Simon Chiznik District 6
Sept 17, 2012 22:35:07 GMT -5
Post by heartwood on Sept 17, 2012 22:35:07 GMT -5
2018 words
Age: 25
Red=appearance
Purple=personality
Blue=history
It built up in his chest as it had every morning for the past twelve years; it had felt like a chamber of smoke had made its way into his lungs, tickling its way to the rest of his body. His mind couldn’t handle being aware of such a physical discomfort; it bothered him to the fullest. His fingers twitched, hoping to preoccupy his thoughts with some sort of impulsive action; but as he looked around the room for something to do, his mind could only retreat back into a place where it had been so often. He needed to stop thinking, he needed his fix.
He tried to stop it. The hyperventilating, the sweating. But nothing he did seemed to calm his nerves. He longed for numbness, longed for a day when everything would just stop. But that day wasn’t coming. He could never bring himself to end it; end the pain, end the sorrow. On top of having his habits and his anxiety, he was a coward. He was afraid of the world; he saw it for what it was. The world was a place where people were born to be miserable. Life was just a painful test on endurance, a cruel and usual punishment designed to break a man’s will. For him, there was nothing else to break.
The bottom of his heel thumped against the hardwood floor; whenever he had just put a little pressure on his toes his entire leg would move up and down frantically. A lot of the time it would shake objects of the coffee table. Needles, coins, bits of tobacco…all of it found its way to the dusty unkempt rug that hadn’t been cleaned in months. The whole house reeked of alcohol, tobacco, and vomit. The toilet was clogged, and the kitchen sink was stacked to the brim with dishes. The refrigerator had been out of commission for a while; which explained just why Simon Chiznik was so skinny.
There are people of all shapes and sizes; but Simon was so skinny it was fair to doubt whether he was even human at all. His bones were thin and brittle; any physical confrontation with someone the strength of at least one ten-year-old girl could put Simon in the hospital. His genetics had decided that he would never have really put on weight either way, but years of voluntary starvation had not been kind to the young man. For too long a time, there were several things that were more important to him than food. At first it was work. Simon had spent a majority of his youth studying and striving to become a doctor; so eating became secondary to his studies. He often skipped meals and survived on coffee and sugary treats. As a doctor in training he always knew the damage it would cause to his body, but he had figured that after his training, it would be much smoother sailing. He could focus more on his health, and his body would grow into itself; unfortunately that was a time that would never come for young Simon Chiznik.
His body size wasn’t the only thing that made Simon look as sickly as a terminally ill patient awaiting his last moments of life; Simon’s skin was chalky and transparent, laden with patches of skin that fell victim to some unnatural discoloration. He began to grow lesions on his face, blue streaks on his temples had drained the rest of whatever color he had from his face. Simon Chiznik was a walking, breathing cadaver, only his thoughts were far more disheartening than a craving for flesh and blood. Simon’s skin was so white that his veins were easily visible throughout his body; a feature that made him very popular among the addicts and dealers of district six. Every time a needle had entered his body, it left a mark. They spots began to border on the thousands, and soon, they came to look as natural as a mole or a birthmark.
Simon’s foot eventually stopped its repetitive thud against the floor. His knees wobbled as he attempted to push himself off of the coach, his forearms nearly snapping under the miniscule weight of his body. He could only hold out so long, the empty needles on the table had taunted him. “Go to the bathroom,” they said. “There’s always more in the bathroom. You’ll feel all better.” They told him. Simon didn’t need much more convincing than that. He stumbled his way to the bathroom, dodging the objects that littered to floor of his one bedroom apartment. He felt he had never even seen some of the things that were in his home before; either he had lost the memory or somebody he frequented the Morphling dens with had been messing with him again. He gripped the sides of the sink with his hands as tight as he could, a faint cracking heard from his knuckles.
He looked up at the mirror at his reflection. His eyes had always been a pale blue, but today that had seemed to be slightly less bright than usual. They were almost a cold gray, it was always extra hard when Simon noticed something different about his face or body. He couldn’t help but feel like the life was being drained from his body, and perhaps it was, but he wasn’t entirely sure that it wasn’t the best solution to his depression and his anxiety. The cloud began to build up in his chest again, if he didn’t occupy himself with something productive he would surely fall victim to addiction yet again.
Fascinated by how much he had changed over the last few months, Simon ran his hand against his cheeks, his mouth agape ever so lightly with his tongue hanging out just millimeters below the left corner of his lower lip. He lips were almost as white as his skin, and his cheekbones seemed higher than usual. It took him a few moments to realize that he had lost weight yet again. If he was going to keep up this pace, there would be nothing left of him to see within the next few months. Simon Chiznik would be gone, and not a single person would be sad to see him go.
He opened his mouth to inspect his teeth. They were yellow and stained, some were misshapen and there were a few in the very back of his mouth that were starting to turn black. There was no shortage of dentists around him, but he simply didn’t have to the money or the patience to go through with even a routine check up. Everything he had he spend on Morphling or other similar drugs; a trip to the doctor was simply out of the question, especially when it reminded him so much of what he could have become.
Simon lifted his bangs over his head. The roots of his blonde hair was starting to turn gray; Simon was barely twenty years old, but already he had the look of a sickly middle aged man. His beard and mustache had started to grow wild and out of control. The long, thin bristles were uneven and untrimmed, and like the rest of his body they were starting to lose their color. Simon hadn’t shaved in weeks; he saw no point in it. Maybe there was a point in time when Simon was attractive. His confidence and his intelligence were his finest qualities, and he wasn’t without a sense of humor. But nothing seemed to feel funny to him anymore. His addiction had severely narrowed his spectrum of emotion; the positive end taking the sharper end of the cut.
He opened up the cabinet behind the mirror, finding a bottle of clear liquid and a fresh needle for him to use. His fingers twitched as he removed the casing from the syringe, inserting it into the bottle of Morphling. As the liquid filled up the tiny marked barrel, Simon could feel his anxiety rising. He was so close to release, so close to ignoring the feelings that welled up inside his sternum. Soon the cloud of discomfort would disappear from his chest, his mind would be clear; devoid of emotion or stress. Freedom in a bottle is what they called it. It frees the mind and the body; he was more than ready to remove the shackles of humanity.
Simon of just five years ago was a completely different man than Simon of today. He was courageous and ambitious. He was goal-oriented and wouldn’t stop working until he saw that his work had paid off. He was cheerful and often time’s people actually got sick of just how optimistic he was. But all that has changed; Simon can barely be considered a shell of his former self. There’s no glory in becoming Morphling’s most loyal abuser; there is only pain and tragedy, and in the graves of circumstances, there is death.
Simon grabbed an elastic rubber rope from the doorknob. There were times were he envisioned himself hanging by his neck from the ceiling using this rope, but he could never bring himself to even start the process of his cowardly escape. He wrapped the rope around his elbow and tightened it, limiting the circulation. His already transparent veins lifted closer to the surface as if trying to come up for air; he touched the needle to his veins. It was cold; the pain was immediately nullified as the liquid poured in. The feeling was almost instant, his vision began to blur and his breathing slowed, Simon’s thoughts were clear once again.
Simon of today is a coward. He tries to escape the harsh realities of life by escaping into a world only he knows. He’s given up progress for loneliness; and while he knows his funds are due to run out, he simply can’t control himself. Simon wakes up every morning and tells himself he’s going to quit his addiction without any help, but the cloud always returns to his chest, and his heartbeat races along with his thoughts. His mind becomes cluttered and his decision-making becomes extremely impaired.
Simon is twitchy and paranoid. His life dealing with the shadiest of characters has caused much anxiety. He’s gotten himself into plenty of sticky situations; some of them have been life or death, and as much as he believes that he wants it all to end, fear drives his survival instincts to his limits. Fear his is primary motivation.
Because he is so paranoid and wary of his surroundings, Simon finds it extremely hard to trust anybody.He doesn’t have any close friends and currently his only acquaintances are the dealers and the junkies; not the kind of support group a guy like Simon really needs.
As a boy Simon was extremely bright. He got top grades in class without trying very much, and his teachers praised his ability to follow directions. Throughout his reaping ages, Simon had never really worried getting reaped. He figured the odds were in his favor, and for a long while, they were. He was enrolled in the college when his 19th birthday hit. He was flying by the seat of his pants; everything came so easily to him. Out celebrating in the district square; Simon was lured into a back alleyway by a group of beautiful women. They convinced him to try some Morphling, and that was the end of the old Simon.
He dropped out of school because his grades were subpar. Any hope of becoming a doctor was completely shot. As his hopes and dreams were dashed, his addiction grew. The sadder he got, the more Morphling he took, and the more Morphling he took, the sadder he got. It was a vicious cycle of depression and anxiety; and it seemed like there was nothing he could do.
There were times when he reached out to his family, but they could only take so many relapses. They were ashamed of what had happened to him; he had so much potential, and he just flushed it down the drain.
Age: 25
Red=appearance
Purple=personality
Blue=history
It built up in his chest as it had every morning for the past twelve years; it had felt like a chamber of smoke had made its way into his lungs, tickling its way to the rest of his body. His mind couldn’t handle being aware of such a physical discomfort; it bothered him to the fullest. His fingers twitched, hoping to preoccupy his thoughts with some sort of impulsive action; but as he looked around the room for something to do, his mind could only retreat back into a place where it had been so often. He needed to stop thinking, he needed his fix.
He tried to stop it. The hyperventilating, the sweating. But nothing he did seemed to calm his nerves. He longed for numbness, longed for a day when everything would just stop. But that day wasn’t coming. He could never bring himself to end it; end the pain, end the sorrow. On top of having his habits and his anxiety, he was a coward. He was afraid of the world; he saw it for what it was. The world was a place where people were born to be miserable. Life was just a painful test on endurance, a cruel and usual punishment designed to break a man’s will. For him, there was nothing else to break.
The bottom of his heel thumped against the hardwood floor; whenever he had just put a little pressure on his toes his entire leg would move up and down frantically. A lot of the time it would shake objects of the coffee table. Needles, coins, bits of tobacco…all of it found its way to the dusty unkempt rug that hadn’t been cleaned in months. The whole house reeked of alcohol, tobacco, and vomit. The toilet was clogged, and the kitchen sink was stacked to the brim with dishes. The refrigerator had been out of commission for a while; which explained just why Simon Chiznik was so skinny.
There are people of all shapes and sizes; but Simon was so skinny it was fair to doubt whether he was even human at all. His bones were thin and brittle; any physical confrontation with someone the strength of at least one ten-year-old girl could put Simon in the hospital. His genetics had decided that he would never have really put on weight either way, but years of voluntary starvation had not been kind to the young man. For too long a time, there were several things that were more important to him than food. At first it was work. Simon had spent a majority of his youth studying and striving to become a doctor; so eating became secondary to his studies. He often skipped meals and survived on coffee and sugary treats. As a doctor in training he always knew the damage it would cause to his body, but he had figured that after his training, it would be much smoother sailing. He could focus more on his health, and his body would grow into itself; unfortunately that was a time that would never come for young Simon Chiznik.
His body size wasn’t the only thing that made Simon look as sickly as a terminally ill patient awaiting his last moments of life; Simon’s skin was chalky and transparent, laden with patches of skin that fell victim to some unnatural discoloration. He began to grow lesions on his face, blue streaks on his temples had drained the rest of whatever color he had from his face. Simon Chiznik was a walking, breathing cadaver, only his thoughts were far more disheartening than a craving for flesh and blood. Simon’s skin was so white that his veins were easily visible throughout his body; a feature that made him very popular among the addicts and dealers of district six. Every time a needle had entered his body, it left a mark. They spots began to border on the thousands, and soon, they came to look as natural as a mole or a birthmark.
Simon’s foot eventually stopped its repetitive thud against the floor. His knees wobbled as he attempted to push himself off of the coach, his forearms nearly snapping under the miniscule weight of his body. He could only hold out so long, the empty needles on the table had taunted him. “Go to the bathroom,” they said. “There’s always more in the bathroom. You’ll feel all better.” They told him. Simon didn’t need much more convincing than that. He stumbled his way to the bathroom, dodging the objects that littered to floor of his one bedroom apartment. He felt he had never even seen some of the things that were in his home before; either he had lost the memory or somebody he frequented the Morphling dens with had been messing with him again. He gripped the sides of the sink with his hands as tight as he could, a faint cracking heard from his knuckles.
He looked up at the mirror at his reflection. His eyes had always been a pale blue, but today that had seemed to be slightly less bright than usual. They were almost a cold gray, it was always extra hard when Simon noticed something different about his face or body. He couldn’t help but feel like the life was being drained from his body, and perhaps it was, but he wasn’t entirely sure that it wasn’t the best solution to his depression and his anxiety. The cloud began to build up in his chest again, if he didn’t occupy himself with something productive he would surely fall victim to addiction yet again.
Fascinated by how much he had changed over the last few months, Simon ran his hand against his cheeks, his mouth agape ever so lightly with his tongue hanging out just millimeters below the left corner of his lower lip. He lips were almost as white as his skin, and his cheekbones seemed higher than usual. It took him a few moments to realize that he had lost weight yet again. If he was going to keep up this pace, there would be nothing left of him to see within the next few months. Simon Chiznik would be gone, and not a single person would be sad to see him go.
He opened his mouth to inspect his teeth. They were yellow and stained, some were misshapen and there were a few in the very back of his mouth that were starting to turn black. There was no shortage of dentists around him, but he simply didn’t have to the money or the patience to go through with even a routine check up. Everything he had he spend on Morphling or other similar drugs; a trip to the doctor was simply out of the question, especially when it reminded him so much of what he could have become.
Simon lifted his bangs over his head. The roots of his blonde hair was starting to turn gray; Simon was barely twenty years old, but already he had the look of a sickly middle aged man. His beard and mustache had started to grow wild and out of control. The long, thin bristles were uneven and untrimmed, and like the rest of his body they were starting to lose their color. Simon hadn’t shaved in weeks; he saw no point in it. Maybe there was a point in time when Simon was attractive. His confidence and his intelligence were his finest qualities, and he wasn’t without a sense of humor. But nothing seemed to feel funny to him anymore. His addiction had severely narrowed his spectrum of emotion; the positive end taking the sharper end of the cut.
He opened up the cabinet behind the mirror, finding a bottle of clear liquid and a fresh needle for him to use. His fingers twitched as he removed the casing from the syringe, inserting it into the bottle of Morphling. As the liquid filled up the tiny marked barrel, Simon could feel his anxiety rising. He was so close to release, so close to ignoring the feelings that welled up inside his sternum. Soon the cloud of discomfort would disappear from his chest, his mind would be clear; devoid of emotion or stress. Freedom in a bottle is what they called it. It frees the mind and the body; he was more than ready to remove the shackles of humanity.
Simon of just five years ago was a completely different man than Simon of today. He was courageous and ambitious. He was goal-oriented and wouldn’t stop working until he saw that his work had paid off. He was cheerful and often time’s people actually got sick of just how optimistic he was. But all that has changed; Simon can barely be considered a shell of his former self. There’s no glory in becoming Morphling’s most loyal abuser; there is only pain and tragedy, and in the graves of circumstances, there is death.
Simon grabbed an elastic rubber rope from the doorknob. There were times were he envisioned himself hanging by his neck from the ceiling using this rope, but he could never bring himself to even start the process of his cowardly escape. He wrapped the rope around his elbow and tightened it, limiting the circulation. His already transparent veins lifted closer to the surface as if trying to come up for air; he touched the needle to his veins. It was cold; the pain was immediately nullified as the liquid poured in. The feeling was almost instant, his vision began to blur and his breathing slowed, Simon’s thoughts were clear once again.
Simon of today is a coward. He tries to escape the harsh realities of life by escaping into a world only he knows. He’s given up progress for loneliness; and while he knows his funds are due to run out, he simply can’t control himself. Simon wakes up every morning and tells himself he’s going to quit his addiction without any help, but the cloud always returns to his chest, and his heartbeat races along with his thoughts. His mind becomes cluttered and his decision-making becomes extremely impaired.
Simon is twitchy and paranoid. His life dealing with the shadiest of characters has caused much anxiety. He’s gotten himself into plenty of sticky situations; some of them have been life or death, and as much as he believes that he wants it all to end, fear drives his survival instincts to his limits. Fear his is primary motivation.
Because he is so paranoid and wary of his surroundings, Simon finds it extremely hard to trust anybody.He doesn’t have any close friends and currently his only acquaintances are the dealers and the junkies; not the kind of support group a guy like Simon really needs.
As a boy Simon was extremely bright. He got top grades in class without trying very much, and his teachers praised his ability to follow directions. Throughout his reaping ages, Simon had never really worried getting reaped. He figured the odds were in his favor, and for a long while, they were. He was enrolled in the college when his 19th birthday hit. He was flying by the seat of his pants; everything came so easily to him. Out celebrating in the district square; Simon was lured into a back alleyway by a group of beautiful women. They convinced him to try some Morphling, and that was the end of the old Simon.
He dropped out of school because his grades were subpar. Any hope of becoming a doctor was completely shot. As his hopes and dreams were dashed, his addiction grew. The sadder he got, the more Morphling he took, and the more Morphling he took, the sadder he got. It was a vicious cycle of depression and anxiety; and it seemed like there was nothing he could do.
There were times when he reached out to his family, but they could only take so many relapses. They were ashamed of what had happened to him; he had so much potential, and he just flushed it down the drain.
