Douglas Sepulveda ➤ 6 ➤ fin

chelsey
District Mayor

[M:-650]

728 POSTS
Pronouns: she/her
last seen Jul 2, 2016 17:22:46 GMT -5

queen of inactivity

Douglas Sepulveda ➤ 6 ➤ fin Dec 14, 2013 23:03:29 GMT -5

Post by chelsey on Dec 14, 2013 23:03:29 GMT -5

Name: Douglas Sepulveda
Age: 25
Gender: Male
District/Area: District 6
Appearance:

(GRAHAM MY LOVE WHY DID REGINA KILL YOU SHE MIGHT AS WELL HAVE RIPPED OUT MY OWN HEART ~~two seasons of ouat later and still sobbing over graham's death.~~..

[/s])[/blockquote]Personality:

he thinks he's funny

History:

~~just pretend she said douglas, not graham lol~~

gremma aka my otp until i die <33333433

"How were they comatized?: A motorcycle accident, it was a thunder storm just after a dry spell and the roads were slick and wet, his bike skid and he hit a tree.

How are they coping?: Doug really wants to find his girl, who he just got engaged with right before his little accident. However, he's going to eventually find out that she got married while he was in a coma, and is currently pregnant. Generally, he's a tough guy who prides himself for his bad boy attitude and worn out leather jackets. He's cranky and has a quick tongue and is your typical "bad guy" with good intentions. He was also a tattoo artist before he got knocked out, and his arms and parts of his chest are covered in ink."

Codeword: odair
Comments/Other:

Rook's coma plot

Last Edit: Feb 4, 2014 3:49:40 GMT -5 by chelsey

"Isn't this the point of being young?"

^ bless avalon's soul ^

chelsey
District Mayor

[M:-650]

728 POSTS
Pronouns: she/her
last seen Jul 2, 2016 17:22:46 GMT -5

queen of inactivity

Douglas Sepulveda ➤ 6 ➤ fin Dec 27, 2013 2:45:31 GMT -5

Post by chelsey on Dec 27, 2013 2:45:31 GMT -5

[presto]

"But, I am sure that
you'll keep living
and breathing
until this world turns over."
◀◀ ◼ ▶▶

[/presto]D O U G L A S
S E P U L V E D A
DISTRICT6 | TWENTYFIVE | MALE
_______________________

I REMEMBER that I'm famished when the rumbling of the clouds echoes from a mile away. The clash of thunder stumbling behind the hills is what reminds me of the storm in my own mind - as if I could forget in this weather. Edith told me once that the rain can make a man go crazy with hunger, and that the darkness starves him. I don't know what she meant, but I don't know what a lot of the pretty things she says mean, either. Oh, but she's very pretty, too, with her golden hair and tiny lips and gray eyes that glisten like a wet sidewalk. Whenever I look at her, I think of drizzle.

That isn't good enough, though - being in love isn't drizzle. It is storms and hurricanes and typhoons that no one could ever endure. If I were a poet, I'd say that life is a cloudless, blue horizon that we all get bored of eventually, so we spend our lives searching for a storm to fill in the empty gaps. And when the storm comes, well, the only thing we can do is wrap a raincoat around our torsos, tuck the hood tightly over our heads, and thank our lucky stars we lived long enough to see one.

I'm not a poet though; I'm a tattoo artist. They're both kinda the same - we both use ink to make art. Although, for some reason, certain people usually call my work more controversial than poems.

Tonight, purple lightning ripples across the sky. For a flicker of a second, the darkness veiling the road lifts like the veil of a bride on her wedding day. Its electricity seems to glare against the lens of my helmet, and the thunder makes my motorcycle's engine sound like a kitten. But, as soon as it came, it drops again and the streets are widowed. Maybe a broken person, who is already used to darkness from their entire life, can navigate the roads better than I am, right now.

Shit. That lightning bolt seems to flash closer every time it strikes the sky. What was that my science teacher said about lightning and metal? Or is that just me being paranoid?

If I were struck by lightning, I'd tattoo the purple voltage scars on my skin like a web crawling down the expanse of my torso and back. Life is a story of survival, not one of hiding behind sealed windows when a storm rolls in. And, yes, maybe saying that is just a desperate attempt to convince myself that my foolishness tonight is wisdom and my vulnerability is strength. Besides, what's a story without a few scars?

Shit. If I die tonight, if I get struck by lightning, Edith is going to kill me -

If. It sounds like such a dirty word. It's right up there with my list of words that leave a bitter taste on my tongue, like cheap wine or grape medicine. If, if, if, say it enough times and it sounds like cotton you'd stuff your ears with. It's such a tantalizing word, a temptress in the wake of tragedy, a seduction scandal amidst a black and white society. It sounds so pretty at first, doesn't it? It teeter-totters over the precipice of yes and no, and, often, many find themselves hoping it will lean towards the side of yes. "If" is such a dirty word because it keeps people hoping when there should be no more hope.

If I die, if I live, if I had the common sense an hour ago to not step foot into this damned storm, if, if, if . . . It's addicting.

Shit, shit, shit. I can't see anything. The road is going in circles, and I can't see anything, and why are my headlights blinking? Look at the road, Douglas, goddammit. That lightning bolt is getting closer.

Edith always said rain makes a man go crazy with hunger, and that darkness can starve him. I have both. And if darkness can make you aware of anything, it is of your own self-deprecation.

By god, is that a tree? -

I REMEMBER that she kissed me like she had bruised lips. In the beginning, she told me that she was scared of falling in love because falling usually led to breaking, and she was tired of collecting shards of herself from off the ground. I could see the fissures in her skin; I could see the cracks from where her armor had chipped before. When I told her I wouldn't hurt her, it seemed like she retreated further within the caverns of her sheltered mind (like my words made her fears root even deeper within her hollowed out chest), and every time I reached inward she would pull back. But, this wasn't a cat and dog chase - this was Edith, my lovely girl, Edith. She loved me, I knew it, she must've, because she told me she did and why would she agree to marry me if she didn't? She asks a lot of questions, though - a lot of questions like Are you sure we should get married? Are you sure this is right for us? Are you sure you won't regret it? Are you sure? Are you sure? Are you sure? But, she knows - oh, she knows - how sure I am. I think when she asks those questions - when she doubts - I'm not the one she's really speaking to.

But she loves me, she must love me, I know she does.

I REMEMBER that when my father died, I kicked his tombstone after the funeral and shattered the fibula bone in my foot. I was 19 years old and thought that cladding my heart in iron was being strong, but it was just plain, goddamned stupid. I thought masculinity shriveled when my lips quivered while they lowered the coffin into the ground; I thought strength paled at the sight of me planting white roses on his grave. It took a while for my foot to heal, but even longer for my spirit to heal. The moment that I accepted that I, indeed, had a spirit was the moment my synthetic ideals of "masculinity" and "strength" disintegrated like the dust in my father's empty closet. It hurt having a broken spirit, and maybe that's why I pretended I didn't have one for a long time, but eventually scars form and they fade away, until one day you run a finger over the streak of slightly paler, scarred skin, and you wonder why you ever once thought you couldn't survive.

I REMEMBER the day I bought my motorcycle, five years ago. They don't make 'em like they used to, anymore - and when I say used to, I'm talking about the burly, metallic, and thundering bikes that are eternalized in photo books and old magazines no one's bothered to throw away. My boss from the tattoo parlor called me to the back of the shop, and there it was.

In no way did it command the same powerful grandeur as the ones in all of the pictures do, but it was a working motorcycle that came for an okay price - even with all the rust on it. How in the hell could anyone expect me to pass it up?

I sat on the black leather bound seat and whistled. "Damn. Why would you want to sell this beauty? You don't even see machines like this, anymore."

My boss rubbed the back of his head. "My wife thinks... it's dangerous. Something like that. Whatever, are you in or what, Doug?"

"Hell yeah I'm in!"

"Would the missus be okay with you buying it?"

"Who, Edith? Oh please, she'd probably be the one riding it most of the time."

"Okay, well it's yours then. Just, listen to me -"

"- uh huh -"

"- Be careful while you're riding it. It's a beaut, but it is old and you needa make sure to step hard on the brakes, because sometimes... they, uh, well, you know, it's an old -"

"I can see why your wife thinks it's dangerous."

"Shut up, Doug," he laughed a little. "Just - just don't be an idiot, okay? If you hit a tree and die or something, I'd lose my best tattoo artist, here."

This time, it was my turn to laugh.

I REMEMBER thunder cracking against the sky, as if it was God's voice himself threatening to break the universe in half and rip the Earth open into a deep chasm. Anyone who caused this storm must've really pissed the Big Guy off.

"We should dance."

I peek my head out from behind the door that connects our kitchen to our living room. Edith is sitting on the couch, a goofy pair of glasses that are too big for her face resting on top of her crooked nose, and a paper back book sitting on top of her crossed legs. Another clap of thunder shakes the frame of the window, and the sound reminds me of the rumbling of my own famished stomach.

"Right now?" She raises her eyebrow.

"Yeah, outside!"

"Outside? In that storm?"

"Oh, c'mon Edith, you sound so posh," I say, a smile on my face as I watch her shake her head and avert her attention back to her book.

"No, I sound sensible."

"If we're getting married in a week, I think you should get used to this spontaneity."

"Oh, trust me, I'm already much used to it." She thinks I can't see it, but a faint smile grows on her lips when she says it. When she catches me still standing on the doorway, staring at her with another stupid smile on my face, she rolls her eyes. "Oh, what now?"

"Nothing, just admiring the view."

"God, that was horrible."

"You think it's great that I'm so cheesy."

She doesn't respond, but, instead, brings her book up to hold in front of her face, effectively covering any emotion that's plastered against it. She does things like that a lot; she hides her emotions. She has too many layers wrapped around her, and every time I try to peel them back I only end up finding more. After a while, I learned to be patient and let her do the peeling herself. I don't know who was the boy who made her like this - who carved cracks in her armor and made her feel vulnerable when pieces of herself seeped through those cracks - but, whoever it is, I hope that I'll at least be the boy to make her forget him.

Anyway, I go back inside the kitchen to continue (unsuccessfully) rummaging around the fridge. When all I can manage to find are some bruised apples and a carton of juice, I walk out into the living room and grab my jacket off of the coat hanger.

Edith raises her head from her book to look at me. "You're going out? It's storming like a bitch out there."

"I think I'm gonna buy some food, do you want anything?"

I REMEMBER being famished. Every few seconds, the sky is electrocuted and purple fills the horizons. For a split second, I can see everything - and then it is dark again.

Somewhere up ahead, the road curves and the wheels of my bike begin to skid. The sound screeches against my ears like how the lightning whips against the night sky.

I feel my body lurch forward, like a rope is tied around my torso and jolting me out of my seat. The last thing I see is Edith's lips. She's trying to tell me something, but I can't hear her.

A man with tattooed arms and a bright smile stands at the altar with his arms crossed behind him. Next to him is another man that looks like an older version of him. The older man has a white rose in the lapel of his suit pocket. Soft piano music is gently playing in the background.

Down the aisle walks a woman dawned in white. She is alone. Her face is veiled, but her golden hair peeks from beneath the chiffon fabric. As she walks closer, her footsteps sound like drizzle.

The older man becomes restless. He fixes his tie. He taps his shoe. He sighs. The younger man looks at him, a bit dazed (like coming out of a dream), but he is still smiling.

"She's not the one, Doug."

The younger man turns back to the woman in white. However, it seems like she is even farther from the altar than she was a few moments ago. The younger man's smile begins to fade.

"She's not the one, Doug."

"What do you mean? Why do you keep saying that?"

"She's not the one."

The woman in white is further away now. She is still walking towards them, but with every step she seems to go backward, and backward, and backward.

"She's not the one, Doug."

Frustration punctures the younger man as the woman continues to walk down the aisle, but she never quite makes it the altar. He wants to walk down to her - tug her along beside him - but feels like that would only repel her more.

"She's not the one."

The music fades away until it is completely silent. How long have they been standing there? The younger man's throat feels dry. She is still far away, but he can still see her. She is a white dot in the middle of a chasm of pews and carpet. He likes to think she is smiling.

Suddenly, she is right before him, again, so close he just needs to reach his hand out and touch her. He moves his hand from his side and -

In the silence, there is a crash.

"We thought we'd lost you there for a second. Welcome back."

"Where did I go?"

Foreign voices laugh. They feel so far away.

"This might be a little hard for you to take in, right now. Especially at your state," one of the foreign voices say. "But, I'll fill you in as much as I can, okay? You're in District Six, Panem. Remember?"

He tries to look back at any former knowledge, but everything seems foggy.

His silence confirms his lack of memory for them. "Don't worry. It'll come back to you eventually, but for now, try to focus on what I'm saying. Your name is Douglas Sepulveda. You've been in a coma for almost two years."

"It was a nasty motorcycle accident," says the other voice, casually and detached, like he's said these kinds of things thousands of times before.

The man just nods, not understanding what other reaction he should be giving. In all honesty, he'd rather go back to sleep, see the girl in white and speak to the man with the white roses. The bright lights in the room make his eyes sting.

"This place is called Solitude. A bunch of coma patients are hospitalized here." When he turns his head, more asleep bodies are laying down beside him in parallel beds. Although every centimeter of his stiff body ached with a lack of movement from the past year, looking at the strangers in the beds next to him made him feel hollow inside. "Some don't ever wake up, so you're one of the luckier ones."

It sure as hell didn't feel like it.

He doesn't think about the lady in white until a month later.

They told him the memories would come back. Slowly, like adult teeth filling in the gaps that baby teeth leave. He thinks he remembers someone telling him once that darkness can starve a man, because no one knows how truly dark he is until he is starved of his own memories.

He was sitting by the window when it happened. There was a lightning storm, but he was staring at the wall and watching the shadow patterns that the raindrops made against the surface. It was only 2 PM, but the black rainstorm blinded everything outside and made the sky look like night. Then, in a quick, tarnished, and miniscule second, the sky lit up bright purple. He saw everything, before it faded away back to black.

The nurses found him hours later, wandering the hospital's hallways with a crazed look in his eyes. His movements were jittery, and his hands clenched into fists, like he was scared that if they loosened he'd lose something he was trying to hold onto.

"Douglas? What's wrong?"

"It's Doug," he replied, breathless. They stared at him. "I remember."

Last Edit: Feb 4, 2014 3:48:17 GMT -5 by chelsey

"Isn't this the point of being young?"

^ bless avalon's soul ^

chelsey District Mayor [M:-650] 728 POSTS Pronouns: she/her last seen Jul 2, 2016 17:22:46 GMT -5 queen of inactivity	Douglas Sepulveda ➤ 6 ➤ fin Feb 4, 2014 3:49:50 GMT -5 Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by chelsey on Feb 4, 2014 3:49:50 GMT -5 ok finished i guess idk the ending is super rushed but whatver
	"Isn't this the point of being young?" ^ bless avalon's soul ^

✨ Advertiser 8,136 POSTS Pronouns: she/her last seen Apr 19, 2024 17:24:18 GMT -5 bloomtodeath	Douglas Sepulveda ➤ 6 ➤ fin Feb 4, 2014 4:08:57 GMT -5 Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by ✨ on Feb 4, 2014 4:08:57 GMT -5 Perfection.
	“and men said that the blood of the stars flowed in her veins.”