Post by DAHLIA SABINA CAMPBELL on Feb 19, 2010 17:57:51 GMT -5
DAHLIA SABINA CAMPBELL.
[/size]
* FEELS JUST LIKE WE'RE LOSING CONTROL.
and if you let go, then i'll let go tonight.[/center]
TELL US ABOUT YOURSELF.
"Hello, my name is Dahlia Campbell. My middle name is Sabina, but you really do not need to know that. Anyway, some call me Dahl (pronounced kind of like doll with a southern accent, thank you very much) but most people call me my regular name. Personally, I would prefer to be called Dahlia. Dahl seems like such an affectionate term. I hate it. I was born on November seventeenth and am turning nineteen this coming year. I, of course, am a female and don’t think I need to say much more on that, for it is blatantly obvious that I am a woman. I am straight (or, to be politically correct, heterosexual) and will always be that way. My biological parents were named Ivanna and Donald Campbell and my little family and I lived in the suburbs of Milwaukee. I got my deep, dark brown eyes from my father and my hair from him, as well. My mother had shimmery blonde hair and light blue eyes, and I wish I had her looks, but I surely do not. Most say I have more of a ‘Leighton Meester’ look. I am not too sure on that, but whatever. I have the type of skin tone that does not tan, but burns. That is the only thing I got from my mother (she was from northeastern Europe). But enough about them, for I detest them with all of my heart. I am really opinionated, so watch the fuck out, because I will not be afraid to shoot down any imbecilic ideas you come up with."
TELL US ABOUT YOUR MEDICAL HISTORY.
[/size][/font]"Oh, Jesus. Let us just talk about my ‘medical condition’ even more, shall we? Seems like every damn person in the world has heard about, and tried to ‘treat’ this so-called condition of me. Okay, so I like to see others in pain. And, no, not just physical pain (though that is so appealing). Emotional pain is just plain amazing to watch people go through. The feeling, seeing people in any kind of pain, just triggers a sort of adrenaline rush inside of me. Like when you are in an accelerating car and you get slammed to the back of the seat and cannot breathe from the force. That kind of excitement rushes through my veins. It’s funny, really. A drugless high is what I call it. All the psychiatrists called me aggressive and sent me to anger management classes for months. Could they not tell that I do not have anger problems and this anger management was not working whatsoever? Guess some psychs are not as smart as they like to think. Ugh, they piss me off so much. Like, just because you deal with insane people does not mean you have to be all ‘Woo hoo, I am not a fucking nutcase like you. I went to college. I have honor roll kids.’ Just please give me the help you are paid to be giving me and shut the hell up, please and thank you.
Yeah, enjoying seeing people in pain is not really sane, but does it look like I really care? To (rather pointlessly, but whatever) answer my rhetorical question, nope, I don’t care. This... obsession, if I may, is not like the normal basement-bedroomed 26 year old Saw fan kind of love for gore, it’s brought to a whole new level. When I was little I even had this quirk. I found frogs in the park after it rained and threw them in the road just to see them get run over by soccer moms in minivans, businessmen in BMWs, and truckers in eighteen wheelers. Yeah, it was dangerous to be playing in the road, but I was eight; what do you expect from an eight year old? With each passing year, this psychopathic form of enjoyment just seemed to double. I mean, I was watching Rambo by eleven and did not flinch a bit at anything. Quite the opposite, really. I giggled and squirmed in glee as my mother gasped and poorly attempted to cover my eyes. I, being a rather quick child, slid from her weak grasp and switched seats with my father. He did not mind me watching these kinds of things, but then again he didn’t give a shit about me in general. After many psychiatrists telling me and my family the same things, my parents finally grasped the word ‘maniac’. I guess I was too much of a burden to their suburban paradise, so they kept sending me to asylum after asylum, none of which ever did anything besides repeat ‘it’s okay. I understand you.’ in a ridiculously slow voice. Please tell me how this helps with anything? Because I see no sense in it whatsoever. So, besides liking seeing things in pain a little too much, three (or was it four?) psychs told me I have mild OCD. I am really twitchy and angry when things are not in their proper place and writhe in mental discomfort when I see spelling errors on anything. When I was in eighth grade, I won the state spelling bee. See, I truly am smart, but that part of my brain was becoming dominated the insane part of my mind.
No worries, though. My insanity makes me happy. And well, I would much rather be insane and happy rather than sane and miserable at best. See where I’m getting at? I was sent to this ‘special’ asylum due to the fact that I snapped one day. Well, most call it snapping but I call it having fun. One day when I was a junior I saw these big, muscly looking boys beating a small freshman. This freshman was obviously not acceptable to football player standards and should not have been alone, but who gives. I was thoroughly intrigued with their methods of torture to this child, but they bothered me. They were not hitting him the right way, it just was not... well... right! They were kicking his back, legs, and arms; not even going for the vital areas for harm. I guess I got a little carried away and walked over to the little circle of boys and started wailing on the kid. In the side, where the vital organs were located, in the temples, in the neck. The footballers were little ballerinas and could not handle it (or thought I went too far, which was what most thought) when I finally made the kid bleed. Oh, it was wrong but I just enjoyed it so much. So. Fucking. Much. It was like having sex without the risk of getting pregnant and/or diseases. After a good ten minutes, the principal ran out to the kid and I and found me still thrashing at the unconscious boy. It was really bloody and no one dared touch me for the sake of their precious little lives. Somewhere within that hour, my parents were called and they were the only ones who wanted to (well, they needed to more than they wanted to) take me away from the kid. That was the beginning of the ruination of my life. Psych after psych was visited who told my parents the same thing. I just had this little psychopathic love of seeing others in pain. So, in a nutshell, I have OCD and like seeing others in pain. Some call it just plain wrong, but I shrug it off. Having a mental disorder gives me personality. I am not just another girl walking by you. I am the girl who would love to see you dying. That kind of gives me a bit of power; and I like power."
HOW CAN WE ACCOMODATE YOU BETTER?
[/size][/font]"What do I like? Well, I like seeing others writhe and bleed, but I do not think an asylum can accommodate me that well. Besides that, I like order. And neatness. Those things are really vital in making me not want to rip your throat out. I quite fancy reading books. Novel after novel keeps me stuck in my own little world and harmless to others. It’s a win-win situation here. That is what my parents did. They locked me in the sun room and piled books in stacks up to my knees in my little jail cell. I also quite like violent movies, as you very well could have assumed. And please, if you allow me to watch movies, do not put shit like The Notebook and/or Pride and Prejudice in. Do they have any intense action scenes? Hell. No. Romance movies are not my thing. The most they do to me is make me angry and kill a few hundred brain cells while doing so. Besides movies and books, I like to eat. I have a high metabolism and can eat all I want, but I like to measure my food to make sure it is correctly proportioned. Hey, it is just another part of my Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, so shut up. My favorite foods would have to be anything made out of pasta. Italian food makes me happy. When I was younger, my parents and I went to the nearby Italian bistro every Friday night. I ordered the same thing each time and nothing else; not even if I was hungry. It was all part of the perfectly proportioned schedule I had myself on.
I am a night owl, and like walking on the grass with no shoes on at midnight. With a full moon is even better. It makes me feel unrestricted and free, like a person should feel. Other than the things I mentioned above, I do not really like many things. I dislike being underestimated. Wait, no. Scratch that. I hate being underestimated. Just because I am insane does not mean I am incapable of being powerful. I mean, look at Hitler. He was a crazy S.O.B, but he was so influential and powerful that he got a whole country to follow his lead. I am not by any means comparing myself to Hitler and/or looking up to him; I am just giving you an example. Cool it. Anyway, I also dislike but enjoy politics. My father was a politician, which makes me hate it, but it is just so intriguing. It’s a love/hate relationship, for sure. I guess you would call me a Conservative person. I do not really get the chance to watch the news much, but I think of myself as a Republican nonetheless. Judge me all you want. I do not give a shit. Go die in a hole.
I am afraid of, don’t laugh, but needles. Yeah, I am a psycho and they put me on tons of medications, but I am petrified of needles. Think it is kind of paradoxical to my mental affliction? Well, you are correct; it is. I said I like seeing others in pain. Not myself. But it’s not the pinch of the needle that scares me. It is the idea of a piece of metal going into my skin and into my veins. This gives me the creeps, so please refrain yourself from talking about needles and giving me shots. I prefer pills if you need to medicate me. Thank you.
I have a problem with holding myself back from fixing things that are not in place. Like if your shirt is on wrong, I will subconsciously walk up to you and fix it; no matter who you are. But as I said, I try to hold myself back from that. It’s inevitably embarrassing to the both of us. I also have this little thing I do to remember people. I meet them, and then envision them in some sort of pain. This pulls up a little flag in my mind which instantly makes me remember them. Name, hair color, eye color; everything. But, hey, it works."
TELL US ABOUT YOUR PAST.
[/size][/font]"My past. Oh, my labyrinthine past. I was born and raised in the suburbs of Milwaukee. It was nice there, lots of sun, some snow, some rain. It was perfect. When I was a child I had always had this obsession with, well, death. Halloween was by far my favorite holiday. I will say this right now, I am not one of those people who hate all things involving love like Valentine’s day, for I do not hate it. I am just miserable on that day only because no one would really think about asking a girl that would like to see you die to be your valentine. My father, as I said before, was a politician (a senator to be specific, but you probably do not care). My mother, though. She was a Belorussian immigrant. She emigrated to the United States three short years before I was born. My parents thought I was an odd child and kept me at home and homeschooled until high school. They then dropped me into the busiest, most attended school in the city. Granted, it was a nice school, but it just was not the place for me. All of this commotion was what I think the culprit of my insanity. Before I was just peculiar. Now I am insane. If only they had kept me home. If only. After the endeavor I talked about with the kid and me going overboard happened, my parents resented me. They locked me in the sunroom and left me there for weeks. Only giving me food through the cat door. My only friend was my cat; Anton. He was a cute little thing. Fluffy and full of meows and purrs. Between the ages of fifteen and seventeen, I was sent to a psych every day except Sunday. When one office was not open, my parents would send me to another. It was a vicious cycle and if they had actually loved me they would not have done this. My parents hating me this much really lowered my self image (not like it was great to begin with) and I just let all of my emotions escape me. This is what made my parents institutionalize me at multiple asylums. Every one of them got sick of me and told my parents they simply could not do anything to fix me. This made my parents really angry so they sent me to here; Alkaline Asylum. It’s the farthest one from home, so my parents must be happy. Maybe if someone who was in a similar situation with me would talk to me, it would be better. I must admit I love attention a tad too much. "
IS THERE ANYTHING ELSE?
[/size][/font]"I quite like cranberry juice. Randomly bring me some and I consider you a friend. It's basically the only thing I drink besides water. Not because of any exciting reason, just because I simply don't like the taste of anything else.."
THE MASTERMIND BEHIND IT ALL.
[/size][/font]hey, my name is LIEBE.[/color] I have FOURTEEN[/color] tracks spinning on my record. This is my FIRST[/color] character. I have been roleplaying for TWO YEARS[/color]. the password is SILICONE AND SALINE, POISON INJECT ME. [/color].[/font][/size]
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The girl beside her had a blatantly Australian accent. It was cute, yeah, but Ophelia could see how it could get annoying quite quickly. The way she said ‘mate’ constantly was kind of testing Ophelia’s patience. People called her Ophelia and Ophelia only. But this girl did not know any better, so she let it slide. Fluttering her fingers to the bartender without looking, she silently ordered another drink. Her comment was rather snide and she could have clawed the girl across the face right then and there. Scratch her green little snake eyes out with one bloody, messy scratch. And miss Whit? Ophelia’s lips pursed and went into a straight line of confusion. Her eyebrows crinkled in confusion, as well. Whitman. Whit. Man. It was easy enough, but she guessed foreigners might have trouble with American English. American English could very well have been made in a butcher’s shop, for it was a slaughtered dialect, at that. Words like ‘ain’t’ and ‘gotta’ made her squirm in disgust. What ever happened to courtesy? Apparently us Americans left it in Great Britain when we sailed our asses to the New Land.
Ophelia’s drink came sliding down to her awaiting hand and jerked to a halt as it hit her palm. She slyly wrapped her spider-like fingers around the curvy glass and lifted it up to her taut lips. The drink calmed her edgy nerves, which kind of bummed her out. Being on edge and cynical like she usually is was a great feeling. You grasped everything and forgot nothing, which was quite beneficial in situations where others were doing embarrassing things while they were drunk. She could gleefully gossip about them the next morning. Her gossip was basically assault with a deadly weapon. And the best thing was that she could get away with it without bitching! No one dared to question the girl who killed someone. What benefits there were to having someone’s life on her hands. Messing with Ophelia was like digging your own fucking grave. She would gladly slam you into the little hole you just made and obliterate your name and reputation. She liked this whole untouchable situation she was in. She was a free bird. Free above everything, even the law. Laws were superficial and below her superiority.
I came, I saw, I conquered. That was her saying. Comparing herself to Julius Caesar was a little narcissistic, but she really did not care. She was better than those who thought otherwise. She giggled loudly and caught the glances of a few cute guys as she replied to Crystal. “Why, that is very nice of you. Caution Tape members are so nice. They all seem to be on cloud nine!” She shrugged her shoulders up a little and tossed her eyes upward cutely in a ‘I know I’m right’ kind of way. She pondered this for a moment and finally remember Minerva’s little fits and Caleb’s problems with commitment. Oh well, she thought. Everyone has their… quirks. Even if these quirks were more like mental problems, Ophelia still was polite and thought them as quirks. She ran her fingers up and down the glass she had in a protective little hold. Her drink was still quite full due to the fact she had been thinking quite a bit. Crystal and her accent asked her how she was doing.
This random comment sparked a flame of attitude in Ophelia and she felt the need to be snide right back to the little foreigner. “I would quite appreciate it…” she perfectly pronounced her words with a knife sharp edge on them. “…if you addressed me as Ophelia.” She turned her head to the side and sniffled in, her nose in dire need of some fresh air. The perfume aura in this club was suffocating her. “And I am doing fine. I could be better, but couldn’t we all?” Her question was rhetorical, of course, and expected Crystal to know this. Wondering what has this girl’s panties in a knot, she made a mental note to do some research on her. She would saunter down to the police station, asking her little policeman boy toy if he could look up a suspicious looking friend of hers. Oh, how having contacts in a city like this helped you do whatever you liked. Ophelia looked to the girl and cocked her head. Her hair was the same color as Cecilia’s. That shade of blonde that shone in the sun. Very nice, indeed, but she preferred her dark, dark brunette much more. Blondes may have more fun, but brunettes were obviously better psychos. Ophelia twisted one of her beloved curls around her fingers, blinking slowly to add more intensity to this nonchalant gesture. She also added in to this snide little conversation. “You also never answered me.” She accented the word me. “How are you this labyrinthine evening?”
She let the last sentence have at least a little kindness in it, because if she did not, she would rip the poor girl’s trachea out with her bare hands at that very moment. Bare hands because it would be more painful and slower. Using a knife would be a treat! A quick ending Miss Ty would have with a knife. But Ophelia would not be so nice as to let her die quickly. Fast deaths are boring. No one gets mentally scarred over quick deaths. Ahh, what a gruesome mind out Ophelia has. Boring holes into Crystal with her eyes, she took a deep breath, not letting the cocktail of perfumes in the air mar her inhalation. Weakness was not an option at a moment like this. Cocking her head to the right, she smiled wryly. “Crystal.” She started speaking again. “Where do you come from? Well, obviously Australia, but what part of Australia? Queensland? New South Wales? Victoria?” She knew there were more states in Australia, but she was too lazy to name the not as important ones off, for it would be a waste of her breath.
Ophelia’s drink came sliding down to her awaiting hand and jerked to a halt as it hit her palm. She slyly wrapped her spider-like fingers around the curvy glass and lifted it up to her taut lips. The drink calmed her edgy nerves, which kind of bummed her out. Being on edge and cynical like she usually is was a great feeling. You grasped everything and forgot nothing, which was quite beneficial in situations where others were doing embarrassing things while they were drunk. She could gleefully gossip about them the next morning. Her gossip was basically assault with a deadly weapon. And the best thing was that she could get away with it without bitching! No one dared to question the girl who killed someone. What benefits there were to having someone’s life on her hands. Messing with Ophelia was like digging your own fucking grave. She would gladly slam you into the little hole you just made and obliterate your name and reputation. She liked this whole untouchable situation she was in. She was a free bird. Free above everything, even the law. Laws were superficial and below her superiority.
I came, I saw, I conquered. That was her saying. Comparing herself to Julius Caesar was a little narcissistic, but she really did not care. She was better than those who thought otherwise. She giggled loudly and caught the glances of a few cute guys as she replied to Crystal. “Why, that is very nice of you. Caution Tape members are so nice. They all seem to be on cloud nine!” She shrugged her shoulders up a little and tossed her eyes upward cutely in a ‘I know I’m right’ kind of way. She pondered this for a moment and finally remember Minerva’s little fits and Caleb’s problems with commitment. Oh well, she thought. Everyone has their… quirks. Even if these quirks were more like mental problems, Ophelia still was polite and thought them as quirks. She ran her fingers up and down the glass she had in a protective little hold. Her drink was still quite full due to the fact she had been thinking quite a bit. Crystal and her accent asked her how she was doing.
This random comment sparked a flame of attitude in Ophelia and she felt the need to be snide right back to the little foreigner. “I would quite appreciate it…” she perfectly pronounced her words with a knife sharp edge on them. “…if you addressed me as Ophelia.” She turned her head to the side and sniffled in, her nose in dire need of some fresh air. The perfume aura in this club was suffocating her. “And I am doing fine. I could be better, but couldn’t we all?” Her question was rhetorical, of course, and expected Crystal to know this. Wondering what has this girl’s panties in a knot, she made a mental note to do some research on her. She would saunter down to the police station, asking her little policeman boy toy if he could look up a suspicious looking friend of hers. Oh, how having contacts in a city like this helped you do whatever you liked. Ophelia looked to the girl and cocked her head. Her hair was the same color as Cecilia’s. That shade of blonde that shone in the sun. Very nice, indeed, but she preferred her dark, dark brunette much more. Blondes may have more fun, but brunettes were obviously better psychos. Ophelia twisted one of her beloved curls around her fingers, blinking slowly to add more intensity to this nonchalant gesture. She also added in to this snide little conversation. “You also never answered me.” She accented the word me. “How are you this labyrinthine evening?”
She let the last sentence have at least a little kindness in it, because if she did not, she would rip the poor girl’s trachea out with her bare hands at that very moment. Bare hands because it would be more painful and slower. Using a knife would be a treat! A quick ending Miss Ty would have with a knife. But Ophelia would not be so nice as to let her die quickly. Fast deaths are boring. No one gets mentally scarred over quick deaths. Ahh, what a gruesome mind out Ophelia has. Boring holes into Crystal with her eyes, she took a deep breath, not letting the cocktail of perfumes in the air mar her inhalation. Weakness was not an option at a moment like this. Cocking her head to the right, she smiled wryly. “Crystal.” She started speaking again. “Where do you come from? Well, obviously Australia, but what part of Australia? Queensland? New South Wales? Victoria?” She knew there were more states in Australia, but she was too lazy to name the not as important ones off, for it would be a waste of her breath.
