people. That might give hope to the young boy. And hope was hell to kill. It took years of torture, brutality, and Natsuki to ruin Raiden's hope. He could clearly see his mother's face now. What would happen if she got the news? Impassive as ever, probably. Raiden closed his eyes. He was going to cry. He could already feel the tears pooling in his eyes. "Stop it, you pathetic little boy. You idiot, stop!" Raiden told himself in hushed tones. It was all under his breath. The words soft and lilting. Why did he have to be born?
"Does it matter what other people remember? It seems like a fair exchange to living in years of torture. You don't know what I deal with and have dealt with!" The memories hissed with glee, and death gave a huge cackle that made the insides of Raiden shake. He could hear his heart stutter, and how he wished it would stop. But death, for Raiden, was not merciful. Death had ever intention of stealing away the already ruined sanity of Raiden. Death had every notion to make Raiden beg, beg on his knees and sob, until the end. Death would destroy every last bit of Raiden, and the shadowy figure inside Raiden smiled. He prodded Raiden's stomach, and the youth felt it lurch. He almost threw up. Almost.
"So f*ck it," Raiden said, "if they turn black they turn black. No one will care." The words hung as glittering, icy snowdrops for a moment. Raiden laughed. Cruel and bitter, and it caused the lady working to jump and glare. The laughter came from death, as if the entity of decay had taken Raiden over. As if there was no barrier between Raiden and everything inside his body. Everything was there for the memories to use again shim. Everything was there and ready for his demise. White fingers pounded at white keys as the haunting song surged forth like a bitter ocean that reeked of dying people. Raiden saw those people. He saw their white, lifeless eyes. He saw their pale and thin bodies with all the bones poking through the paper-thin skin. Those were the people he'd join. He'd go to stay with them in their swirling vortex of despair. It was almost tangible. Raiden could almost grasp that thought. He did. He reached out into the air. Raiden felt it, slippery like a silver fish, but it wriggled away.
He sat down, defeated, and looked at the cup of coffee. Cold. Cold like everything else in this world. Frowning, Raiden didn't make a motion to move. He just sat there and questioned why this had to happen to him. Why he was a complete mental case, and why there were voices coming from inside him. Why did his mom have to abuse him like she did? Shouldn't a mother be caring and nurturing. Raiden choked back a sob, much to the glee of the entities inside of him. Tears were persistent things, you know. No can't get rid of them at all. Once they were there, once they threatened to reveal themselves, it was the end. You had to fight so damned hard, and Raiden was sick of fighting. He wanted to give up. He was sick of it, sick of everything, and he was close to crying and screaming until the salt dried on his skin and the scream tore the inside of his throat to shreds. Until he cried rusty blood, and until his throat blistered from the raging emotions that were pent up behind a barbed wire fence. There was nothing in this world for him. There was no hope of ever being better, of being rid of all these horrible thoughts, or anything of that nature. No one wanted to help him. Not even his father. The thought hit him hard in the bit of his stomach. It felt as if his insides were being sucked out through his back, as if his stomach had been replaced with searing, molten lead, as if there was no meaning. There wasn't any meaning to life for Raiden anymore. What did he have? A cold cup of coffee and some random person lecturing him on how it was bad to commit suicide. That was a fat lot, right there. A lot of f*cking good that would do Raiden in life. damn it to hell.
When Keeran continued to speak, Raiden still remained frozen. Speechless. With an ashy taste lingering on his tongue, Raiden opened his mouth to speak. He found it odd that Keeran didn't see the black and white ash lingering on the red tongue of Raiden. "I don't sleep much. I got it because the lady over there would ask me to leave if I didn't buy anything." She would probably ask him to leave anyway. Coldness would be in her voice as she quietly asked the mental kid to leave her establishment. Raiden frowned. He really was a lovely boy, despite all the issues he had in his head. A fallen angel, Raiden had crashed into this earth in a blaze of black fire. His wings had burned away, and the ashes had fluttered into other parts of the world. He was left to wander here, so alone and so utterly decaying, and it pained him. The feeling of his insides dying and turning to dark liquid kept him up at night. The sound of his organs drying up kept Raiden from sleeping at all. Coffee didn't help. It was only there to provide Raiden with warmth, something he never got. He never felt the warmth of another human being. He never felt the soft caress of skin on his porcelain flesh. He felt the weight of the icy world press against his slender chest. The chains tightened like a slippery serpent, and Raiden took a deep breath that send shooting pain through his lungs. It hurt to breathe.
Kill me now! his voice begged death. There was nothing. Just silence on the other end, but he could feel the amusement from the swirling black mass, from the king of Decay. He could feel the entity's mouth split open to reveal rotting teeth. It was nothing more than a game to this thing inside of him. It was all a game, and Raiden was losing. He would lose. It was pre-determined. A slight chuckled, a chuckle of insanity, grew inside of Raiden. And with that, death swirled his midnight cloak and left. He'd be back after Raiden left the cafe. The Japanese boy was sure of it. It was going to be a long night, a long and painful one, and Raiden took a breath of the coffee-saturated air that surrounded him. So much going on inside his head, inside his body, and Keeran was unaware of the internal conflicts between Raiden and death. Between Raiden and the memories. Between Raiden and the softly dying vowels that left warm embers and dry ashes on his tongue.
Bleakness. Nothingness. Emptiness. Isolation. Raiden looked at Keeran, really looked at him, and admitted defeat. He felt slightly sorry for the way he had acted earlier. For the icy tendrils of words to come out the way they did. Should he apologize? What good could it do? It would do nothing, but Raiden didn't want to add an entity of guilt to his already crowded mind and body.
"I'm sorry," Raiden said while still looking at Keeran. The pain hadn't left the dancing shadows of Raiden's eyes. The ghosts still bathed in their obsidian pool. But he did feel guilty. The memories stabbed behind his eyes, and Raiden broke eye contact for a moment. His gaze ventured back to the window where it stayed fixed. Glued. Attached. He saw his reflection, a shadow reflection, and realized it was the reflection of the growing darkness inside of him. Of the growing and blossoming decayed. Pestilence, disease-ridden wind. He was dying from the inside out. His heart stuttered, and he felt more of his cells die. They screamed in agony before disintegrating in a pile of glowing red embers. Raiden broke the staring contest with his shadow-self and looked back at Keeran. Silence covered Raiden in her quilt of silvery-blue. It was icy as it bit into the delicate skin of the teenager.
"She doesn't like us," Raiden said softly as he gestured to the woman working. His midnight hair framed his pained and decaying angel's face. His haunted eyes gazed at the woman before turning back to Keeran. "She wants us to leave." Raiden had no where to go. Just back to his house, which held nothing but shadowy figures. And death. Death would be waiting to embrace Raiden with its cut and scabby arms. With its putrid flesh and fiery eyes. Death would wait to torture Raiden to madness, and he wasn't ready for that. Raiden was not ready for the torture. No, he'd stay here or wander on the streets.
He frowned, and then he was silent. He was still looking at Keeran, but no more words came. Echoes of the Funeral March cascaded through his tired mind. It ended on a low note, ringing in his ears, and died away. Now his mind was silent. He knew the memories were there, but they were watching with silent intensity for the moment.
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this application template was made by abi, also known as
buildings and mountains. on CAUTION! the lyrics for the
dividers are from the lovely song bruises by jack's mannequin.
[/color][/font][/center]buildings and mountains. on CAUTION! the lyrics for the
dividers are from the lovely song bruises by jack's mannequin.
