[justify]Flawed. Chipped at it's edges. Scratched on the surface. Tattered at it's brim. This is Edgar. Tainted and bruised by a past he can't even remember, so why does it effect him so much? It's nice to think that maybe he doesn't even have a past. Instead, he's like what those crazy and preaching crooks call the first man ever - Adam. Molded and shaped in God's very palm, only to be dropped off on the dirty cement steps of Sycamore House. This would make sense, though, as senseless as it sounds. It'd be a reason on why he feels like he doesn't belong here. Some days, the kid even convinces himself that this is his past. That way, no one can mess around with his head, that way, no one can jumble up his feelings into a ball and toss it out the window like it's nothing. No family, no parents, no fucking relations that can reenter his life and claim them as his own. No one, and bloody no one owns Edgar.

Handsome is not a compliment to Edgar, don't ever call him that. High self esteem creates a cocky nature - and, boy, does the kid have enough of that already. "Handsome" doesn't do him justice, anyway. Handsome is too vague, too general, too bland - three things that Edgar certiainly is not. No, Edgar is not the handsome prince, not the handsome knight in shining armor. Edgar is the dangerous soldier, the fierce warrior prepared for battle, and he has the scars to prove it.

From head to toe, his broken identity smears across all his features - the combination of light blond and dark brown in his hair mixing a sense of an adolescent wisdom, the cold directness of his piercing sea green eyes washing over you with a frightened warmth, the staggering height of 6'2 creating the expectancy of a sudden collapse on his part. He's a palace made out of cards, appearing strong and grand on the outside - but one simple blow or push of the hands will be the destruction of his haven. Oh, what a fragile, weak thing he is. His strength was and is nurtured by the lack of food on a dusty table, his and the rest of the kids' stomachs growling like a bear protecting it's cubs. The only difference being that they had nothing to protect. Poverty screams in his ear, clings to his edged rib cage and rotting stomach. A painful and constant reminder that he has nothing. But, this isn't so bad. With nothing, he's got nothing to lose. His skin is a haunting pale color, and the sight of it could cause someone to wonder if ghosts were real after all. No, maybe not ghosts. Ghosts are untouchable and exiled from this world - so why even bother to scare yourself out of such a thing? No, the real fear is buried within our own souls, lying in the depth of our most dreaded nightmares - monsters. Don't bother checking under your bed tonight, don't bother closing your closet door either. The monster lies within you.
[/justify]

[justify]What makes a human? Cut one in half, and ask yourself if the answer lies within the thin blood, within the ivory bones, within the weakened heart? Are these the ingredients that make up the world’s most despicable being? The answer goes much deeper than that, further into one’s mind, into the depths of one’s heart. If they even have one. Cut their soul in half, and the contents will not be as predictable as the blood, bones, and heart from a body. You will find the souls of the wealthy full of pride and greed - a hunger for power that is beyond their own reach. You will find the souls of the poor full of dust and webs - a lack of food, education, and happiness standing as their only position in life. You will find the souls of the belligerent full of gleaming daggers and piercing screams - a vengeance for revenge never going to satisfy them. You will find the souls of the benevolent full of gold and silver - their good deeds accomplishing a rich life not touchable in even this world. Then there are the souls of the curious, the wondering, the unknown. Cut open their soul, and you will find it’s contents to be… empty.

These are the souls of the lost - this is the soul of Edgar.

Structured to be as tall and strong as the world’s highest skyscraper, Edgar’s insides are as hollow as a skeleton.His soul is a bottomless pit - fed from years of bitter desperation and sick insecurities. And, no matter how much you pile into it, he will never be full again.

Oh, but these complicated and tortured creatures need more than a five second glance for anyone to witness the sorrow embedded in the worried wrinkles of their faces. Months, years, and sometimes never is the length it could take to finally notice the crumbling of a strong facade. And who even knows if they’ll just rebuild this fort after the tiniest signs of such weakness? Edgar is the strongest example of such a fort. Withered and wearied, he perseveres in his jackass attitude and bastard personality. Although a jerk to everyone else, these actions prove to him as an invincible curtain shielding him away from the world’s prying eyes. Trust is not easily attained with Edgar - he holds a bitter grudge towards the parents that left his life without even the smallest of goodbyes, nevertheless the smallest of regrets. Why should he let anyone into his life when his own damn parents didn’t want him? Why should he let anyone make the littlest of effects on him when a family he didn’t even know already impacted him this much? Why should he let anyone control the reins of his life?

It isn’t hard to spark a fire within Edgar, and before anyone would even realize it, they’re suddenly knee deep in a ferocious argument with him. What is hard, however, is extinguishing this fire. Even after winning the fight which is all the time, he won’t stop until he has trampled over every thought of ever defying him, again. His mouth is witty, and his brain even more so. Even with the lack of book smarts, his street smarts keep him on the constant survival. To those he pictures inferior to him, he grants himself the right to walk over them, as well. And, let’s face it, who doesn’t he picture inferior to him? It’s not a matter of age, rank, or even wealth. What matters to Edgar is who is the strongest, and - with all the crap he convinces himself he struggles with - he obviously stands as the most capable candidate for the part. Maybe he’s not in the situation of lying in his death bed, but he might as well be. In his reckless hands, the burden of eight other kids from the orphanage are dropped in his care - when he has yet to figure out the way to take care of himself. With the aging Miss Aggie and as the eldest of all the orphans, he becomes the ultimate authority and father figure they’ve all never had - literally. Even with the intimidating pressure and back breaking responsibilities he carries, it doesn’t mean that he doesn’t get a kick out of it either. Edgar makes up one hell of a critic, and a demanding one at that. He’ll pick and poke and point out every mistake he finds in someone with his joking but insensitive ways, and, although most understand he isn’t serious, it hurts either way. The bossy side of him glints whenever he deems appropriate basically always, and it’s appropriate because he’s the bloody oldest, for God’s sake, and he can demand whatever he bloody wants.

But, even with his callous nature, the tough side of him tends to melt away in the most desperate of times - revealing the softie that’s been lying there all along. It’s hard for the kids to think that Edgar loves them, it’s hard to think he loves at all. But, his unusual love for the children shines in the most unexpected of times. When the kids begin to doubt themselves, Edgar is suddenly thrown into nostalgia as he is reminded of the ten year old boy seven years ago who wondered why his own mommy and daddy didn’t even want him. With the asshole in him fading away, he’ll comfort the child with as much solace he could ever muster up. His sharp tongue will soften, and his blank and uncaring stares will transform into an affectionate and fatherly gaze. ”It’s like what I say, kid,” He’ll begin. ”If they don’t give a fuck, might as well return the favor.” Not the most whimsical of speeches, but it helps to know that he cares enough to notice. But even the strongest of buildings can be eroded into piles of rubble - repair out of anyone’s power. When Edgar’s own sadness begins to wind it’s way up to his own hollow heart, no one - and absolutely no one - can dig him out of his wallowing despair.[/justify]

[justify]Abandonment is a shameful word. Even more shameful is the one who has been abandoned. Unwanted, desolate, and lost. Edgar - of all people - should know this.

Everyday is a constant battle on trying to unfold the mysteries that determines his position in life. With the trail that led him to Sycamore House so carefully concealed, he remains clueless on exactly who and what he is. Most take their identity for granted, whereas, people like Edgar, crave for the slightest taste of it on their dry and aching tongues. Sure, he’ll push such weak thoughts away from him with an ”Aw, fuck it.” But, teeming between the spaces of his words lies the trembling child who’s lost his home, and doubts if he ever had one to begin with. What is a dog without its owner, what is a sheep without the herder?

They are nothing.

From the beginning, Edgar always figured he just didn’t belong here. He was dropped on the grimy steps of Sycamore House after birth, as if he was some pathetic rag doll, a toy without feelings or emotions. Growing up, there was always something incomplete about his life. Edgar was a hundred piece puzzle, with only ninety nine pieces to spare. However, his gullible ways of thinking led him to believe that the Sun would rise and replace the violent rainstorm that hovered his life so feverishly. He was still young, and someone was bound to adopt him - to rescue him, to save him, to be his savior and take him away from the prison in which he resided. But, youth does not last forever. His childhood and innocence was so harshly stolen from him, as if someone violently stole candy from a naive child. In a way, this was true. The sweetness and pleasure some would taste from young and imaginary fantasies was nothing but bitter displeasure for Edgar. Fantasies are not real. Fairy tales are nothing but a lie created by the most false of daydreamers. Happy endings only happen in stories, and this bitter reality is anything but a story. As the years wore on, and his refuge failed to provide him the safe home he so desired, he grew resentment towards those around him. He became volatile, a creature ready to burst at any little thing. The orphans continued to pile into the orphanage, and he watched with a sarcastic eye as their own hopes of refuge came tumulting down. ”No one’s coming for ya, kid.” He’d say with little sympathy, not because he wished to see them saddened, but because he’d rather break their fall now while they were still close to reality.

When Laila finally arrived, things got better for him. She was another doorstep baby, deserted from a family who didn’t need or want her. Suddenly, he didn’t feel so damn lonely anymore, because, finally, someone could share his sorrows, his pain, his curiosity. With such similar desperate woes, these two tragedies collided together as a crumbling pillar for each other’s support. Though sometimes she can be even more of a handful than he is, Edgar treats her with the kind of love that a brother would give to a little sister. He understands the ins and outs of her, and - most importantly - can extinguish her unpredictable flames when it becomes too heated. If only she could do the same for him.

Outside, Edgar still executes his cool exterior perfectly, just any other jackass who doesn’t have a care in the world, and certainly doesn’t need one.

But, by now, it’d be more of an understatement to say there’s so much more than what meets the eye. [/justify]

[justify][/justify]

NORMAL // EEEEEE
EMPHASIS // 777777
SPEECH // BBBBBB
HEADINGS // 888888 and AAAAAA

Oh my goodness, I love this boy. Love him. So well written. If I weren't knee-deep in threads I would throw my D5 at him in two seconds flat.