Post by daileh on Jan 3, 2010 6:59:27 GMT -5
DAILEH FUCKING FEW.
[/size]
* FEELS JUST LIKE WE'RE LOSING CONTROL.
and if you let go, then i'll let go tonight.[/center]
TELL US ABOUT YOURSELF.
"i'm daileh. few. yeah, daileh few. i have no middle name. like it matters though. but anyway, i'm eighteen. i'm an aries. you know, one girl told me she didn't trust aries. i think she was a good judge of character - i didn't like her much. i'm a girl and we're cads like that, or something. i suppose i should explain myself or something, yeah? i'm fresh out of high school, a narcissistic, nymphomaniac of a whore - but that's just what the boys from school use to say. not all of them were so stupid, with such a low level of respect. most people actually liked me. maybe even adored. i mean face it, i'm four feet, ten inches tall, and completely adorable, why wouldn't they? they all had their cute little pet names for me, i suppose, but the only ones that stuck were the unimaginative ones, like dai and d. there was one boy though, he called me d-few for a while, before he changed schools. i guess that's what i get though, isn't it? i'd be going to a decent college right now if it wasn't for those idiots that kicked me out. guess you get to deal with me now, huh?"
TELL US ABOUT YOUR MEDICAL HISTORY.
[/size][/font]"first of all, i'm not crazy. i'm not any kind of mental. it's the world that's mental. the world that's fucked. maybe if it weren't such an easy target, we wouldn't have this problem, would we? maybe i am a little out of it, but these idiots deserve it. they're like cute little dolls. cute little dolls that don't dress as nice as they should and can't keep their mouths shut. i think i'd call that mildly sociopathic, if i'm being honest, though. but really, is it my fault these people are so pliable and so easy to manipulate? oh gosh, i'm sounding like a cliche. i'll stop droning on.
i can see where you'd get the crazy vibe from though, in all respective honesty. i guess i'm a bit...obsessive. if things aren't done right, then why do them at all? exactly. so shut up and let me tell you what to do. really now, why can't people grasp that concept? if god wanted you to think, he'd have given you something to think with. that's what i'm here for.
but i really don't see why i'm here. apparently i'm a danger to people. gosh. yes, i threatened a professor, but i would never do it that way. i'm much too methodical. and really, once you've told them you're going to do something, they expect it, and that just won't do.
so what? yes, i'm obsessive and controlling and mildly sociopathic and blah blah blah, big deal! i'm sorry, but i fail to see how that could make me a threat to anyone. if they can't see it coming, if they can't combat it, maybe it's what they deserve. it's like Darwinism. survival of the fittest. this is Daism however. same deal, but with what you could consider to be higher standards."
HOW CAN WE ACCOMODATE YOU BETTER?
[/size][/font]"i'm a simple girl, really. i like winning and getting what i want. i like being in charge. and i love oranges. but really, not just oranges. clementines and the like will do. and not even that, but orange foods. carrots are especially good, and they make nice pipes. i'm pretty good with a carrot pipe. some green would be nice too, now that i think of it.
but like i said, i'm simple. i don't like losing and i don't like being told no. maybe you shouldn't do that, huh? i don't know what would happen, but i think that's all the more reason not to, don't you? i generally don't like people, but that's fine, because they like me just fine, and i fake it well."
(note from Red: i cannot write three hundred words for this, i don't think. if it can be managed, i will manage it, but for now, no cigar.)
TELL US ABOUT YOUR PAST.
[/size][/font]"i was raised in san francisco. born and raised, i should say. if you can say that. raised from the dead. i don't know my real parents. i live with some dude that adopted me when i was a little shit-machine. i guess that's my family. oh, and he had this whore of a wife a few years back. i got rid of her okay. i'm an only child. the only child of an incredibly pliable and weak willed man. let's just say i got lots of practice manipulating people. the other kindergartners were hopeless. they all fell for me, almost every single one of them. a few years back i went through a phase where i only wore black and white. a few girls started following my trend. so much fun.
my dad. oh daddy. i'm daddy's little girl, you know. i never really knew what went down with my real parents, or gave a damn for that matter, but i think that's irrelevant. i mean, if i'm so nuts or whatever, then isn't that a genetic disposition of some sort? once a "psycho," always a "psycho." i can work my magic on anyone. he was just the perfect host. and dearest step mommy? daddy married her when i was five. i hate her, but i have to admit, she taught me everything i know. obviously she had to go. i was getting too good for my own good, you know? so i persuaded daddy to divorce her. it finalized on my eleventh birthday.
and like i said, high school was fun. there was just so much to do! the homework was a pain, but i managed to do what i could. i had the grades, several sets of friends, all for different things, like to make me look better, smoke me out, you know, like that. toys, basically. i faked my way through high school. the only thing i was ever honest about was the art. it's hard though, isn't it? to hide within the confines of a canvas. there's no room to hide. you have to bare your soul. i do it. i think it makes me weaker."
IS THERE ANYTHING ELSE?
[/size][/font]"i need to paint. a creative outlet, you know? paint, markers, crayons - i just need to get all those dark dreams out of my head. it's like i have some kind of art-thirsty passenger. and oranges and the like, obviously. actually, an orange can be a great thing to do art with. the peel, that is."
THE MASTERMIND BEHIND IT ALL.
[/size][/font]hey, my name is RED.[/color] i have EIGHTEEN[/color] tracks spinning on my record. this is my FIRST[/color] character. i have been roleplaying for EIGHT FREAKIN' YEARS[/color]. the password is silicone and saline[/color].[/font][/size]
[/blockquote][/blockquote][/justify]
She'd seen plenty of dead bodies before. She'd seen plenty of dead bodies before, horribly disfigured and tortured and dead before they hit the ground. Killed in ways unimaginable to most humans, purely because no human could do such a thing. She'd seen bodies with their guts spilled over an alley floor. She'd seen bodies with their throats cut, a Pez Dispenser made out of them. She'd seen their brains blown in with chunks of skull splattered against the walls. So why did this time feel so different? Any other body would be fine, she could look without flinching, but this time was a horrible mess. She couldn't even picture it without bile churning up in her stomach and throat.
Running into the bathroom across the hall, she got on her knees in front of the toilet, tossing her cookies up into it. Wiping her mouth clean, Daileh sat up and stared at the former contents of her stomach for a moment before flushing. This sucked. She was feeling like a stranger in her own head. What the fuck was this? Mort was dead. So what? She could find another good fuck. Ezra was a close second, right?
Despite the constant reassurance, those feelings wouldn't go away. Those feelings she couldn't identify beyond a reasonable doubt. She blamed them on her inner child, the one that had been stifled for a good eighteen years. The same one that cried every night.
The demoness stood shakily, glancing at herself in the mirror. The blood splatter was hot. Too bad there was nobody around anymore to appreciate it. Ezra might, but it wouldn't be right with her. Feeling something trickle down her cheek, she froze, turning back to the mirror. There was no way in hell this was happening. Crying?
No.
Couldn't be.
Wouldn't be.
She refused to accept that.
She hadn't cried and meant it in... ever. Sure, she'd done it plenty of times to sucker Vince into something, or to get out of what have you, but never for real.
So, once again blaming it on the inner child, Daileh brought her fist to the mirror, shattering it into a thousand tiny pieces. "God fucking dammit. Jesus Christ, you son of a whore," she sneered, ignoring the cuts on her hand as she headed back to the plastic coated room. After all, she had to face the music eventually, blood and tear soaked face and all.
The smell of death hit her nose the same way it always did, but there was still a feeling that something was amiss. She kept her eyes down, glancing to Vince's knife-screwed feet. Why wasn't he squirming like he ought to have been?
Running into the bathroom across the hall, she got on her knees in front of the toilet, tossing her cookies up into it. Wiping her mouth clean, Daileh sat up and stared at the former contents of her stomach for a moment before flushing. This sucked. She was feeling like a stranger in her own head. What the fuck was this? Mort was dead. So what? She could find another good fuck. Ezra was a close second, right?
Despite the constant reassurance, those feelings wouldn't go away. Those feelings she couldn't identify beyond a reasonable doubt. She blamed them on her inner child, the one that had been stifled for a good eighteen years. The same one that cried every night.
The demoness stood shakily, glancing at herself in the mirror. The blood splatter was hot. Too bad there was nobody around anymore to appreciate it. Ezra might, but it wouldn't be right with her. Feeling something trickle down her cheek, she froze, turning back to the mirror. There was no way in hell this was happening. Crying?
No.
Couldn't be.
Wouldn't be.
She refused to accept that.
She hadn't cried and meant it in... ever. Sure, she'd done it plenty of times to sucker Vince into something, or to get out of what have you, but never for real.
So, once again blaming it on the inner child, Daileh brought her fist to the mirror, shattering it into a thousand tiny pieces. "God fucking dammit. Jesus Christ, you son of a whore," she sneered, ignoring the cuts on her hand as she headed back to the plastic coated room. After all, she had to face the music eventually, blood and tear soaked face and all.
The smell of death hit her nose the same way it always did, but there was still a feeling that something was amiss. She kept her eyes down, glancing to Vince's knife-screwed feet. Why wasn't he squirming like he ought to have been?
