CORNELIUS (ZOMBIE BOY) BONES, DISTRICT ONE

CORNELIUS
ZOMBIE BOY
BONES .

"THERE IS A HOUSE BUILT OUT OF STONE”
Wooden floors, walls, and window sills.

AGE . Eighteen.
GENDER . Male.
DISTRICT . District Two.
OCCUPATION . Zombie Boy.
SEXUALITY . Straight.
TALKING . I'm Now Blue
DOING . Please Stop
DEEP THOUGHT . I'm No Longer Brown
HEARING . Lovin' Me!


APPEARANCE .

"TABLES AND CHAIRS WORN BY ALL OF THE DUST”
This is a place where I don't feel alone.

I see it when they look at me, the fear and confusion in their eyes when I walk by. I know what it is like to see me, but I do not know what it is like to fear me, for how does one fear themselves? Why do they fear me though? It can't be because of my height, which happens to be an even six feet. I know my muscles are pretty good, you gotta keep fit if you wanna look like I do, but they aren't overbearing. Sometimes it does occur to me that it's my skin. I don't have some awful skin disease, nor am I an odd colour. I'm more like many odd colours. When you look at your mommy and daddy, what do you see? Right, someone that looks just like you. Well when my mommy and daddy look at me kids, they see a monster.

It used to bother me that when I went to visit them, they never looked me in the eye, never looked at the beauty plastered all over me, leaking into my skin through their coloured ink. It doesn't anymore. I'm not a skin colour anymore, I'm the colour of a walking corpse. Black circles around my eyes that you'd see on a skull, with a full mou- or should I say Jaw of teeth. My face looks like a skull, but for the top of my shaved head where my brain is showing. If you've got one, flaunt one, eh? The thing about most tattoos, is that they are usually small, or just cover a small expanse. Not for me. Mine continue to cover my neck (spine and tendons) and all down my body. A ribcage adorns my front, but almost seems to be showing off my insides, all the evils in the world bursting forth from it.

My tattoos are my body, and my body is my art. A full skeleton adorns this skin, in fact by now I don't even have a patch reminiscent of my skin colour. I'm all ink baby, and I'm showing off this skeleton as a decomposing body, bugs, old meat, and all the works. Over one hundred and seventy eight bugs are on my body, and a little over one hundred and thirty eight bones. A nuclear sign sits right on the middle of my chest, dead center. People ask me why, and I usually don't reply. But if you really want to know why, it's because one of these days I'll find a way to make the world go nuclear and maybe everyone can turn all zombified themselves. Wouldn't that be a treat? Hundreds upon thousands of zombies walking around.

"DEAD" and "EVIL" are the letters across my fingers. It's impossible to not be at least one of them, and yeah, I suppose that dead inside can count if it must. I've got it made because I've been told I'm both. But I'm not going to waste my time explaining every little tattoo and inked on detail, that's what the shows are for, you wanna see me? You gotta pay up. A man's gotta eat, and I don't work for nothing. As for piercings, got a ring in my nostrils, and a spike through the top of my nose. People ask me if it hurt, you know, all the tattoos, and the piercings, so I smile, which looks satisfyingly eerie, and simply nod, enjoying the little white lie. It's funny how people spend their lives hiding from the pain, when it feels like I'm forever in pursuit of the stuff.

I was born with Congenital insensitivity to pain, or as I like to call it, a fucking stupid disease. Because of it, I can't feel any pain, or temperatures. I'm one of the lucky ones though, because I can still feel touch. Not feeling a person's touch would drive me crazy. So if you see me walking along outside in the dead of winter, shirtless, it's not that surprising. Sometimes I forget that I'm supposed to be cold and so my body half freezes before one of my family hands me a shirt or coat with a serious look. See, I can't ruin the body art and having to amputate an arm or two because of them freezing to death turns out to be a form of damaging it. Anyway, it's normal for me to wear a pair of slacks and then maybe some shoes, but nothing else. I don't really like tight collars on shirts anyway, it makes me feel trapped and I'm meant to run free.

I'm not going to get all awkward about this if you won't. Seeing that I have tattoos everywhere, yes, even in my armpits. As well as other interesting places, sorry, I never talk about there until the second date. Anyway, that requires a lot of upkeep. As a joke my friends call me the hairless rodent. Haha, very funny. I'm bald all over except for where it's most needed, and I think you know what I mean when I say that. I'm not being crude, you asked for my appearance. I don't even have manly chest hair for christ sakes, making me look younger than I am. Luckily I have friends willing to give me a good shave every now and then. Don't look so disgusted, would you pay to see a bunch of hairy tattoos? Yeah, didn't think so. You are very much welcome.

My eyes are a soft green, the softest thing about me, flecked with chips of gold, as if I stood underneath a welder's table for too long and the sparks flew into my eyes. my nose is a normal size in relativity to my head, but my ears stick out pretty far. No scars can be found on this skin, it's bad for business, although I do manage to tempt fate a lot. Other than that, I'd say that I'm a pretty normal looking guy. (yes, that was a pun.) I look in the mirror and see someone beautiful. Okay, well, I know it's the tattoos and not me, but if the tattoos are me, then I am what I consider beautiful. (Accepting the fact that I'm simply a walking canvas.) People condemn me for them, but I wonder if when they look in the mirror, they can think the same thought about themselves, or if all they see is their dead insides.

PERSONALITY .

“THIS IS A PLACE WHERE I FEEL AT HOME”
And I built a home.

Death is everywhere.

When you breathe in, you are most likely breathing in dead skin cells. When you walk anywhere, the bones of your ancestors lie beneath your feet. The world is our graveyard, and we're doing an excellent job of filling it. I've always had a sort of fascination about death, I just can't help myself when someone brings it up. The way a body slowly sinks back into the earth to become apart of things once again. Sometimes I can't help feeling jealousy for those laid at rest. Oh so beautiful in their sunday best. When I was growing up however, people never could look me in the eye when I got that gleam. They couldn't understand why I found it so beautiful. Even as I could not fathom why they did not.

Everything that you felt for that person, is gone with their death, be it anger, or regret. They are not there to take it from you, and reshape your view of them, your last memory is a concrete fixture in the mind. I find it amazing, the last moment, I like to remember the last words of people. Damn it! How will I ever get out of this labyrinth? Which were the last words of one Simon Bolivar. I think that he had the right question. Maybe he wasn't referring to the labrynth of life when he said this, but People ask things like why? When what I am most interested in is the how. How will we leave this earth? In the games? Old age or sickness? Or maybe even the betrayal of someone you thought you could trust. But people are afraid to ask these things because, death is too damn full, and man is too damned small. I am not afraid to ask these things, and for that reason, I am deemed different.

It's okay though, I don't mind being who I am. Sure, sometimes things have been tough, but I've gained many good attributes from being self reliant. For example, it turns out that people don't really like it when you make a home out of the ally beside their house. So I have the ability to sleep comfortably wherever I can find a place to shut my eyes. I have a bit of a tendency to take catnaps instead of full fledged, eight hour sleeps. Whether that be up a tree, under a tree, on a roof, against a wall, and even on a bed of nails. I never really like sleeping in the same place twice, it makes me uncomfortable. I don't know why, it's just that I've been lost for so long, maybe I don't want to be found. Found by anyone but my family. And I don't mean the ones who share my blood, I mean the ones who care about me.

See, even though I'm obviously insane, there are those that care. My mother, I go to see her at least once a week. Every time she sees me, she gets sort of scared though. She's been diagnosed with early onset Alzheimer's. I love her, I do. But she doesn't remember who I am sometimes. Then I just scare her because of the tattoos. She was the only one who never really cared about them. Every little boy loves their mommy, I'm not ashamed to admit that I never stopped loving mine. One time I went to see her, and she thought I was the grim reaper come to take her away, so instead I simply leave her little things on the windowsill she still puts pies out on. Just trinkets. But slowly, my family got replaced. There's the Ringleader for one. Found me when I was fourteen, gave me my first tattoo and everything. He took me in, gave me a home. There aren't really many that I trust more than him.

There is of course, the mutilationist. I can't remember how long I've known her, all I do know is that she is my best friend. Although she is sometimes loud, and a little obnoxious, I know I'd be lost without her. Sometimes when my thoughts sink too deep down into their dark hole, she's the one who throws down the rope to pull me back up. It's hard for a guy like me not to think, it feels like my brain is always on the prowl. On that note, we're always challenging each other to do crazy things at every show and outside of it. Our thirst for craziness never really goes away, and seems to be always popping up when I least expect it. I keep a lot of old books around myself, all yellowed and weathered from life spent in a tent. Things like T.S. Eliot, Hemingway, Tolkein, and Pratchett. I like books more than people sometimes, and really, who can blame a guy? But it's not only fiction that intrigues me, but sciences as well. I love old texts, anything to tell me about everything, really.

On that note, I really enjoy copying them out. I have spent hours upon hours writing them out with an old quill and ink well. (Call me a traditionalist.) There's just something about doing it that puts me at ease. Whenever I get really mad, I simply whip out my quill and ink pot, and start writing things down. It's always a real challenge thought because I cannot stain my fingers with ink, so I have to be very careful. It's always worth it however, for the finished result, and it always leaves me with a sense of pride when I finish a chapter or so. I keep all of these copies in a brown chest with my family name stamped on it. The only thing I ever got from my father.

Then there is the pain. So beautiful and infinite. i see it in people's eyes when they feel it. The look of shock and then acceptance mixed with disbelief. They are always so surprised by a forming bruise, or the welling of blood. To me, it looks so delicious. What does that feel like? How does it feel to feel so intensely, to just have it. I want to know, I want it, that hesitating pain that washes over a person like the warmth of the sun turned cold with hatred. Sometimes it just gets so frustrating. I can't help it, all the frustration builds. Although I am rather quiet on the outside, it's like there's always a storm brewing inside. I can't stop the anger at the gods for cursing me from building up. And oh god, just the anger. I live in it, sometimes I black out even and find that I've knocked over everything in my sleeping space to get it all out. I just want to feel it. To grit my teeth and live deeply, oh it would be wonderful. No one knows what it is like to be me, to feel like a skin trapped inside layers of skin. The only thing I can feel is another's touch. It's amazing, just to feel anything. So don't mind me if I simply reach out to hold your hand. Just take it. Please. Please take it.

HISTORY .

“FOR YOU”
For me.

There's not really much to say about my past. Why delve down there when there are already so many fucked up moments up here? I spent some time in my mom's uterus. That must have been nice, I don't know. I can't remember stuff from when I was a fetus, go figure. Apparently a lot of people don't remember their time in there, must be a trend or something. Anyway, I think it's plausible to say that I've always been a rather odd kid. My earliest memory is my older brother passing when I was three. There was an open casket, so I climbed in with him, and lay down beside his empty body. My mom thought it was cute, daddy dear thought it was fucked up.

Yeah, he was probably right. I'm pretty sure I just climbed in with him because I thought it might be nice to be buried in the earth. I had been learning about death and his scythe from a young age, I wanted to meet him. Is that so weird? To want to look Death in the eyes and say, "I'm not afraid." In my opinion, it's pretty damned badass of me. Anyway, my father and I never really saw eye to eye. I was always the weird son, the 'why couldn't you be more like your brother' son. I never minded too much, I fuckin' loved my brother. Why would it be a bad thing to be like him? Never mind the fact that I wouldn't be very much like myself. But hey, then maybe I could be a little normal right?

Wrong.

I'm a series of fuck ups and confusion. As a child, I never knew that I couldn't feel pain, so I never worried about anything. I used to hurt myself all over, never really realizing that it was supposed to hurt. I thought that everyone was like me. but I'd see people cry, and get confused. Once I even broke a finger, and didn't worry about it until my mother noticed. Must have been when I was diagnosed. Whatever was wrong with me, I was a weird kid, and that's all my father ever saw. He used to get mad at me whenever I said anything, now that I think about it, I liked to talk about brother's rotting body a lot. Guess I was just born awesome.

I left home at age twelve, not being able to take how odd I felt anymore. It didn't feel right living there, among all those lively people. I was obviously just a rotting corpse. Makes sense right? can't feel anything, likes to talk about death. I was put on this Earth to be a Zombie obviously. Every once in a while, I'd go by my old home and see if my mother wanted to talk to me. She never stopped loving me that woman, bless her. every now and then if she thought I might be coming by, there were cookies, or a wool cap or something left out for me. Mothers never stop being mothers just as sons never stop being sons, I guess.

When I was fourteen, I met The Ringleader. Finally, I was found. He was odd too, so people stayed away from him. Funny, because I liked him because he was odd at first. He also gave me my first tattoo. After that first tat, I never got another one, ever again. Ever. Yeah, just playing, you know how it is. It's the one that got me addicted. The Ringleader saved me from a lonely life, and for that I'm forever thankful. He became my new father, and my new teacher. Provided me with what I needed, and I was no longer odd, because there was someone to be odd with He gave me a home. Someone wanted me to be there. Not soon after, we picked up The Mutilationist, and she and I were best friends from the start. Those two are my biggest loves, the loves of my life.

It's been quite a few years, and I've picked up quite a few tattoos since those first ones. I've seen and done things that I never thought I'd do, I lost my virginity at the age of fifteen. I had my first drink when I was fourteen. I've slept on beds of nails, lain with snakes, and done other interesting things. And it's all thanks to my family. They are my home, my family, my loves, and my grave. I would die for them, and I would kill for them. We're all going to die in the end anyway, what's a murder between friends?

ANYTHING ELSE ?

Out in the garden where we planted the seeds
There is a tree that's old as me
Branches were sewn by the color of green
Ground had arose and passed its knees

OUT OF CHARACTER .

FACE CLAIM .

RICK GENEST • CORNELIUS ZOMBIE BOY BONES

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am legit a fancy pants cat. No lie, like, if you think I'm lying, you catta be kitten me right meow, because that's just rude. Hit me up by pm if you wanna talk to me, or ask for my oovoo if you wanna get ~*personal*~

CODEWORD . odair