Shiep Bo-Oslo Maree of District 6 [Fin]

This is a picture of me. Sorry it's in black-and-white. [Does it really matter to you? This way, you can't get me on the grounds of exact color.] Pay no attention to the girl right there. She got in the way of the camera, and I was trying to look away - as you can see where my irises are directed at. [I swear to the lord above she took off her clothes first! That doesn't exactly matter; at least I got the camera after she left.] If you can tell, I'm pretty young-looking; and, I guess to not be lazy about detailing my appearance, I'll talk about all the nitty-gritty spot on me. [Except for the nether regions. Only for the ladies. Sorry, sorry, gentle men. Out of reach for ya.]

I'd like to start from the top. Meaning my face. [Who seriously wants to know my feet first? And don‘t use this information against me. I‘ll still do the same thing like I said in the Name section if you do.] I can't say I'm actually that cute or handsome, in all honesty. [Play it modest. That's right.] The chin's a plateau than a hilltop or mountain; and, once my body ceases forming from the effects of the puberty and adolescence stages, the flatness will expand, I can guarantee. Results are from my cheeks showing great promise in narrowing, of course.-- Oh! Forgot to mention that my skin - for the most part - is an orange like a... peach? Because I like to go outside, its bound of happen. Anyways, while we're on the subject of the lower section of my face - as will be this so-called paragraph's main focus - I'll throw in my lips and cheeks, if you don't mind. [Hehe.] I'll gladly admit my mouth is puffy and fat. [All the more for snogging, I'd say.] Dip them in a vat of crushed rose petals and let them dye; that is what I can truly say for what the color is. It's pink but more of a reddish pink, in my eye. [Not that I have a problem with pink; but, need to be exact so I won't be getting little girls saying, "Oh my gosh! I love pink!" and it's that extremely light shit.] Teeth - with our finances - stink, to be put bluntly. I mean... a few are crooked and the two fronts are giant; it's not pleasant at all. If you pinch my cheeks, you will - obviously - grab some fat; I haven't had enough of a lifetime for them to shrink." [But I'm getting there, ladies~.]

Let’s move on to the upper half. As I am properly - and probably - a descendant of the white Anglo-Saxon people dating back past Panem (I learned this in school just by raiding textbooks), my nose is straight. Normal nostrils. Well, yes, there is a bump at the end, but don’t let that distract you in the least bit. Proceeding: all hair follicles are brown. I’d say bistre in darkness, auburn normally, and sepia under a good amount of sunlight, but I’ll get more in-depth about hair details in a sec. Going to talk about my eyes right now. [Anyone‘s best feature. Really.] They’re just as dark as my hair, in actuality, and nothing’s wrong with them. These orbs are going to keep looking at you straight in the face. [Unless, of course, I’m going to play innocent and bashful.] Bushy but narrow eyebrows placed above the eyes, that’s the way it is. Last thing to note is that my ears are hidden by my hair, but they’re just regular, non-protruding organs of hearing. Kind of swoops down at the lobe; nothing special.

Hair details - except coloring - is next. Not to repeat myself about the shading, I’ll detail my strands based on texture, proper hygiene protocol, style, and overall thickness. If you were to rake your fingers through my hair [which I don’t suggest you do unless you’re Carme], you’d be able to tell it has a feeling akin to an oil-greased wheel. Why do I say that? You see, the orphanage can’t afford such commodities all the time, so we have to preserve the goods - like soap and water - to a certain level so everyone can enjoy an equal share. [Not to say that the water is a good amount after where the children went.] We get about three minutes of hot water - some go even when the water’s cold - and a fraction of a single soap bar. [Degrading.] But excuse me and be patient, please, for I digress. Okay, so, I don’t have the best hair for touching, however I do try to wash it under the three gracious[ly pitiful] minutes we get with fastness. We go under this schedule of switching off between two or three days for the shower. [Don’t it make you pity me? Even a little? Well, I don’t care for your pity; just your money.] My hairstyle is just what I wake up with, really; I brush it towards my face and leave it at that. Not a fan of having outrageous shapes and forms. Now that I got through three of the matters I said I would, going to the last now: thickness. My hair is certainly a wonder of puffy and waviness, and I’d say it’s thick like wool. [Haha. Laugh it up, folks.] It’s what Carme and Pascere [Grrr...] used to say when they looked at it.

Um... this will be short as well. I just want to point out about my acne problems: since I'm coming into adolescence and puberty, of course I'm going to exhibit any average pre-teen physical features concerning breakouts. On average, a rough estimate of ten pimples encompass my face - which I don't try to pop, mind you. [In all truthfulness - which is saying a lot from me - popped boils look gross and really adds attention to red areas; so, no, not doing that.] It's awfully funny when a boy puts on make-up - cover-up, as Carme called it - so I just let nature do its thing while I wash my face. The best I can do. Erm... there are some breakouts in the chest and shoulder areas, but my attire covers those up.

Proceeding briefly on my torso section: shoulders are becoming broad, arms are flimsy from exercise-deprivation, general skin here is a tad paler than what I had given before, but it won't be that noticeable. Thinkers don't exactly concentrate on buffing muscles. [But we can't be just papers to the wind, for how could we kill with those kinds of arms?] Yes, I like to play, so I'm not that weak; but, they aren't some athlete's limbs. Got some hair follicles here and there; not forests, that's for sure. Because I'm an orphan, my nails have tendencies to obtain grime under the nails, which you can see me, in class, trying to get rid of - to no avail. [Once I get enough money, that's when I'll be getting myself a frickin' nail specialist; to purge the ever-living crap out of dirt.]

Same with the arms, the legs reserve some potential for exertion, yet they are not anywhere near being powerhouses. Why? I don't see much to do than the usual running and horseplay that children need to mess around with; I probably do the required energy expenditure for my age. [Any more, I probably couldn't concoct plans as well.] Skin is just about the usual peachy-orange, and the feet are bleached slightly due to being underneath layers of sock and shoe most - if not all - times. My toenails are cut (forgot to mention that my fingernails are as well) but hold dirt. Hopefully it won't go to fungi and jam, but, yes, I also have that problem as well. Least they don't stink. Can definitely say they don't stink.

Clothes? I have a very small selection. [Oh, how laughable.] When you live in the orphanage, you can't afford everything, like I explained earlier about the showers. You know, it's... it's hard. My choices are limited to hand-me-downs from the older children, and I can't be that picky. A lot have irreparable holes; and, if some were fixed, they're patched up with awkward colors and designs. One pair of jeans, for example, has a red cloth with green polka dots. I guess what I can say is what I do prefer on a general basis. I'll just put it out there early enough to say that my 5'3 height is too small for the older children; so, more often than not, all articles will be baggy until I, myself, grow out of them. Carme says I might be 6'2 by the time I'm done having a spurt.

For the top-part, I like hoodies and t-shirts. Yea, it's the standard; but, see, it's very practical. If your arms are hot, you just roll up the sleeves; if you're just hot altogether, remove the extra layer and laze about in a t-shirt. Unfortunately, though, borrowed clothing also means they aren't designer wear. They don't give much leeway to designs and intricate stitching. [What a waste of money.] The colors are singular; coupled with the usual stains, my clothes are - frankly - unappealing to the average eye. Expect to still see lots of tear despite having patched spots. [Ugh. These are so not fit for someone like me. Perhaps if I earn ten more coins, I can finally afford those nicer clothes...]

Bottom section, it's the typical bleached-out, crispy jeans and tattered tennis shoes. Black footwear, I like better than others; they're cool but also reserved. I can't trust the pockets of my jeans all the time, as they can have holes large enough for items to fall through. Must have pockets. Must. I may not be particularly picky because of our little budget, but I specifically want pants with pockets, and I'll even deny any that don't.

Um... accessories? I got a couple things I wear that aren't that necessary. I have these [stolen] black gloves that are used for extensive work. With my black - and dull - shoes, they complement each other; and, to me, these two make it look like I have hooves. Other than these gloves, I have nothing else of value; I don't even have a real accessory. Carme tried to give me a necklace that belonged to Pascere, but I wouldn't take it. [I don't want anything from that old man. Not even an apology gift.]

I'm not exactly that strong when it comes to issues that prove to be detrimental to the orphanage and myself. True, I won't start bawling like a baby and curl up in a pitiful ball if something bad would happen, but I'll become sad and detached. Might even become desperate. Perhaps you can't get this weakness from the way I talk sometimes - a mixture of an adult's and a child's - but you have to understand that I'm just not that much of a tough guy. I flinch when I'm about to be punched by an elder; I flee when the situation is not great. Overall... my emotional and physical sides are not the best of my character. [It's so much fun being the weak child, after all.]

[If you guys could get that, that was total BS. A 12-year old most certainly can't be some pitiful boy that is disheartened at the drop of a pin, right? How can one be emotionally frail if I find distinct amusement for taking control of people so clueless that their parents must have purposefully killed their brains? It's so easy to do it. A placebo pill for minor services, they do all my work for me. It's so pleasurable that it and probably is should be a sin. Sins are nice.]

My intelligence far exceeds other beings, so the school nurse and others have said. A prodigy level, one that can master complex materials and is physically capable of playing difficult pieces of music. I can retain a lot of information and store for later use. I may not have the materials or finances to do lots of experimentation and projects, but the intention should be good enough, yea? Methods to gain more money for the orphanage were found a long time ago, but it would require less free time and a decrease in getting necessary chores done, which is a big no-no at the place.

[So I say that, but I mean I won't have enough time to concoct plans and learning [doing new things. I'm no prank, don't get me wrong; my mental blueprints entail how to persuade ignorant others and get the things I want. I don't do things purely for giggles. As to the learning and doing new things, I didn't get much enjoyment just be reading textbooks-- well, that's not entirely true. I did at one point; however, I discovered that doing and experiencing the events had an interactive fun twist to them, so I prefer to do than to read. Oh... mm... I could relive that again... yeah... Oh, I'll get to that later. Man, that was the best thing ever in my life.]

Can someone love another without having no real reason to? I don't mean this between friends - I always know why I do for them - but Carme is... different. I don't exactly pinpoint why I like her; but, what I do know is that it's supposedly wrong for me and her. I mean... she could possibly pass as my mom or aunt. Is that entirely wrong?

[Carme has a hot figure, if I say so myself; yet, I don't exactly know why I love her. Obsessing about her every day, wanting to just ravish and covet that body. Ha! She's a goody-goody with bad morals, and that's not a turn-on to me. There are many qualities I know she has, yet I don't find those attractive. It has to be some love, but what? Mm... her bod is fine, though... Don't think it's bad to say that I think this every day: "I can always guarantee I will have solutions for her to stay with me."]

Honestly, I have a fear of elders. Especially older men. I'll explain this later; but, for now, I want to briefly discuss on my rational and irrational terrors. When I encounter older figures - I suppose those in their 60s and up and those that look like they're in their 60s - I start to tremble. My body shakes up, and I can't get rid of it. [It's such a nuisance, but I can't help it.] If they try to get near me, I would probably attempt escape or scream. As for my irrational fear... dogs. I don't know what it is about them, but any canine does the same effects, kicking in my fight-or-flight responses. [So stupid, but true. Those little four-legged creatures might kill me! Those sharp teeth...]

[Now here's a truth about me. From the bottom of my heart and my dishonest mind, ladies and gentlemen.] You know from above that I'm scared of dogs, yea? Well, canines, but anyways, I just don't like them. Get scared of them. You could be asking yourselves, "Well, what if someone were to save me from these beasts?" I'll tell you right here: I'd actually be appreciative back. [That means, for the most part, I do favors and don't mind to establish a more... lenient business. I guess you can say I'm actually kind here. Strange.]

So... um... what else to go into? I suppose how I like to enjoy the moment of doing activities and such. Simplistic nature, you might say; but, if I'm truly having fun, I'm having fun. I'm not going to be thinking about my unfortunate events, how Carme berated me earlier, or how the younger kids come crying to me for their troubles and think of ways to help them out. No. I'll toss out those notions for now and concentrate on enjoying what I'm doing, a sort of recreational period for my mind. Though I'll later think about what I neglected, it's better than to hamper the mood of good games, isn't it?

[It's very hard to tell what is real and just imaginary traits, huh? Oh whatever. You know, sometimes it's so hard to make such awfully difficult decisions. I solve any problematic issue by a number. Yep. Just a random number, from zero to 100. I'll set multiple decisions on numbers, sorting them by odds, evens, prime, square roots, powers, and etc. It's very practical if I can't really decide. Just lead my life to a bunch of numbers; but, of course, I also eliminate my choices to ones that aren't so... risky? So detrimental? Yes, those are the words. Much like on a multiple-choice section, I'll cross out ones I know wouldn't be absolutely ideal to my situation.]

I don't dress in nicer clothes, but that doesn't mean I'm poor. Er... 'poor'. I'm an established 'below-average' child, but I'm rich. I just hide it better. You might be asking yourself on where I hide all my riches, and it's pretty simple. But it's an absolute secret, I can't tell anyone. Not even Guy. [Well, then again, I never really trusted Guy. He may be my brother, but he's such a wise man. Let one thing slip, he's bound to figure it out.] So what kind of trait are you supposed to get out of this? Not trusting? A burrower of money? Clandestine? I-I suppose so.

[This is a great lead up to my favorite subject: money. God I love money. Makes the world go around, Panem is an abysmal hellhole of a money basket. When you have more than the average person, you control the lands. Now I know I probably won't be able to surpass those living in the Victory Square - I have no intention of that - but I do want the power. Money... money... It's the great escapism. Just having more is great; it doesn't matter if I want to spend it or not. Of course I will spend some. I'm not some frugal old man, but it's such a great feel. Especially if you trick others out of it. You can say I'm a fake, a thief, a con-artist. I'm not below to picking your pockets - as long I'm in the safe-zone.]

Talking... I like to talk. Like to make those connections with others and introduce myself, even when I'm selling something. Well, then again, you have to have some social skills to get what you want in selling products. Not like I have a bell to strike to grab people's attention. I wish I did, though! That would be cool! And I'll be really honest about the price.

[Mmhm... 'Honest', right. Okay. If 'honest' not saying there are tax fees but the price has been slightly shifted upwards from the original price. Now that I'm honest about. So I think you can get I'm a manipulative little prick that bluffs his way to get what he wants. Nothing wrong with that. You play hard to receive hard. (That's not meant to be dirty, sickos). Life is a money game: how far can you go before breaking in or becoming dirt poor that you don't even have enough toilet paper to wipe your butt; and, instead, you have to use your only pair of pants? Gross.]

Consequently, I'm pretty much influenced easily. I mean that I can get curious to try something like a drug or food if lightly tapped by people. These people, I'm defining, are my friends; strangers... no no no! I'm much more cautious around strangers and very wary of what they are offering me. What would happen if it was poison? I could die without knowing what it was like to have a family.

[The old me says that, the new me, right here, is a very calm fellow. I'm no influenced squirt; I'll play myself in a way that that controls others with ease. What is that method? Being nice? Now you must be thinking, "But, Shiep, criminals don't think like that!" Well, actually, they can; just that they act nice but with underlying intentions. 'I be nice, you give me your purse,' kind of deal. That doesn't work, well... you know the drift. I'll just forcibly take what I want from your grubby, little hands.]

And that's the end of this section, I suppose.

[Yay. History. You know how much I would charge for this confidential information? 1k a paragraph. No, I'm not kidding. Having this kind of detail is such a privilege from someone like me, and I could say that for anyone. This is how blackmail is made, you know? Unfortunately, by the some unknown annoying voice, seems like I got to. If I don't? Well, I don't come into existence. Now that we're past that warning, here is Shiep Bo-Oslo Maree, from infancy to now. Major events marked, down to the minute essentials.]

Restating: I was born on January 12th, year of the 44th Hunger Games. At the time, I had two known siblings. My elder is Guy Hardin; he's just two years older than me. He's a pretty cool guy, always helping the children - and me - whenever he can. He loves the orphanage. Then we had Gurasu Seidina, our younger and only sister - at the time of knowing - who was following behind me just by a measly year. Us three were almost like triplets; we highly resembled each other, from the brown hair to our general figure.

Some time early in our lives - I'm not sure, before I was three-years old - we were ditched at the Cottongrove Orphanage. [I don't know how in hell's name they got some name like that. You'd think it'd fit more with District 8, the textile District. Oh well.] Not exactly sure why we were abandoned. I think it could be because we were expensive. [Children are expensive.] Don't think I'll ever know the true reason. [Just other things...]

At first, the only guardian of the building was Pascere. That's his last name. [I refuse to call him Arthur or Mr. Pascere. He doesn't deserve to lick the soles of my dirty shoes.] The old man was like a grandfather to us; really gentle and kind. He loved to play with everyone.

He loved to play with me. Especially me.

We used to play dress-up with make-up, applying the brush of dark crimson color over certain parts of my skin. (With enough application, the appearance of a bruise formed). [Being the slow-ish one I was back then, I didn't realize what he was doing. Or his intentions.] Getting on these rag dresses, messed up hair, and other girly attire, Pascere - along with other boys the same as me or just normal girls- would send us around town and practically beg for money. The building was rather old and creaky, moldy even, and didn't run much on the Capitol's money. You can attribute that to Pascere's tendencies to taking a needle and shooting up drugs. [He was an morphling addict. Took the government money and used it for drugs. Caring caretaker, huh?]

Back to the dress-up game, we made pickpocket money off of that. If us kids tried to lie through our teeth about how much we earned, Pascere would threaten to take away our food. With what tiny amounts we already had - just enough to fill our stomachs - that was torturous to us. This continued from ages three to five of my life; it was times like these that Guy tried harder.

Much harder following Guras' death at four years of age from pneumonia. [Even after she passed, the meals didn't get any bigger. Stingy old man.] It's not hard to say how and why she was in such critical health. Many other children had met similar fates; but, with the deathly [Haha] costs for medications and remedies, the best we could do was give sleeping syrup. This was guaranteed to be in the Cottongrove Orphanage anytime. [It proved to be much more useful later in my life.]

Oh. I did forget to add in that I discovered my talent of the violin at age four. Yep. Pascere had this old violin that he could not bear to part until the orphanage was really dried and scarce of money, so he told me. He used to play at times to entertain the kids and... well... I guess you can say I naturally picked it up by ear. Old Pascere left the instrument out when he went to get a girl a glass of water, and... I don't know... I just had a compulsion to play the darn thing. Began by perfecting the stance then to try at the strings, my younger self attempted to make sound come out of - what seemed like - hard ribbon scratching against strings, and I got a good melody out of it, despite the actual playing deviating from the requiem I wanted. My mind hadn't matured yet to fully grasp the instrument, so my skills were off. Yet Pascere found potential.

Oh did he find my potential. Abused me for it, really.

While doing chores around the orphanage from age 5 and on, Pascere had personally taught me pieces of the violin; then, when I had mastered one, take me to the local bar and perform on their dirty stage. My first few shows, I had stage fright. Terrible stage fright. It would take a thrown bottle to get me going. Throughout those nights, I would just play that one piece, with an hour or two break. The old customers would leave, the new coming in. My only money was the 10% remain from their tips; a guaranteed few coins.

I was still five years old when everything stopped. By 'everything', I mean all the suspicious activity we did. The children would talk about how strange it was that it ended just like that.

Three days later, we [- as in me -] figured out why: a co-caretaker. During those days, Pascere would say not to speak a word about what we used to do. The co-caretaker was a lady. Carme. [And god is and was she a sexy girl.] She was just 16 at the time, and she was the prettiest lady I had ever seen. To me, at least. She had nice black hair and some gorgeous brown eyes. [Translation: she still had a nice face, but I was checking out that butt and chest.]

With her eyes on the children, Pascere and us could not 'play' dress-up anymore. I could still play the violin. [If you think about it hard enough, I was his only source of income left.] I had to work extra hard because - now under Carme's watch - the children got a bit more provisions and drink. The older orphans and Guy did have some minor jobs that seven-year olds and up could do, minus the degradation and pain. Could make little deliveries here and there for a few coins a pop. Under Pascere's impression, Carme thought I was doing this out of fun. When she would go to the shows at times, the old man had to give all profits to me, sneaking in a grumble.

Most times, though, she could not. You know, having to take careful watch over the toddlers and such. Those rare times of going to my performances was when she could afford to have a night-time nanny. Carme would use her own finances to do things she wanted. [Unlike the old man using the government money for his own unnecessary things.] Oh... well... I guess mentioning this wasn't that important. Sorry.

Here we get to the climax. [Ugh... No, god... My fault this time.] I had worked for this man for this long, playing masterpieces, getting excellent grades in school since enrolling at age 5. Age 6 though... You know, he asked for the weirdest thing for his 71th birthday. To be told bluntly, he only asked for me in his room... and... well... he started to feel me. Under the shirt. In my pockets. In multiple places. I... It felt awkward. I didn't exactly know what it meant back then; but, all I knew was that it felt awkward. He would whisper things like, "You're just my favorite, Shiep ol' boy. Don't be telling anyone this."

I just did what I was told. Why? I didn't know what I was getting myself into...

On request, he would ask for my company and do the usual stroking, especially at the legs. [Ugh.] Whispering his little confessions in my ear, Pascere progressed increasingly to the situation when I was seven. [I guess his own lust and greed got the best of him.] One night, another appearance request, Pascere asked me to put a bandanna over my mouth and tie it around my head. For some reason, I got a bad feeling from it. [And rightfully so.] Too bad I was a bit too close when he asked me this; when I tried to turn around and scream, he had clasped over my mouth and did the tying himself. Another fabric to tie the hands. Then the unbuckling of my pants.

It was so painful. I was crying behind the cloths. Gosh... it was painful.

No one knew why I was twitching in my room, why I didn't want to eat, why it seemed I had regressed, mumbling and defecating on myself. They said it was like I was dead, wide-eyed, curling into a ball. When anyone would ask Pascere what was wrong with me, he would say that maybe something bad happened at school. [Implausible story, yet no one questioned that.]

[No one questioned that... No one questioned that... No one freakin' questioned that...]

Call it the effects of post-traumatic stress disorder. Call it tension from the bad events. Even say that it was amplified that he continued to touch me in awkward places, I never was the same again. Developed a phobia for people like him and recurring haunting images whenever I think about him. I... I'll never be the same again.

[I snapped. You have me now. Perhaps it was a failure in developing Multiple Personality Disorder. You people have me now. You should have seen my face; perhaps if the old me and new me saw each other, the old me would have trembled from the crazy smile and twitching, wide eyes, irises devoid of any real sanity. Actually... I find it absolutely hilarious. What a pitiful whelp! I lost my real self by eight years of age.]

By eight years of age, he still continued his caressing. By nine years of age - nearing 10 - I was done with that.

[I spiked the old man's lemonade with sleeping syrup, the stuff I told you we always had in stock for the kids. Put enough to knock him out for a whole day. Carme had to leave him to send the rest of us orphans to bed; and, well, that was my best shot. Took a syringe - using my famous gloves I stole from a student's dorm - and extracted a good amount of morphling (it was not like he kept that in total secret) but taking in a pocket full of air as well. 'Course, since morphling is a pretty thin substance, I had to be quick. Shot it real good in him. I had taken studies of the medical just for this; knew exactly where to go. I discovered air embolism in a book. That's how it was done. The only real reason I used the morphling was symbolism. Left the syringe in there.]

He died during the night. [When the investigators came around, they assumed possible suicide, intentional or unintentional. They couldn't get much evidence towards homicide as nothing had any specific fingerprints except Pascere's on the morphling bottle and syringe. Everyone pretty much touches the sleeping syrup. A lot of children get sick around here, with our developing immunities and all. A further habit of buying this after Guras died.]

[Starting to con people out of their money, taking bits of sleeping syrup to gain some immunity to the substance, my new life started. I absolutely garnered joy from my own activities. Guy - though possibly suspicious - still hasn't gotten the transformation to this day. The span from 10 to 12 years of my life was an adventure-filled one. Those that didn't pay back for my placebo pills (I made these myself) would die. Of course I hid my tracks well for those stupid Peacekeepers. It didn't matter who the unfortunate customer was. Man, child, lady, I killed them all. It's no sport; I don't take great pleasure in doing it, but that's how it works in this world. Much like the Hunger Games.]

I still live in the orphanage with Carme, pregnant with a child, my brother, and the rest of the orphans, still laboring away at chores.

[Looking at Carme all these years with attentive eyes really got me curious for something... yet I didn't know what until she started to mention more about her long-term boyfriend, Riccardo. How much talking about him pissed me off! He just wanted to get in her pants. Like I did.]

[Seeing those two out in the front porch made me sick. Then there was that. Mentioning about going into a room together and checking out some sheets... That... got me mad. At her. At him. I wanted her to myself! But, of course, I can't actually make her dig me. So... I just thought I could snatch one thing and experience a desire. Two birds, one stone. Figure it out.]

[She and I went to the old bar one night, for old time's sake. Forgot to say we stopped coming here after Pascere's death. Anyways, the bartender knew me from way back, asked Carme and I for drinks. 'Course I took a non-alcoholic beverage, a Shirley Temple. It's also Carme's favorite non-alocholic drink. Just for the occasion, she wanted an apple daiquiri, but you could tell she wanted my drink. During the night, she had gone to the bathroom once, and I took it upon myself to use this to my advantage, slipping in a packet of sugar and just a tiny vial of sleeping syrup. Potent stuff, it is, and I needed her to be able to walk home but drowsy from the liquor and syrup.]

[She got back and I - drinking the concoction slowly and immune to the sleeping agent - offered to give her the rest. Was getting full and sick of it, I said. Carme did finish it. Practically lapped it up. She started to get sleepy and asked to go home; and, upon getting back to Cottongrave Orphanage, I had to escort her to her bed.]

[And lock the door behind me. And pour the last remains of the liquid down her throat.]

[That was the best time of my life.]

[Months later, her boyfriend broke up with her upon knowing she was pregnant. Carme saying she couldn't remember the night it happened really brought joy to me. Yet... something kept peeving me. I supposed it was not knowing enough of Carme's background.]

[Pascere wasn't the one who founded this establishment. In his little confessions, he would say that he was the 11th boss of the orphanage by the papers in the closet, and that made him feel proud. Employer and employee records were stored in his room, a place Carme hadn't touched in years, having no real interest to employ people. Well, I had to fight down my fright to enter in there, fend off the demonic, twisted images, and grab a hold on those papers.]

[Could you guess Carme's background? At first I was disgusted... then I was smiling like a maniac. Laughing to myself even. Oh! The irony! Shiep is such a bad kid!]

[Carme Pawnd Maree. Eldest of four children of the Maree family.]

[Her siblings were Guy Hardin, Shiep Bo-Oslo, and Guras Seidina.]

For this app, 'White' Shiep is in normal text. 'Black' Shiep is in [] with italics.

I pick 9c7d5a as my normal color.
I like 946100 as my 'White' voice.
Here is ae4f0d as my 'Black' voice.
My role is played out by Matt Prokop.

I like sweets; I don't show my 'Black' self unless under certain circumstances; I love money and using drugs for money, especially placebo meds. Exercise isn't my biggest thing, but I like to play; I do better to think ahead and plan out accordingly. I have a good resistance to sleeping syrup.