A n d r i e s E-a-r-l-s-w-o-o-d {three wip}

A n d r i e s E-a-r-l-s-w-o-o-d {three wip} Feb 12, 2014 5:31:30 GMT -5

Post by Scourge on Feb 12, 2014 5:31:30 GMT -5

APPEARANCE

The sleekness of fur could only be compared to the tangles of wires, unkempt and neglected thick cables. Ones that related to the clumps of knots atop my own scalp, blandly bittersweet, each individual strand just as disregarded as the last, perhaps not my just my own hands. The weeds fell gracelessly over my shoulders, although frequently was tied back in a harsh bun, that way the thick strings that were once considered my mane didn't elict thoughts from others, others whom urged you to allow insults to spill from my lips as if they had lived under my tongue and in the cavities of my mouth this entire time. Now, I stood there silently, bristling with anger, hairs standing on their ends. I could only wish that they would spike out completely and tear through flesh, but of course I'd have to remind myself, rodents do not do such. They maul, bite and flee. The most common option being the third one, scattering appearing to be my best defense. Never-the-less, I stood before them in all my entwined glory, knots and all tied into an even bigger knot. Is my hair yours to control? No? Then stop pestering me. The words flew out of my mouth without intention, only to shock others greatly. Perhaps I took it too far?

I can feel the same bleakness in the tangles of my ribcage as I can my hair, void of care and full of flaws. May it be the fragment here, puncturing of lungs there, even the tumbling of intestines coiling around my remaining organs. It became a daily routine to wake and decipher which twist and turn my stomach would present today, how much blood would pass my freckled, cracked tulips upon basin. The gears inside my body mashed, causing black bile to rise in my throat, and yet it was only a crimson that stained my nose instead. It did not affect me. The blood I spilt did not define me, either. Bruises and blisters mix in with freckles, opposed to wet fingertips upon blank canvas, made for carnage. Yet all remained the same, carapaces being sketched upon skin by own knuckles. Knuckles inwhich feel the urge to batter into objects until beaten raw, and they did just that. There were no boundaries, simply common sense.

Externally my figure was just as badly neglected as my insides, sickly pale skin covering my body, not the beautiful ivory either. A sickness, an absence of colour, almost as if ashen. Dots of orange spread across my cheeks, back and stomach alike, perhaps my arms and legs aswell. As if lodging themselves there, making a mockery of me more than I already was. My eyes did not reflect a deep azure, nor a fine hazel of any sorts. It did not even fare closely to the brown-ish colour I saw so commonly around my district. They were a steel gray, just as dull as the rest of me, nothing being an exception. Maybe that tedious appearance of mine is what led many to believe I was worth something. Bile, conceivably.

It brings me to the conclusion my organs were the other way around, inwhich caused fevers and fatigue-induced delirium, a waterfall of red falling from my lips occasionally. I could not put the topic down, no. Not the subject that proved my own health and self-worth to be naught, sickness just as strong a trait as everything else. I was not pitiful. A rat, yes, but never a mutt. Through the cracks of my lips I can feel saliva mixing with wine, edging to seep from them. One day I could learn to be beautiful, just like my siblings, just like my parents. Until then, I would continue to be referred to as a sour glass of milk, not only in taste but in colour aswell. I was not designed for grueling labour, nor vicious fighting. I remained closed up in my cage of oddities, the gadgets I'd made and collected enough to keep me company, for even they cannot catch the sickness I produce.

PERSONALITY

It is frightening at times. The sweat that sticks to my brow only to dribble down my temple soon after deftly turns into the very water that currently robs me of air, almost as if my own ribs had gained the audacity to suddenly grow sharper, to twist and distort until they reached my lungs. The area there was pierced, I can feel it. Water was meant to fix our bodies, no? Then why not my own? Still now I forget my ideals and passion in the face of dread, my will trembling and shrinking, like a mouse's own. I had no courage. I was nothing but a speck of dust upon the Lion's hind. I hide my eyes and weep instead of taking the quality of a very tangible apparition to make it my own. I shriek like a featherless bird flapping my baby fluff around uselessly, eyes dampening and cries growing louder. Still without bravery my fists clench, perhaps for my own sake rather than other's. I was not vain, and yet I held myself highly never-the-less.

I was not antsy like the roaches that made their way through the splinters in my ceiling floor. At least that's what I told myself, perhaps it'd be better to skitter upon six legs rather than slip against two. Still I could hear them shifting about relentlessly, during the tireless abyss I called my slumber. Maybe the problems lodged in my mind were inflicted by myself, maybe it wasn't the vague Mother of mine nor the abrasive Father. Of course it was their fault, the honest knowledge of surety rang through my veins, a desperate yet familiar call that demanded me to push all the stress and blame on others, for I was selfish. I was loved, yet I was arrogant. Perhaps that could be a lovable feature about me, if one chose to look past the hollowed eyes and jutted skin over weak bones. The idea seemed preposterous yet reality all the same, it pleased me to think so. Then again, what didn't?

I was a sniveling rat, a hideously naked wench. A roach all the same. What else could the bruises blotching at my neck provide? Ah, yes. The dryness I wore everywhere and anywhere. Every given opportunity to grow aloof was taken with grace, but delivered without the serenity it paused for. I was unorganized, sassy-- sarcastic. Left standing in the dirt like a slow-paced Mule with nothing but the bland lump in my throat to show for it. It just added to the countless dot-points upon ridiculously lengthy lists on why exactly I was not a pleasant sight. Inside, or out. Yet I thrived off of that fact, strangely. If I caused discomfort to those around me, perhaps I was useful for something other than putting two and two together. Although being an irritating bastard didn't necessarily qualify for a positive trait. Just how many negatives did I possess, was the real question?

HISTORY