Frost Jackson D5

Angelic curls flounder over one-another in lines of pristine blonde, their whitened mass akin to the pale-moon when undisturbed by clouds or the thick black-smog resident to the district. Rarely tampered with they often lay naturally around a square jaw, tickling the flesh with each stroke from a passing wind. Mischievous eyes, so often set alight by cunning delight and clenched with humour, mirror the versatile colouring of moss, the outline darker than the inner-circle with a varied collaboration melting into one exotic burst. There’s a certain warmth that radiates from those gentle leafy tones, a childish innocence that reflects the immaturity often shown by the width of his effortless smile and the ease in which laughter floats contently from the tip of his tongue. The center-piece of his features would be his downfall if he had the capacity or vanity to truly obsess over his looks, for the thinning length of his nose and the triangular point that proves a little too defined in comparison to the butter-wouldn’t-melt appearance upon the rest of his rather cherubic features, is definitely no the most attractive attribute.

Lean, Frost’s physique resembles something both tall and finely shaped, the light definition on fairly pronounced muscles only prominent due to the amount of outdoor physical activity participated in. Standing at 5’10, the gentle-faced boy often appears even taller due to the slenderness of his figure in correlation with the length of his frame. Outstretched arms, when studied closely, have an exquisite collection of trophies from past adventures, several scars decorate the complexion of his skin, some gained by tumbling from tree-tops and others from simply being a little too careless and playing a little too roughly. Similar memories litter the lining of his legs and appear upon his torso when caught in the right light, one he is particularly proud of being a triangular shaped v branded onto his shoulder blade after a companion initiated a dare than went spectacularly wrong.

Mischievous by nature, the boy with an air of innocent-naivety has always managed to land himself in trouble in the name of fun. From the moment he was old enough to hold something in the midst of his miniature fist and gain enough momentum to throw whatever object that was in his possession at a passing person from the comfort of his mother’s arms to stir up a little excitement, he has floundered over the line of harmlessly innocent to dangerous antics. With this mindset Frost has never paid much heed to a specific social code of conduct or wasted much energy in becoming acquainted with rules and regulations. Often participating in socially unacceptable acts, like throwing water out of his window at passersby or loosening the foundation of a classmate’s seat to the point of collapse, Frost is well versed in the lectures of right and wrong, acceptable and unacceptable behaviour.

A certain care-free demeanor has developed since the frosty-haired boy plowed into his teenage years. Unlike most, Frost prefers to steer away from matters of importance, preferring not to involve himself with conversations that contain too much seriousness, even though he is actually perfectly capable of being rational and responsible in very rare moments and occasions. However despite this self-proclaimed carelessness, the easy-going bright-eyed youngster has a fear which often provokes his antics and encourages his attention-seeking outbursts and hazardous acts. This fear is simply the thought of being invisible, unnoticed and under-appreciated. There’s something in the core of Frost’s heart that trembles when someone chooses to ignore his existence, a defining ache which spreads like wildfire through his center and nags intolerably at his brain to remain in the spotlight, to try and give reasons for people to remember his name, to know exactly who Frost Jackson is without the worry that in a few passing years he’ll altogether be forgotten, and be nothing but a crumbling, faded memory.

Amongst all Frost’s questionable flaws, including the ease in which he becomes distracted and the lightness in which he takes even the most devastating situation, Frost is a loyal companion and in the end would sacrifice anything to protect the ones he cares most about, no matter the cost, consequence or repercussions it might have on his own welfare.

You know that place between sleep and awake,
The place where you can still remember dreaming
That's where I'll always love you
That’s where I’ll be waiting.


Cold.


So Cold.


Frost smothered upon the world in a layer of white, leaves crooked and bent with the weight of the snow doubled over in feeble positions, forced to bow beneath their coat of ice. Blurred eyes scrunched into narrowed slits peering helplessly through the mixture of black smog and silver mist see nothing but smeared shapes and colorful blurs as aimless figures trudge through the chill in some mechanic march, walking to work, to food, to family. But somewhere afar from the sound of heavy boots plunging into thick-ice, sheltered from the wind howling down from the North and battering the rooftops with vindictive might, sat a solitary man with a face full of sorrow and a somber mouth in the center of lonely room. There was a feeble fire lit in the corner, the ambers struggling to stay alive as they stood neglected in their ruin, the crackling click of protesting sparks overshadowed by the whimpers of an infant, a small-pale looking creature with hair of white wrapped in a blanket on a shaggy rug with one too many stains.

The man didn’t seem to hear the soft soulful cries of the tyke, and with his face stained a flushing pink and his eyes swollen with a reddened glow the pair simply wallowed in their misery, in their beginning. It wasn’t Frost’s fault, not really. He hadn’t killed his mother on purpose, he was just a boy, a little-harmless infant with apologetic eyes and a bright golden smile. But for those first few months his father couldn’t quite forgive him, not straight away, not for being the cause of his wife’s death, for the sudden heartache in his life. But eventually time provided what was needed and that wound within his father’s heart slowly began to mend, knitting itself back together day after day, slowly but surly. But Frost never would forget it.. that inexplainable feeling of being invisible... of being ignored.

Being alone however wasn’t a common problem, not once the boy’s father returned to work, for in his absence Frost was placed in the care of another and found himself as the constant companion of a girl named Toothiana. They couldn’t walk, and they could barely talk, but there was a mutual understanding, a softness that Frost instantly felt compelled to acknowledge. Before he even knew what friendship was he was well-aware he’d found it and had no desire of ever letting it go. Within weeks others joined their playgroup, children who had parents too preoccupied with work to spend their time caring for their offspring, children like Frost.

It was within this group Frost developed his incessant need to cause mischief. It began with little things, spilling drinks on Bunnymund to give the impression he’d wet himself or unlocking the door and trudging out to give everyone a heart-attack when they realized the jungle-eyed boy had wandered off and could almost be considered missing, if of course his curly-hair wasn’t so often spotted bouncing behind the bush he’d chosen as his hiding-place. The more people told him no, the more the young boy became obsessed with committing whatever forbidden deed he’d been ordered not to do, he’d eat whatever was declared untouchable, it was a compulsion that brought-forth his own laughter and often stirred the rebellious side of those around him. But of course it was all harmless, to him it was fun, it was all one huge game and he was winning.

With age came wisdom, but not maturity. Whilst the rest of his companions seemed to develop a sense of righteousness or seriousness, Frost lingered in his care-free mindset, unwilling to let the ease in which all things came with his careless attitude go for something as depressing as being sensible or thoughtful. Or more rightfully in his mind plain boring. There was something far more euphoric in being severed from the problematic, complex situations of people who thought a little too much and concentrated a little too long on things that were a waste of time, a waste of opportunity and just downright a waste of life. Although there were occasions, rare and documented for blackmail usage by Nick, where Frost delved a little deeper into his compassionate side and grew up if just for a moment or two to help another, to give perhaps a little advice or offer the warmth of his hand for a consoling squeeze and offer a smile that didn’t make people question what nefarious plan he’d concocted in the labyrinth of his playful mind.