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personality
miss done w/ ur shit.

          YOU LOCK THE DOOR every morning as you leave the house at 0530 sharp, pale eyes cataloging the quiet neighbourhood’s complete lack of life under the pale fingers of dawn, the sun still drowsy as it crawls out of bed. soccer bag hangs heavy across your shoulders and pale fingers tug at the fabric of the handle as though capable of offering some mystical featherlight augmentation to the weighing accessory. ( unfortunately, decidedly not. ) instead, suffering continues and fingers shift to rubbing at the stiff knots that wear at neck muscles, head tilting to each side to the music of satisfying cracks. inside the bag exists a ball, jersey and boots, certainly; and the ruffled ‘case-files’ that describe the latest strange going-ons. but that’s hardly anyone’s business, stuffed quite purposefully to the bottom in your highly professional way. not that such precautions are like to be necessary, when your neighbours yet sleep and would rather interact with you from afar, in the typical, grating false friendliness expected of such ‘quiet’ suburbs. ( you force yourself to rub elbows with someone often enough to avoid suspicion, but recalling covert glances wonder if it’s been enough ) if anyone’s likely to notice something amiss in the sports bag though, it’s probably more inclined to be the baseball bat hiding amidst soccer gear, over the crumpled sheafs of paper. you pride yourself in your own safety, while perhaps not-so-secretly wishing for an excuse to actually swing the metal weapon.

          THE SKATEBOARD RATTLES against the gravel, echoing through the empty streets as you vacate the suburbs for the day, weaving toward the industrial quarter: image of a working woman's fierce determination and a delinquent youth's idle hobbies clashing in early morning light. ( you've never cared for expectations, learnt early on that they meant nothing; you'd expected to live out the entirety of your life in alsace, sipping wine and leaning against flower-weaved terraces ) instead, you're living in some backwater american town; undercover and underpaid. you wear what's comfortable, travel by what's most manoeuvrable and entertain yourself with that which is most practical; simple as that.

          YOUR FACE IS EMPTY like this shot glass, thin calloused fingers wrapped tight around the throat with pale eyes staring incomprehensibly at the liquor-less object. when you get like this, it's time to leave - mind hazing out at the edges, thoughts creeping into the faint creases that sprawl from eyelids to the temple - irritation already oozing free & pulling muscle tight over cheek bones. tongue swipes at cracked lips, catches the last bitter taste of vodka ( why do you do this to yourself when there's a nice riesling waiting at home ) and roughly shoves the miniature glass away toward the bar, jerking from the stool in typical wobbly brusqueness. that morrie's bar is beer-centric only means the vodka is even shittier, and you're rather certain delaware or daveth or whatever his name is is laughing at you during the sickening bend to grab heavy soccer bag and skateboard, the latter of which is eyed with distinct queasiness and merely tucked under arm. walking it is. ( time to go frighten the lamb-hearted neighbours ) reads the sly shadow that settles into gaunt face, hefting your luggage with sick confidence that supersedes even alcohol. an appearance from the resident of number five is startling enough in itself to set phones ringing, regardless of the late hour; being a weekend, it was inevitable that the husband of some busybody or another was still up watching football reruns.

          THE KIDS ARE ALREADY THERE, impossibly, by the time you arrive: hair strung in a haphazard bun and your rough university jersey hanging from broad shoulders. whoever the brats belonged to, you hoped they were aware of the early hours they abandoned home, but as a non-parent, that issue was one that existed outside carefully constructed world of work, sleep and play. play is where you're at now, mask loosening to a thin poker face as bag thumps to the ground, skateboard clatters with a faint whirr and wired arms pull left leg back into a stretch. ghostly eyes pierce the brats with a sharp, if encouraging glare; they were the ones most in need of a good stretch prior to the game.

history


          YOU WERE TWELVE and thought the world was yours, the die already set and the cards ordered. ( you were wrong ) & before you knew it, the deck had been shuffled, life upended. there'd been no warning, no explanation of why despite the childish tantrums and furious screams. " maman! papa! " you'd wail as their faces turned hard, not unlike the faces that denied you a second helping of dessert, a bag you hadn't packed joined one other in the boot of the car. drive and subsequent plane trip are silent once exhaustion settles in, eyes puffy and face sore, jaw set. you lay your head to the cool window, keeping gaze averted, curling into the door with a wash of unbidden loneliness.

          YOU WERE TWELVE and touching down in america with stoniness spreading outward from heavy eyelids and dour frown. it's a ghost that follows the blonde woman, once familiar and warm back now a simple road sign: this way to hell. there's awkward moments spent at mother's heels, fists clenched and face hidden by blonde strands as she talks to someone ( you're introduced seconds later, aunt ophelia thrown about as though you should recognise the name and face it belongs to ) lips purse and head jerks in greeting before returning to sullen stoicism, quietly listening in and noticing that there's a deliberate absence of papa's name. nose crinkles, corners of dry lips twitching; coward, latest label offered to mother, country hopping over a man.

          YOU WERE EIGHTEEN. graduation was supposed to be bittersweet, but you could find nothing to describe this moment but perfect, the day you'd been waiting for. mère and ophelia had been unable to come ( what a pity ) and so everything was as it should be; as it would be. " me, myself and i, " you whispered with a faint grin, shadows lengthening across the planes of pale face. an instant later you were amidst the soccer teams, drinking whatever was pressed into your hand, forcing a laugh as amos repeated his favourite joke for the fourth time that night, pressed amidst a mass of hotblooded youths that would all go their separate ways come tomorrow morning.

          YOU WERE EIGHTEEN, the boxes were unpacked and the room blissfully devoid of all other lifeforms. life-goal #1: leave home, complete. evgenia, thankfully, had already come and gone, her side of the shared area established with posters of soccer players you barely recognised. there was various other paraphernalia too, but the point here was that right now you could pretend nobody else existed - beginning with an inelegant flop onto the bed you'd just finished making up.

          YOU WERE TWENTY-TWO and graduating again, brain exploding with a ridiculous amount of forensic knowledge and whatever you could find on folklore and mythology squeezed in edgewise. evgenia disappears into the crowd of sport's health people or whatever the hell it was she was studying and so you're left alone with your cheap award thing and a phone that won't shut up with the messages you can't be assed reading.

          &THEN YOU WERE TWENTY-FIVE n working for the govt in some weird af job and spreading conspiracy theories and one day some guy came up to you like hella and offered u some weird job in some dingy lil town and u said wtf why not.


face claim
[i]shingeki no kyojin[/i], annie leonhardt - amelia roux

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[attr="class","credtext"]played by MIE