Randolph Williams - D2 {done}

Randolph Nigel Williams
Seventeen
District Two
Straight
Career/Poet
Wealthy
Afraid

Arching upwards Randolph Williams has always appeared to be taller than he actually was, especially when he was trying to prove himself to be worthy. His actual figure ranged from about six foot two inches to six foot two and a half. He wasn't the tallest of all of his friends, but he liked to believe himself to be the alpha-male. He certainly carried himself this way, head carefully balanced upon wide-square shoulders and feet boosting him upward just a bit with the slightest of heels. Randolph always wore fancy dress shoes, even when he was doing something that may not be wise for such attire.

He would never care about ruining something because he could afford to replace anything and everything that broke. He wasn't afraid to hold this reality above the heads of others. He often found ways to insert his wealth into the blunt of any conversation, regardless of what it was about. It made him appear more respectable, and of course he wanted to share it with everyone. "M-my father works as a ba-ba-banker for the w-wealthy families of District Twooo," the pompous boy would tell anyone and everyone who listened. "He's w-w-worked there since he w-was a teenager, although he could afford-d-d not to. Even-t-t-tually, they were so impressed with h-him that they promoted him to Sss-ss-senior Manager of his b-b-branch. That brought in the b-big bucks. He's never even had to rely on my... my...um... my g-g-grandparents for money, we've always h-had it in abundance. I heard a rumor that he on-on-once got p-paid in two big, black pots f-full of hundred dollar b-b-bills. They wanted to make an impression, I su-suppose."

If ever inquired on his inheritance, Randolph would never shut up. "My g-g-grandfather has gone off the rr-rr-rocker re-cent-ly, and when he d-dies, I'm set to in-inherit a g-generous portion of his es...estate. Not all of it, of c-c-course, I have to share-re that with my l-li-little sister. But a goo-oo-ood enough p-portion. I s-suppose I'll be rather wealthy w-when I am living on my own."

Randolph tries to look handsome as much as possible, and perhaps this is why he can be so arrogant. His hair is dark and simple, nothing extraordinary but his none the less. On a normal day he combs it a couple times and moves on, occasionally dawning white rimmed glasses that could only make him look smarter to his peers. (He wasn't as smart as them, he knew that but he would never say so.)

He sports two almond shape eyes, dark brown in color, but of course they look almost black to the average viewer. They come across as unnerving, mainly because his eyelashes are barely there and he spends so much time trying to seduce the world with his forlorn gaze. He wants them to take pity on him, but his sadness is only faked. The expensive jackets and pressed button ups he adorns himself with, even at school, reveal who he truly is. Rich and full-of-himself, and certainly not one to be consoled.

Yet Randolph tries to milk the lost dog act, mainly to get into women's pants but also to make people build him up. He likes to stick out a thick lip and pull the corners of his mouth down into his yellow-tinted cheeks, those big, blatant eyes boring into the considerate side of whoever he has chosen to victimize. "S-show me your l-l-love, I just n-need to hear how you f-f-feel about m-mee," he would say to the one he was pursuing. Of course, his motive was always manipulation, and he didn't choose to prey on somebody unless they had something good to give him.

It was never actually love he sought. Just respect, admiration, prestige. He never sought after those who could defend themselves, for he was afraid of being painted as a failure. No, he took off after the weak and vulnerable, yet the mighty in status. He couldn't count the number of girls he had pulled into his bed with him, wrapping them in his medium arms and smothering them with his false love until they admitted that he truly was their king, despite all of his flaws and insecurities.

Nobody was able to tame the dark side of a boy so strong-willed, but that was mainly because he was self-conscious and all too protective of his own hyde. If his friends ever learned the motives behind his stuttering actions and criss-crossed words (of which he had many, his voice hardly came out as clear as he wanted), they would question his reason for even joining the group. He could provide a good ear if necessary, mainly because he felt it better not to speak, and as a result he won himself into the secrets of the group. He would not hesitate to betray their lawless antics and open discussion if it would bring him more influence, but the opportunity did not arise and it did not seem like it would anytime in the future.

Though strong in some parts of his outward look, Randolph was incredibly weak. Maybe that was why he was so determined to prove himself as better than the ones he surrounded himself with. The constant puttering stops within his words chokes him night and day, and he has tried endlessly to put a stop to the repeating syllables in his voice. It makes reading his poetry aloud an overly vulnerable activity, and he shies away from doing it unless absolutely forced to. He rather his friends read his words in silence and pretend that they did not come from the pen of one who had no ability to speak clearly.

At least he was not Halcyon, who couldn't even speak the words she had chosen if she had wanted to. Perhaps that is why she was the only one Randolph ever respected... he knew what she was going through in her struggle to find her voice, and he spent many a day trying to coach her. Of course, his own broken phrases did nothing to aid anyone, and so he could only convey his true feelings through his writing.

Randolph Williams was always the odd one out of the group. At just seventeen years old he had already tasted the want for power. It consumed his thoughts and turned his heart to ash. He does not care for trifle matters, nor will he accept the responsibility of other peoples well-being. The only time he is willing to step out of his own self-protective bubble is when he is trying to gain something big for himself.

He writes because he wants glory bestowed on him, not because of any other noble motive. The society is his first and only audience and without their admiration he would be reduced to nothing. A mere speck of dust in the canvas of life and time. Randolph shudders to think of what ill fate would befall him if even the society rejected his ludicrous attempts to climb the popularity ladder. If such forgotten, hopeless souls failed to shower him in his honored praise and compliments, he would never be able to handle the rest of the world.

The rest of the world is what he had yet to conquer, but his dream of esteem and distinction never could be too far from his grasp. Randolph held himself in great validity in District Two, and surely there was nobody worthy of surpassing him. After all, he was their ruler (even if only in the safety of his head), and one day they would bow to his prestige presence.