{Tyson Vega(-Dempsey)}{Wanderer}{FIN}
Feb 11, 2014 17:59:35 GMT -5
Post by Ally is tentatively back on Feb 11, 2014 17:59:35 GMT -5
Tyson Vega(-Dempsey?)
[presto]
Your mother always called you striking. Endearing the way a stray puppy is. You’ve never known quite how to feel about that descriptor.
You’ve always called yourself awkward, a heap of spindly limbs and a smile that doesn’t really know how to straighten itself out, like that one picture in the hall that Mom always twitched at because one corner hung lower. (You twitched it back sometimes because in your house of straight lines and sharp edges and clean neat order you felt very alone being the only spot of chaos.) (You were the only knot your mother couldn’t untwist.)
You are monochrome, eyes and hair almost the same shade of brown, and if you could ever be said to blend in your features would be responsible, nothing remarkable, nothing strange. You’re a wren, really. At least outwardly.
Your body is a roadmap. Tattoos acquired in fits of adolescent rebellion (although rebelling is pretty pointless if you never tell anybody and really it was only for your own sake because your mother died having no idea that you’d ever stepped over the careful ruler-straight boundaries she drew around you in permanent marker the day you were born). Scars from tripping and stumbling and fights and hey that one time you fell out of the tree, usually covered by your clothes, all jeans and baggy hoodies that hang over your hands because if you cover yourself up the world can’t hurt you and you can’t hurt the world. (Destruction is in your blood, apparently, and you will not succumb to it.)
The world moves too fast.
Well, not really. The world actually moves slow like molasses around you, but your thoughts move too fast and so you move too fast and always always it was “Ty slow down honestly you’re going to break something.” (You usually did. If you can say anything about your mother it was that she had a gift for sniffing out disasters waiting to happen.)
You like disorder. Chaos and mess and crooked lines and radical numbers and bright colors and undefinable concepts. You don’t fit in a box, nothing around you is allowed to.
Your mother was a woman of boxes and greyscale. The tiny tenement apartment she raised you in was immaculate up until the day she died. It made you nervous and jumpy and you always felt like a hurricane waiting to happen and you were going to break everything and then you would be left alone because there’s only so much a person can excuse. (You break yourself instead because it's so much easier and the consequences aren't as hard to deal with.)
The inside of your head is a cacophony of bells and cymbals and screeching metal, lights strobing in every color that exists and several that don't and thoughts flitting like hummingbirds and you can't catch them. You can't ever catch them.
You have a little bit of chemical assistance nowadays, whatever you can get your hands on, and it fogs everything up but the fog makes it all go just a little but slower and the fact is that you're desperate for a little relief. You're entitled.
You have always been able to read subtle cues, been able to weasel yourself out of trouble by playing on people's emotions and weaknesses, and part of you thinks it's a talent and the rest hates it because you've been told that you should. A gift for manipulation is genetic, you guess. (You wouldn't hurt anyone if they didn't hurt you first though, you swear.)
You were a sheltered child.
Your mother had never wanted children and made no secret of the fact, but when she ended up with one she was viciously protective. You were not to associate with people she hadn't met. You were not to be anywhere other than home and school without her.
She mourned the fact that she didn't have a normal little boy, though that she did try to hide. But you have always been too observant for your own good. You knew. It's the reason you stopped going to her with nightmares when you were eight. (She always tried to get you to explain what scared you so much but never seemed to get why some lights and sounds were terrifying and others were not.)
You asked her sometimes about your father, but she never told you a name, never gave you any hints.
And then, when you were fourteen and the district was living in fear of someone stalking through bars and killing the patrons seemingly at random, she got sick. And didn't get better. And still didn't.
You were fifteen when she informed you where the other half of your genes came from, a man named Todd Dempsey who you had never met and never would, but you knew of him- at least, through his son. Kaelen Dempsey, notorious serial killer. You think you would've rather not known.
Your mother died a month and a half after dropping that bombshell, and you spent the day systematically breaking everything in the apartment, and then sat for a few hours amidst broken glass, blood dripping from your hands.
And then you ran.
And you haven't stopped.
I ponder of something great
My lungs will fill and then deflate
They fill with fire
Exhale desire
I know it's dire
My time today
My lungs will fill and then deflate
They fill with fire
Exhale desire
I know it's dire
My time today
~*~Appearance~*~
Your mother always called you striking. Endearing the way a stray puppy is. You’ve never known quite how to feel about that descriptor.
You’ve always called yourself awkward, a heap of spindly limbs and a smile that doesn’t really know how to straighten itself out, like that one picture in the hall that Mom always twitched at because one corner hung lower. (You twitched it back sometimes because in your house of straight lines and sharp edges and clean neat order you felt very alone being the only spot of chaos.) (You were the only knot your mother couldn’t untwist.)
You are monochrome, eyes and hair almost the same shade of brown, and if you could ever be said to blend in your features would be responsible, nothing remarkable, nothing strange. You’re a wren, really. At least outwardly.
Your body is a roadmap. Tattoos acquired in fits of adolescent rebellion (although rebelling is pretty pointless if you never tell anybody and really it was only for your own sake because your mother died having no idea that you’d ever stepped over the careful ruler-straight boundaries she drew around you in permanent marker the day you were born). Scars from tripping and stumbling and fights and hey that one time you fell out of the tree, usually covered by your clothes, all jeans and baggy hoodies that hang over your hands because if you cover yourself up the world can’t hurt you and you can’t hurt the world. (Destruction is in your blood, apparently, and you will not succumb to it.)
Sometimes quiet is violent
I find it hard to hide it
My pride is no longer inside
It's on my sleeve
My skin will scream
Reminding me
I find it hard to hide it
My pride is no longer inside
It's on my sleeve
My skin will scream
Reminding me
~*~Personality~*~
The world moves too fast.
Well, not really. The world actually moves slow like molasses around you, but your thoughts move too fast and so you move too fast and always always it was “Ty slow down honestly you’re going to break something.” (You usually did. If you can say anything about your mother it was that she had a gift for sniffing out disasters waiting to happen.)
You like disorder. Chaos and mess and crooked lines and radical numbers and bright colors and undefinable concepts. You don’t fit in a box, nothing around you is allowed to.
Your mother was a woman of boxes and greyscale. The tiny tenement apartment she raised you in was immaculate up until the day she died. It made you nervous and jumpy and you always felt like a hurricane waiting to happen and you were going to break everything and then you would be left alone because there’s only so much a person can excuse. (You break yourself instead because it's so much easier and the consequences aren't as hard to deal with.)
The inside of your head is a cacophony of bells and cymbals and screeching metal, lights strobing in every color that exists and several that don't and thoughts flitting like hummingbirds and you can't catch them. You can't ever catch them.
You have a little bit of chemical assistance nowadays, whatever you can get your hands on, and it fogs everything up but the fog makes it all go just a little but slower and the fact is that you're desperate for a little relief. You're entitled.
You have always been able to read subtle cues, been able to weasel yourself out of trouble by playing on people's emotions and weaknesses, and part of you thinks it's a talent and the rest hates it because you've been told that you should. A gift for manipulation is genetic, you guess. (You wouldn't hurt anyone if they didn't hurt you first though, you swear.)
One thing consists of consistence
And it's that we're all battling fear
Oh dear, I don't know if we know why we're here
Oh my,
Too deep
Please stop thinking
And it's that we're all battling fear
Oh dear, I don't know if we know why we're here
Oh my,
Too deep
Please stop thinking
~*~History~*~
You were a sheltered child.
Your mother had never wanted children and made no secret of the fact, but when she ended up with one she was viciously protective. You were not to associate with people she hadn't met. You were not to be anywhere other than home and school without her.
She mourned the fact that she didn't have a normal little boy, though that she did try to hide. But you have always been too observant for your own good. You knew. It's the reason you stopped going to her with nightmares when you were eight. (She always tried to get you to explain what scared you so much but never seemed to get why some lights and sounds were terrifying and others were not.)
You asked her sometimes about your father, but she never told you a name, never gave you any hints.
And then, when you were fourteen and the district was living in fear of someone stalking through bars and killing the patrons seemingly at random, she got sick. And didn't get better. And still didn't.
You were fifteen when she informed you where the other half of your genes came from, a man named Todd Dempsey who you had never met and never would, but you knew of him- at least, through his son. Kaelen Dempsey, notorious serial killer. You think you would've rather not known.
Your mother died a month and a half after dropping that bombshell, and you spent the day systematically breaking everything in the apartment, and then sat for a few hours amidst broken glass, blood dripping from your hands.
And then you ran.
And you haven't stopped.
And fear will lose
There's faith and there's sleep
We need to pick one please because
Faith is to be awake
And to be awake is for us to think
And for us to think is to be alive
[/presto]There's faith and there's sleep
We need to pick one please because
Faith is to be awake
And to be awake is for us to think
And for us to think is to be alive
{OOC: I'm so out of practice with bios kill me.}
Odair
~*~Table Credit Anzie~*~
