Post by jerusalem on Nov 23, 2011 1:46:25 GMT -5
| [atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, background-image:url(http://lh4.ggpht.com/-LWSqSNpIToc/TYZTxT60WjI/AAAAAAAAAUg/kX0kRj5ZB6k/BlackWood.jpg); width: 437px; padding-top: 30; padding-bottom: 30;] THE JERUSALEM DANIEL COURTIER EDITION  SEVENTEEN, SENIOR, TRANSFER STUDENT , GASPARD ULLIEL "HELLO THERE. I'M SO GLAD YOU MADE IT HERE TODAY, BUT I'VE SEEM TO FORGOTTEN WHAT YOUR NAME WAS, IT WAS PAT... OR SOMETHING, RIGHT? NO, WELL, WHY DON'T YOU TELL ME IT THEN? FIRST, MIDDLE AND LAST, PLEASE. OH, AND PLEASE DO TELL ME ANY SCRUMPTIOUS NICKNAMES." I believe you’re thinking of my mother, Patricia. Her name should be on my papers, somewhere… Anyway, my name is Jerusalem Daniel Courtier. My parents are rather… devout, shall we say? I suppose they assumed that it sounded better than ‘Giscard’ or ‘Louie’, neither of which I could easily see attached to myself. I suppose I should be grateful—it’s unique, to say the least. As for nicknames, not a great many people prefer the longer version of my name, so it isn’t uncommon for me to be called Jerry, Jer, Jerbear… You get the gist of it, yes? "I HAVE TO SAY, THAT'S QUITE A NAME YOU GOT THERE. I DON'T THINK I'VE HEARD IT BEFORE. TELL ME, HAVE YOU ALWAYS LIVED IN PORTLAND OR HAVE YOU COME FROM SOMEWHERE ELSE?" I’m not surprised; I doubt very seriously that many people have heard it used as a name. In fact, I think some religions might consider it sacrilegious. Oh well… Apparently my parents’ brand of Catholicism did not. I was not born in Portland, no. I was born just outside of Nice, France, though my parents typically reside in Paris. They enjoy the novelty that comes with living in Paris, and simply happened to be vacationing at the time. The majority of my life was spent in France; I’ve only been in America for… six months? My doctor recommends public schooling. "OH, I DIDN'T MEAN TO MAKE YOU FEEL UNCOMFORTABLE. HERE, LET'S LIGHTEN UP THE TOPIC A LITTLE BIT. OUT OF ALL OF THE WORDS IN THE WORLD, WHICH FIVE DESCRIBE YOU BEST AND WHY?" I shall try my very best not to be biased… Hn. I was brought up to be incredibly well-mannered, as my parents are ambassadors, and politics is no game to them. Rudeness was never tolerated, and I am incredibly grateful for lessons in proper etiquette. It might have been tutors and nannies who instructed me, but the lessons were funded by my parents. I suppose that’s enough, when it comes down to it… Anyway. I have been described as poetic, and I don’t disagree at all. Given my condition, physical activities were rather limited; so much of my time was dedicated towards the arts. I have developed a particular manner of speech that seems to be rather… out of place, amongst other teenagers, but I am comfortable with it. To be quite frank, I can come off as incredibly distant and… well, emotionally retarded. I was not given a great deal of affection as a child, and as a result, I’m not sure as to what to do with emotions. I have a tendency to bottle, and that isn’t such a very good thing. As for distant… I don’t know how to connect with people. Once I do, I’m perfectly fine, I believe, but until that point, I just… I come off as being cold. There’s… depressed, too, I suppose. "I'M NOT GOING TO LIE. YOU SEEM LIKE QUITE THE CATCH. I'M SURE YOU'RE ALWAYS BUSY, HUH? DO YOU LIKE WATCHING TELEVISION OR KNITTING? WHY DON'T YOU TELL US A LITTLE BIT ABOUT YOURSELF?" Mm. I am rather busy, but not always. I’ve been involved with dance for a rather long time, a lot of my time is also taken up by written forms of art, specifically poetry. I enjoy mingling with other people whenever I can, simply for the sake of the illusion of being somewhat normal and connected to people, but it doesn’t always last. My attitude tends to draw in the more sophisticated members of society, and I don’t have an issue with that. Crude people are just… unappealing, for the most part. I have my moments, yes, but they are veiled several times over. I don’t work; there has never been a need to do so, so… Not including hospital visits to get my medication, treat particularly nasty bleeds, that is, essentially, what I consume my week with. "YOU SOUND PRETTY FEARLESS, BUT THERE HAS TO BE SOMETHING YOU'RE AFRAID OF. ANY JUICY SECRETS?" I’m afraid of dying… I think. It hasn’t ever been a secret that I might die the next day, or perhaps the one after. There’s no telling with hemophilia, and there’s nothing that can be done about it. My blood will not clot, and if something were to happen, even something that might seem minor to everyone else, I could very well not live to see the next sunrise. It’s a fear that I’ll succumb to, eventually, though I’m hoping that it won’t be any time soon. As for secrets… Well, I don’t exactly tell people that I’m a hemophiliac. It won’t stay a secret for long, though. I’ve never told someone of my depression, and I don’t exactly plan to. There are also other things, but… They hardly matter. "DON'T TAKE THIS THE WRONG WAY, BUT ARE YOU GAY? I MEAN, IT WASN'T SOMETHING YOU SAID OR ANYTHING. I'M JUST A CURIOUS OLD BADGER. UM. WHAT DO YOU FIND ATTRACTIVE? IS THAT BETTER? I GUESS YOU DON'T HAVE TO ANSWER IF YOU DON'T WANT TO." ... I’m exercising my… fifth amendment, is it? Or would that count as the first? Either way, I do not feel comfortable discussing sexual themes with you—it is entirely inappropriate and miles out of line. Who I would like to take to my bed has little to do with you, what with you being a wo-… an old woman. Moving on, yes? "ALRIGHT, ENOUGH WITH THE HEAVY STUFF. LET'S TALK ABOUT... MUSIC. I THINK YOU MENTIONED SOMETHING ABOUT POP OR HIP HOP EARLIER. WHAT KIND OF MUSIC DO YOU LIKE? RAP, COUNTRY, JAZZ? WHAT ARE YOUR TOP FIVE MOST PLAYED SONGS ON ITUNES?" I don’t really listen to music so very often. When I do, it is usually something of a classical nature. Unless I’m at some sort of club, I will not be found listening to the more popular sorts of music—songs that have no real depth or meaning do very little for me. There must be a story that is told, and it must be beautiful. If it isn’t, I will not listen to it. "LISTENING TO MUSIC LIKE THAT? YOU'RE SURE TO BE A STAR IN THE NEAR FUTURE. YOU SEEM LIKE A WELL-ROUNDED YOUNG PERSON, MY DEAR. WHERE DO YOU FIND YOURSELF TO BE IN FIVE YEARS FROM NOW?" Hm. Five years? I’ll be twenty two in five years. By then, I hope to be attending a professional school. I would like to dance—there’s a freedom that I get whilst dancing that I do not get anywhere else. I want that freedom… I’m so very tired of feeling trapped, like there isn’t a future for me. Then again, there very well may not be. "IF IT MEANS ANYTHING, I'LL BE ROOTING FOR YOU WHEN THE TIME COMES. I'M SURE YOUR PARENTS WILL TOO. SPEAKING OF YOUR PARENTS, WHY DON'T YOU TELL US THEIR NAMES AND WHAT YOU THINK OF THEM! DO YOU HAVE ANY SIBLINGS, PETS, OTHER RELATIVES?" I’m an only child. My father’s name is Peter, and my mother’s name is Patricia. They get along famously, from what I can tell. Both are from families of old money, meaning that our fortunes go very deep. They are both ambassadors, and as such, are heavily involved in politics. I have a scant amount of memories of them from my childhood, and as it is, I have trouble remembering if their eyes were hazel or green. While there is no outright dislike amongst us, there is certainly no denying that we do not know each other at all. I do have a pet—she is a glorious cat named Fifille. She’s a maine-coon, incredibly vocal, and a wonderful lap-warmer. Unfortunately, she is around fourteen years old. "OH, I SEE. WELL, WE'RE RUNNING OUT OF TIME. WHY DON'T WE WRAP THIS UP WITH YOUR STORY? HOW DID YOU END UP IN PORTLAND, OREGON?" Sometimes I wonder why I’m still here. To be honest, I’ve never been close to God. I’ve never really believed in angels, but demons…? There’s evidence of those everyday. Sometimes I don’t want to be here anymore. I’ve dreamed about dying so many times, how it would happen, what I might think, how I would act… None of the results are entirely satisfactory; there are always so many flaws. I feel as though I may have been destined for hell. That is not an exaggeration, that is truly the feeling that washes over me every time blood pours from my mouth and nose. Sometimes it’s just a hint, other times it’s as if all the blood in my body is rushing out… Let’s rewind, shall we? Maybe someone will understand. I am the only child of Peter Lee Courtier and Tia Moore Courtier. My name is Jerusalem Daniel Courtier, and I was born into a very, very wealthy family. Money was poured into my own personal account from before I was conceived, but despite all of the lies people will tell you, money cannot, and never will buy affection. As a warning, I will sound melodramatic throughout my entire little recount of events, and perhaps I exaggerate a little… but this is all from my point of view, yes? Naturally things are skewed to fit my perspective. In any case… I was a premature baby, it was mandatory for me to remain in the hospital for the first few months of my life, and the only reason I received the nurturing care I required was because of those volunteers who gave a little of their day to come and hold the fragile little babies. I was especially fragile…. I am a hemophiliac. Perhaps the lack of constant attention that babies are usually showered with is to blame, or maybe just the conditions of my birth. Regardless, I hear I was a horrid little wretch of an infant. I cried, and cried; there was nothing that could be done for my tears, except to set me in the crib and leave the room, let me tire myself out. It’s dangerous to leave infants alone. My first bleed occurred when I was seven months old. I had been out of the hospital for six weeks and two days, and from what I understand, my nanna had turned her back for just a brief moment before returning to see my mouth filled with that sticky red substance. I was a baby, I was on my back. I was too weak to cough on my own… Nan had to pick me up, tilt me upside down, and beat harshly upon my back for several minutes until color returned to my face. That was the first time I nearly died, drowning in my own blood. There were always staff members from the grounds lurking from that point on, following me with their eyes, always keeping track. If I were to die on their watch, they would be out of a job. As odd as it may sound, I never saw the outside world from anything but a window until I was four years old. Due to a natural lack of stress and the fact that children spend much of their time sleeping –at least, I did. I didn’t know other children, so that may be incorrect— not many bleeds occurred. Perhaps the rare event that I might blow out a few flecks of crimson, but nothing quite so horrible; and so, at four years of age, it was deemed that I was ready to venture out of the mansion and into the world itself… only on the Courtier Estates. The second time I nearly died, I was attacked by a dog. To be quite frank, I’ve no idea how it started. I was excited, frightened, and too adventurous for my own good. I had darted ahead of my mother… this was one of the rare times she decided to act like a mother. I suppose I was more of a prized pet for her than anything else; just another thing to spend money on… As I was rounding the corner, I heard growling. I had never seen a dog in person, before. The snarling and clicking of the teeth was frightening, especially since the spotted fiend was standing over the bloodied corpse of some other unfortunate creature… I had drawn too near, stumbled too close—and the monster didn’t quite like that. In short, I was knocked to the ground, and teeth were tearing into me… The physical recovery time was quite extensive. As far as mental recovery goes—I’m still absolutely terrified of dogs. I have very few memories of my mother and father, mostly because they were never really there. I was not a beloved child; I was an economic inconvenience, especially since it was deemed unlikely that I would live past age twelve. Perhaps they were guarding themselves, trying to prevent themselves from getting too attached to that little boy with the ridiculously apparent dimples, the little soul who could be ripped from them at any given moment. I was taught to pray at a young age—and I was told to pray frequently… mostly for my soul. Some children are said to have the hand of God on their shoulder… Perhaps I was just the unlucky one, being cradled by Lucifer. Despite being told to pray, God was never a strong influence in my life. The Courtiers have always been Catholic, that’s a family tradition that goes back to the very first of the line. Father Roulin made frequent house calls, always to see me. To pray with me… He was tender in a manner that only a priest can manage, but Father Roulin always warned me against sin. “Jerusalem,” he said, “You will be especially vulnerable. Resist it—look to the Lord Your God.” I was a young child. I was unaware that he had summed up my life in one simple phrase, as well as provided me with an impossible task in another. Even at just five years of age, Envy was already a strong fault of mine. The only physical activity I could participate in revolved around dance, mostly ballet. It seemed to be the most gentle to my parents… I enjoyed it for the expression—but to see the other boys, playing around, falling and scraping their knees, getting up as if it were not a big deal…? Envy struck me hard, and it struck me deeply. I still suffer from Envy…. Every day. My condition is that of a severe nature, meaning that bleeds often occur once or twice a week, varying in their intensity. For that reason, a doctor stayed in our house, just across the hall from my room. His disposition was of a foul sort, and he offered no company to dull the loneliness, but he was there when I would awake in the night with purple splotches under my skin, or red in my spittle. There are years that I cannot really relate, time more or less passed within a vacuum for a long while. I danced, and despite the strain on my body that my parents had never accounted for –I’m left to assume that they knew very little of ballet when they enrolled me—I did very well. My feet are absolutely horrendous to look at, but that’s another story altogether. I continued to be tutored, I continued to forget the details of my parents’ faces, whether their eyes were brown, hazel, or green, how tall they were, or what they looked like when they smiled. I was incredibly lonely, and there was nothing that I could really do about it, save for write poetry, pretend that I was in some fantasy land of magic and dreams, where I didn’t have to worry about dying before I was thirty. When I was fourteen, I was allowed to leave the grounds, unsupervised, for the most part. I was shocked by society and I had no real idea of how to cope with it. I socialized, young girls found me attractive, particularly when they learned of whom I was, but… I didn’t return their affections. Instead, I slipped money into the palms of people to get myself into bars. From there, I… fell. Things happened, and I learned something about myself that… I already knew, but never actively recognized. It was frightening. After the ordeal, I retreated back to the safety of my home, sneaking out perhaps once or twice a week to experience that oddity again and again. That lasted for a year. When I turned fifteen, the guilt had gnawed away too much, and I ceased. That… That was also when my depression steadily worsened, and it was when I felt the most isolated. I was never medicated; I never told anyone how terribly I felt, how terribly I still feel… Mm. For two more years, that went on. A short six months ago, my parents, at the advice of my doctor, have shipped me over to America for real world experience, and it seems as though they simply… selected a school at random. I’m not entirely sure on that note, but if they hadn’t paid any attention before, why do so, now? |
ROLEPLAY EXAMPLE
See Tony’s app
BOO, 8ISH YEARS, I THINK, REFERAL, MOD EDIT
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