▽ maverick hollens -- five -- fin ▽

maverick h o l l e n s With the thin little beard I've been growing on my face, I look vaguely like a homeless guy. You probably could define me as that. I may live in a house, but that doesn't make it home. I don't stand out that much. Well, I suppose I am a bit tall. Not towering, necessarily, just to the point where I look slightly downward at everyone as I walk. The only bad thing about that is I haven't filled into it yet. My legs can get tangled very easily, my shoulders seem too broad for the rest of my thin body, my frame is lanky. Wendy tells me I'll grow into my height one day, maybe when I was eighteen. She said the same thing last year, that I wouldn't look so unproportioned. Maybe if I was fed better, I'd look better. But, there are just some things we can't have. Many things, actually. You know, like love, support. Just a few of the very many perks of being me, I suppose. Despite the situation, I still smile. Wendy says it's annoying that I should be cheerful. I don't care much. It makes my face a little brighter. And smaller, because every time I am happy, my dimples sink into my cheeks. They're a quite prominent feature on my face. They make my hard jawline a look just a tad softer and my thin lips a lot more full. Smiling so much has made little crinkles by my eyes, and whenever I don't smile, the lines are still there, like a ghost. I never smile with my teeth, since a lot of them are crooked. Enough about my smile though. It's not really that important. A tousled mop of jet black hair spills over my pale skin. The top is splayed out in a greasy mess while the sides are neatly trimmed. They grow seamlessly down to my chin on either side, somewhere on the borderline of stubble and a full on beard and mustache. It seems to darken my round eyebrows and make the half moons under my eyes more noticeable. My eyes. People tell my they're a muddy brown and a sea green. Hazel, I suppose. To be honest, I'm not really sure what they are. They just rest on my cheeks, alive with humor. Probably the only appealing thing on my broad face other than my dimples and the smile that causes them. And probably the only things left that represent the child I am. Yeah, I've never really grown up. Sure, I have aged, but that doesn't necessarily mean I have to mature. I can probably say I laugh usually more than I talk. And, even better, I tend to make other people laugh, too. Whether it be me just being clumsy, and, well, me, or telling a story from my odd childhood. I remember whenever I read to my younger sister, I would always use stupid voices, and in reward, I would hear her little giggles singing in my ears. That is my goal. To make people laugh or smile. Because, whenever they do, I do too. It just comes so easily to me. Anything to make people happy. Anything at all. Laughter is as good as money to me, and all the better if it comes from someone else. Seriousness is such a useless emotion. I have never liked to be mean or violent or to even say the word 'no'. Yes, I admit, I have grown soft. If someone asks me to do a favor, I do it. I go out of my way to help anyone, no matter who it might be. Honestly, I really just don't want to make enemies. I can't remember the last time I hurled an insult at anyone, or didn't pick up people's things when they dropped them, or when I picked a fight. Of course, I have been beaten up a lot at school, just because I am skinny and defenseless. But I never fight back. No, I would never, go down so far as to curl my hands into fists and use my feet as weapons. It's just not who I am. It's not who I'm supposed to be. And, I know it'll never really work out in my favor, but I do it anyway. Why do I make such habits? People say I am way too optimistic. The boy who always sees the glass half full or somehow finds the bright side of every problem. But, what's the pout of looking at negatives? They just make everything worse. They make you feel hopeless and depressed. So why do it? It makes a lot more sense to simply smile and be happy. Lighten up peoples' days when nothing else will. It's only reasonable. Just smile, smile, smile. I have a happy reputation to uphold. So, if you are having a bad day, just come to me. I'll cheer you right on up. It feels like it's my job. And I will gladly do it. I'm pretty sure I have said at least once in here that I had a fairly odd childhood. More entertaining than most, I guess. Or, maybe I just find a way to make them sound more humorous than they actually are. The earliest memories I have is when I got my kitten, which, for some odd reason, I named Starscream. He was a ball of silver fur when I first found him, huddled near the doorway of my house. He was shy at first, and really wouldn’t let me come near him. I almost shouted out in joy the first time he ate out of my hand, except my baby sister was sleeping, and it took her a really long time to finally shut her eyes. I think I was about ten or eleven at the time. I had to beg my parents to let me keep him. At least we were a rich family; it wasn’t really much of a hassle to have to add Starscream into the family. He actually helped with raising Molly, my little sister, calming her down whenever she was agitated. There was something in his luminous eyes that seemed so friendly about him. So… affable. Ah, that was boring. Let’s get down to the good stuff. Let’s just say I am afraid of things. Everyone is. Not of the games, like everyone thinks, no. Even though that is somewhat haunting, but never mind. I am afraid of spiders, moths, and belly buttons. Now, how I ever got the last two fears, I have no clue. None it all. It’s just… ugh. So, it was a hot summer night, I was minding my own business, trying to fall asleep. Starscream made this odd sort of growling noise. It was sort of creepy, and so I opened my eyes, which felt pretty much glued shut because I was sweating so much. I wasn’t wearing a shirt, because I was too hot to wear one, as stated before. Back to the story. I see this little, dark… thingamajigger and realize it was a spider. A spider! And, this was no normal spider, no daddy long leg you could just squish and it would be dead, no. This spider had gerth. GERTH. Ordinary spiders were as thick as a sesame seed or little crumbs, but this one had GERTH. Of course, I wasn’t going to squash it with my bare hands, I mean seriously, who does that? So I reach over to the nightstand and grip the first thing I could find, which happened to be a roll of… ribbon. A stupid, useless roll of ribbon. It was my mother’s birthday in a few days, if you were wondering. Of course, ribbon wasn’t a preferred weapon, but when life hands you ribbons… it means you can… kill thingamajiggers like… really far away. Yeah. So I started whipping it, which wasn’t really helping at all because you know… spiders move. And stuff. And then Starscream just comes in and boom! Instakill. I quickly run down the hall to the bathroom, grab some toilet paper, and rush back to my bedroom, because I can’t just have this dang spider laying on my bedspread. So I wrap it up in the paper, and then sprint back down to the bathroom to dispose of this monster and then curiosity happened. I… open the toilet paper… and see a red… hourglass. It was a black widow! It’s like seriously, just, agh. Of course, then I fall down on my back, which really hurt, and come to find out that my black widow is not inside my casket for him. And then I see it plop right down onto my bare frickin stomach. On instinct, I immediately flick it off me, and it sails right into my belly button. Two phobias just merged together! And I wasn’t just going to go around, fingering until the spider fell out, because I’m just going to push it deeper into my belly button. Thanks to a traumatizing experience with a corn kernel, I know that! So I quickly stand up, hoping it will just fall out, but NO. Because it was so hot, I was sweating! So it was like body made glue that just kept the deceased spider inside my belly button. I’m just about to go to extremes and try to pry it out when I feel it gone and hear a pathetic little thud as it hits the floor. I got rid of it as soon as possible, but that night really, really sucked. Now, I would talk about some more stories that include a snack thief named Scotty, a time where I mistaked a razor for a comb, when my dimples saved my life, and that one time where I was a verbal hero, but I really need to keep going. It was a tragic night when I lost my family. I don't remember much else other than smoke, screams, and heat. I was fifteen at the time, and I woke up coughing. I ran outside of my bedroom, to see flames licking across the walls and etched up the staircases. My first move was to run upstairs, because that's where my parents and Molly were. So I tripped up the stairs, my hands burnt and my eyes tearing up. And all I heard was "Mav, go, I'll get Molls!" And I listened to my mother. I really wish I hadn't. But I stumbled down the stairs and out of the house. My sisters, merely seven years old, was wailing with panic. I waited outside a distance away, just waited and waited and waited. I waited for ten minutes, and started to get worried. I had a slight temptation to go in to make sure everything was okay. An hour passed, and the house completely imploded in on itself. And I still waited and waited and waited, not giving up hope that they were all dead. My loving family, my familiar house, all gone. I cried all night long, except for when I found Starscream running up to me. At least one of them was safe. In the morning, the officials found me and took me to the orphanage, confirming I was the only one left. I didn't really want to believe them, even though I knew it was true. There, I was quiet, but at least I had Starscream. The person who runs the orphanage is Wendy; I sort of have mixed emotions toward her. She's usually nice, or more likely neutral, but she does have her mean streaks. I have watched many boys and girls come in and out of the orphanage, but I haven't gone anywhere or found a home. I'm just a wanderer. But I get fed everyday, I have clothes to wear, and a roof over my head, so what am I complaining about? I should be grateful to be alive, based on the rest of my family's fate.     five -- seventeen -- male the stories told as well as the name for Starscream have all come from Olan Rogers