"Sink your teeth into forever."
Violent Raviorance

[justify] ( Your Crimson Touch Is Going Nowhere )
As you sit in the detention center, picking at your nails that are always a ruby red color with long, bony fingers, your blue eyes wander around the room. You look at all the other Peacekeepers that linger around, talking among themselves, reading, or just sitting there staring across the room. Every time someone walks into or out of the room, your muscled, yet skinny pale frame always snaps to attention from the constant fight part of fight and flight coursing through your withered, drug affected veins. From the room, you hear screams and cries of the people who are being accused of a crime, and as you twirl a piece of red-brown hair around a skeleton finger, you wish that you could get the hell out of there and do something entertaining, or else you would turn in early.

As soon as the thought is passed, another of your fellow Peacekeepers finds you and asks you to come deal with a riled up person that was tied down in the interrogation room. Kicking your skinny legs off of the table, you click the high-heels (seriously, she is probably one of the very few Peacekeepers that can run and fight in high-heels. It's a very good skill to have) that are the same color as your nails out of the room. Running a bony hand through your thick hair, you move your hands to the hem of your dress, distractedly pulling it down, and then adjusting your leather jacket. "Okay, so, what the fuck is wrong with this one?" As you light a cigarette and raise the lovely piece of cancer to your full mouth, you listen to her say that the person is resisting, to which you reply would stop as soon as you got there.

As she escorts you into the room with the suspect, you flash a straight, white toothed smile at her as she struggled against the arm bands. You put your hands on the arms of the wooden chair, the insides of your viciously scarred up and poked through arms clearly showing to the girl. After telling her to stop with a kind voice, she spits in your face and you back up, wiping it away from your left cheek and half of your small nose with the back of your hand. Raising your thin eyebrows at her, a malicious grin forms on your face. Punching her with the hand that had the cigarette, you see the burn mark on her face, telling her that if she didn't shut up, more of that would be sure to come.

( True Pain Was All You Ever Meant )
Malicious and Violent. From a young age, you were a strange specimen of girl. You wouldn't hesitate to say something mean to the person next to you, or hit them if they spoke out of line. You liked to prick people with needles when you were a girl just so you could hear them wince. But that was minor compared to how you would grow up: punching people and busting open lips because you wanted to. Pinning people down, burning people with your cigarettes over and over, loving to hear the hiss of skin rise up to your eardrums as your lips curled into a smile. Even though you don't do it without reason, the way you do it is quite cruel. Something about hurting other people (maybe it's the fact you took all your anger and put it on another person) was appealing to you, which made you an amazing Peacekeeper.

Tolerant and Open-minded. You were once a horrible person (well, you still kind of are, but being horrible is part of your job), but believe it or not, you are actually a very nice person when you want to be. If somebody does something minor that you don't like, you don't bitch them out or beat the shit out of them for it. The way you see it, is that as long as what the other person is doing doesn't affect you negatively, then you leave them alone. You respect other people's opinions (even if you don't like them) and just go about your day. You also think that you have no room to speak about bad people, since you were and are one, so when you find someone that needs your help, you only let yourself feel unconditional acceptance.

Work-oriented. That's a good quality for somebody to have, but for you, that should be a horrible quality. You do a good job with what you do, weaving words so that the person that sits in the chair in the middle of the room spills their sin. You are always at work on time, cigarettes and at least three lighters always deep in your skirt pockets, knowing that when you interrogate someone, you would burn them with the little cancer sticks. You love what you do, and even when you get sick, you go to work, what with it being the only place you can be evil and manipulative with a cause. Your whole life revolves around what you do, whether it is good or bad.


( Sink Your Teeth Into This Nightmare )
You were born to a loving house wife and a mortician who had no idea how children operated. Of course, they were good parents and such, clothing you, giving you small pieces of advice, but they never really guided you on the right path. If you were playing with needles (you creepy, creepy child) they wouldn't tell you to stop or else you would get hurt. If you were insulting people, they wouldn't tell you to watch your mouth or else you would get punished. You were pretty much set free to do whatever you wanted. Their stupidity of not telling you how to behave instilled it into your head that you could do whatever you wanted and not get in trouble for it.

At the age of thirteen, you had your first sip of alcohol that you obtained when you snuck into a bar from the back door, and eventually everyone knew your name since you (as the little badass thing you believed you were) would bring all of the money you obtained from other people's pockets to go to the bar to buy a couple of beers to get you through each miserable day that you lived, what with other people picking on you at school because you were the weird little kid that liked to wear black and liked to be alone and write poetry. Eventually, this would be an addiction that would last until you were 18. Your parents would sometimes question you about where you were going, but when you told them that it was none of their business, they budded out and went with the flow.

When you were fifteen, another boy your age walked into the bar, sat next to you and slapped you on the ass. After punching him in the face, sending him off his stool and onto the floor, three other boys got up and asked you where you learned to punch like that, to which you responded with cracking your knuckles and asking why. After they explained to you that they needed some more fighters for their group and such, you slapped the boy that had gotten up next to you and told them that you would definitely see them later. When you first joined the gang and the 15 members asked you what your name was, you were purely drunk at the time, slurring your words and saying your name was "Violent". When you were sober, you kept wondering why everybody called you that, but just went with the flow. It suited your rebellious behavior and absolute no hesitation to punch somebody in the face for looking at you the wrong way.

At the age of fifteen and a half, you had joined their little gang ring, getting into smoking and not hesitating to put them out on the people who lost fights at your hands. You wouldn't hesitate to get into a huge brawl over something somebody said to you. Your parents were worried, of course, asking you why you came home with blood on your shirts and why your breath reeked of cigarettes and vodka, to which you would respond with silence and going upstairs to sleep.

At the age of sixteen, you had broken three of your ribs after you got in a fight with a boy that slapped you on the ass, and your parents had tried to put you in rehab, but you refused, saying you didn't have a problem. Ironically, as soon as you got your ribs wrapped, you were out again, but doing even worse stuff this time; sniffing whatever you could find on the table and injecting yourself with whatever your gang members gave you. You were either always high or drunk, and whenever you came home, you would threaten your parents with broken beer bottles and tell them that what you did was none of their business.

When you were eighteen, you passed out on the sidewalk, hopped up on vodka, whisky, cocaine, and heroin, your body slowly deteriorating. You passed out, on the edge of death (actually, you died for about thirty seconds at the hospital, but they revived you) and when you woke up, you took a few minutes to examine yourself and who you were. You dressed in skin-tight jeans. You wore heels that were bigger than four inches. You hair was always in a ratted mess. Your eyes were bloodshot from everything going through your body. Your arms had small holes in them from all the times you pricked yourself with the liquid heaven. You finally realized that you had a problem, so you went to rehab. You went through painful withdrawls and got yourself clean and out of the gang scene. And after years and years of torturing your parents, you apologized to them, and they understood you and accepted you into the family as if there had been no wrong done.

As you got yourself better, you thought to yourself that drugs and gang-life and just plain getting into trouble wasn't a life fit for innocent people that had strayed off the right path. So, you decided that if you were going to fix other people and stitch their wounds you would have to do something about it. So you decided the best way to go about it was scaring people straight (you enjoy hurting them too, you just don't drink too much ok well you still drink alot, who am I kidding or do drugs, but fighting is permittable) and making them learn that to live an efficient life, they have to play by the rules, just like you had failed to do so but had fixed yourself of. And that's all you want to do with your life. Fix other people who are down in the hole that you were years ago.